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accommodations and over to the Hotel Oloffson. Thick greenery and tropical flowers entwined and competed with Victorian filigree in the entryway. Tchaikovsky’s Second Piano Concerto was playing on a speaker system throughout the hotel, as if welcoming a pair of newlywed ballet dancers. A slow-moving man greeted us. I imagined that years in the tropics and a fondness for Haitian rum had directed his metabolism and sensibilities to legato tempos and decadence. Dressed in an open-necked white shirt, a once-trim frame had rounded excessively. “I will take care of you during your stay here.” (“Maybe it’s Mr. Oloffson himself!” I whispered to Carrie.) He turned out to be charming, and led us to our room along a wedding cake of tiered balconies, decorated with green and white carved wood and cast iron. Outside our room stood a tree, festooned with exotic, bulbous fruits. “Coffee,” Haitian George announced. “Sure, after we get settled in our room,” we answered. “It grows on trees, my young friends, the coffee.” Pointing to the tree, he continued, “Not quite ready for your cup.”

Over the next few days, George guided us through an incredible open-air market, its tin roof radiating heat in all directions. The astonishing beauty of the women in multicolored outfits—not one fat person—most milled about barefoot or sandaled. Drums and singing all the time. One Vogue-model-gorgeous young woman with a withered old woman, maybe grandmother or mother, sat on a blanket, with a cluster of five bananas to sell. How far had they walked to get to this marketplace? Later in my life, when I traveled to other Third World countries, I learned this was common—and that five bananas was probably considered goodly merchandise.

Within a week, Carrie and I ventured up the hill toward Pétionville, Haiti’s version of the old San Francisco’s Nob Hill, hoping to pop in on Katherine Dunham’s school.1 We found a caretaker, who told us, “Madame is away. The school is closed.”

I knew of Katherine Dunham from seeing her dancers in New York—and most amusingly, from Balanchine’s description of how she saved his life.

In the mid-1940s, SAB was abuzz with the breakup of Balanchine and his then wife, Vera Zorina, the movie-star beauty. Gossip was rife as to who would be the ballerina to next catch his eye (it turned out to be Maria Tallchief).

Twenty years later, still sucking the thumb of rejection, Balanchine filled my ear. Vera’s real name was Brigitta, and Balanchine always referred to her that way. “Brigitta did not want me anymore, so she threw me out. I remember, you know, standing outside on sidewalk, looking up at window, and thinking, ‘I am homeless. What to do?’ I went to bench in Central Park.”

Later that night, he found his way to the Barbizon-Plaza for Women, a hotel right off Central Park South that had an annex for tourists. I believe he stayed there years before when he first arrived in New York City. “No toothbrush, no shaving kit. Nothing.” He spent days in his room, “not expecting Brigitta to take me back,” he said, crushed and stinging from rejection. “I was destroyed.”

Katherine Dunham was performing in New York City with her dance troupe. “I don’t know how she heard,” Balanchine said, “but someone told her that ‘Balanchine is in hotel with broken heart.’ Late at night, I hear—knock, knock, knock—at door. And there was Dunham, with six of the most beautiful dancers from her company. Octoroons.” (He loved the word “octoroons.”) “Loaded with baskets of food and champagne. They came in and we danced and partied,” he raised a finger in the air, “all night! I will never forget Dunham for this. She cured me.”

Willam Christensen, years later, corroborated Balanchine. Bill was walking across Central Park at two o’clock in the morning on his way home from a party. It was freezing cold, and he spotted a figure huddled on a park bench. “George?!?” he said. Balanchine looked up, nodded, and sniffed. “Brigitta threw me out.” Bill stood for a moment, nodded sagely, replied, “Oh!” and walked on.

Why Haiti for our honeymoon? Carrie had been intrigued