I landed the assignment to go to Rome, not because I was the best writer on the staff of L. A. Life Magazine, nor because I had seniority. I was actually the most recently hired reporter. Nor was I picked because I could speak Italian, because I can't. My incredibly important skill was availability. Time was short, Jason was on his honeymoon, Pamela was very pregnant, and no less than three staff members were out with the flu, or so they said. In May, go figure.

Even so, my boss, Mr. Hardcastle (the first part of his name should give you an idea of his personality), hesitated before giving his assent long enough to grow mold on my sweaty palms.

"You aren't going to mess up again, are you?" he asked.

Like I planned to. Like climbing into the window of a strange hotel room on my previous assignment for the magazine had been a well-thought-out decision. In fact, I had no intention of climbing into anyone's window. That was the unavoidable result of making a serious miscalculation. Which, I fervently vowed, would never happen again.

"No, of course not," I said, straightening up to my full five feet, six inches, and shaking my head. Which unfortunately set my ponytail swinging, not a good thing.

Hardcastle sighed. "So go already. And don't forget this is your last chance. My secretary will give you your tickets and itinerary. Take your laptop and be sure it works this time."

I'd only made that mistake once so he had no call to remind me. And anyway, even without the laptop, I'd remembered almost the entire interview from that assignment and my article was highly praised in some circles. So I smiled and hurried from his office before he could change his mind about Rome.

During the next few days I found my never-used passport, had my hair trimmed, and packed my itinerary, tickets and laptop. I tucked my personal notebook, into which I planned to record every minute of my very first overseas experience, into my new, seriously oversized handbag and went to bed before nine in order to catch a very early flight out of Los Angeles the next morning.

However, as so often happens with me, I couldn't fall asleep for hours. My brain wanted to replay the episode of the window, perhaps to reinforce in my conscious mind that the entire thing had not been my fault.

I was interviewing a minor local politician running for office in the next election and sat opposite him in an armless chair in his hotel room. I asked questions and he answered in a soft voice. As I leaned forward to hear him, my skirt began to hike up over my knees. I attempted to pull it down, dropped my notebook and bent to pick it up and suddenly he was all over me like a case of hives.

I managed to get out of his clutches and protested in no uncertain terms, but he would have none of it. We did a little cha-cha around the sofa, and then, after slowing him down by pushing an end table in front of him, I grabbed my purse and dashed into the bedroom and slammed the door. I knew that old hotel. The windows were actually French doors and led to outside balconies. My aim was to get out there and call for help.

He didn't follow me--maybe he fell over the end table--but it was dark and the balcony was two stories above the street, too far for jumping, even if I were an Olympic athlete instead of a person whose only exercise is changing the sheets on her bed.

However, the next balcony being merely inches away, I decided to swing over to that one, enter the next room by way of that French door and make my way back to the hotel hallway. The next room, which I could only see through a crack in closed drapes, seemed dark and empty. I paused, reasoned that even if someone were staying there, chances were slim it would be another man bent on hanky-panky.

So I hiked up my skirt, swung my legs over the balcony railing and gently tried the handle of the door. It was jerked open from inside and suddenly I was face to face with a fledgling actor in town to audition for a part in an upcoming film.

Of course I didn't know his occupation at the time; that was revealed in the next-day's newspapers. Even so, this could all have ended unobtrusively except that someone had apparently called a paparazzo, who flashed a bright light at me. I froze like a safe-cracker with his hand on the dial, Mr. Actor pulled me into his room, and I found myself among a dozen people who had been watching a film clip on the room's DVD player.

I was labeled a "groupie," handed an eight-by-ten glossy autographed by the actor, and laughingly sent on my way.

Except that, someone had taken pictures and, as a result of the sudden publicity, Mr. Actor got a role in an action-adventure film. On the other hand, while climbing over the balcony, my handbag had slipped off my shoulder, and the photographer found the magazine’s business cards. Mr. Hardcastle was not amused.

I wrote up the interview as if none of this had occurred, because I preferred to think the man had perhaps never behaved that way before. Also, I'm a Christian and lean toward forgiving those who trespass against me.