![]() He wasn't worried about our (my) safety he was worried about missing the action, i.e., the photos. When the blast hit (we were in bed, of course), Donald jumped up, threw on jeans, and grabbed his cameras. Gucci bags and Fendi fur coats from the high-end lobby shops were blown out of the stores and lay among broken glass and giant hunks of falling plaster. Two days after the terribly romantic nuptials and drunken party that followed, the retreating Iraqis gave Donald and me an unforgettable wedding present: A bomb hidden inside a cement-mixer truck was detonated outside the hotel, taking out the lobby. Kick-ass war correspondent and bad-boy photojournalist married by army chaplain amidst horrors of war in the lounge of the Palestine Hotel. We had no future and the past was a decade-old fantasy. Why didn't we stay away from each other? Again. ![]() It wasn't my beat, it wasn't my assignment, and it wasn't my intention to alter reality that morning when my cell phone rang at 7:15 after a night highlighted by too many martinis with Donald, the ex. ![]()
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