They told Felice it was the last night.

We chose the Left Bank for my birthday dinner because of the exquisite rack of lamb we ate there over Christmas.  But Felice was a bit worried about the food on this last night of the season…would we be getting the dregs?  With so few people in town, would they be working off their remaining inventory?

We were stunned to walk in and find the restaurant COMPLETELY FULL!  But then Liz told us, it was not only the last night of the season, it was the last night she and her husband Luc owned the restaurant.

The place was full of Vail legends.  Behind us sat Pepi Gramshammer and his wife Sheika.  The real estate agent who sold Felice the condo she owned when she lived here in ’75 came over to say hi.  The atmosphere was festive.  We forgave the less than perfect service as our overworked waiter delivered meals to the patrons.

The food was great.  But, as Felice was sipping her coffee, and I was munching on dessert cookies, Liz came to our table with a red leather book.  And asked Felice to sign it.  And as she was getting this all out, Liz was flipping through the pages, trying to find Felice’s father’s signature.  And just when I was convinced it didn’t exist, at the very front of the book, dated December 8, 1975, was a full page note.

It brought tears to Felice’s eyes.

I only met her father once.  At an event at UCLA.  He was nice.  Never did I suspect that I would be involved with his daughter a quarter of a century later.

On some level I couldn’t relate.  Maybe because no one ever asked my father to sign a book.  Then again, if I saw an unknown note in his unmistakable handwriting all these years later, it would deeply affect me.

And Felice’s father affected many people deeply.  But she’s his daughter.

It’s hard to know what to do in these circumstances.  As the one you love tears up over something you haven’t experienced, something deep in her core, something that’s part of who she is.

But, after dabbing her eyes, and composing herself, Felice started turning the pages of the book.  And I pulled my chair alongside hers.  To read along.

It was a who’s who of not only America, but the WORLD!

Not only Gerald Ford.  And Dick Cheney.  But Pierre Trudeau, Giscard d’Estaing and King Hussein and Queen Noor.

There was William Shatner, and R.J. Wagner.

As well as Robert Redford.  And John Denver.  And even Charley Pride.

Sports stars from Joe Montana to Chris Evert to Bobby Rahal to Bill Romanowski graced the pages.  And, of course, skiers like Picabo Street.

I didn’t grow up in this world.  Then again, we all did.  These are people we’ve seen on TV, who we’ve heard on the radio, and they all graced the tables of the Left Bank.  Eaten the food of this unheralded couple as they spent time on vacation.

Not that it was all vacation.  There were the attendees of a world economic conference.  And stars of the Bolshoi Ballet.  It was like watching a TV special on the last thirty years of history.  Without the schmaltz, and the advertisements.

Felice just went upstairs to call her mother.

I’m sitting here writing to you.  I have to pack, I have to get up early, but our lives are comprised of our stories.  This is mine.