During the sixties, I saw the Beatles live four times. The shows were incredible but I had the most fun in parking lots. Because that was where the possibility of achieving my life's goal, my biggest dream, was the greatest. That's where I might actually meet Paul McCartney.

Outside their motel on Mannheim Road in Chicago, I tried three times to sneak past the guard on the staircase to get into Paul's room. No matter that I was twelve and didn't have the faintest idea what I would do when I got there. The point was to meet him. But the only Beatle I saw was George Harrison waving from a window.

I came the closest to achieving my goal in L.A. I was there on a summer vacation with my family. We were sightseeing, probably driving through the city on our way to Knott's Berry Farm or Disneyland, when I spotted the Capitol Records building. You couldn't miss it. It was the only building in L.A., maybe anywhere, shaped like a stack of record albums.

"Stop the car!" I shrieked. I had no idea if the Beatles were in town, much less visiting their record label. All I knew was that we were passing an important Beatle landmark. My dad pulled over. I leapt out, pulled as if by a magnet to the front door, where a small group of girls waited. Then I heard the magic words.

"They're inside."

So much for the day's vacation plans. My family heaved a collective sigh and settled in at the cafeteria across the street. They were used to this. When my little brother was eight, he sat in the cheap seats at the International Amphitheater with my dad, who stuck cotton in his ears and read a book. My mother didn't go to the shows but she did clip articles about the Beatles out of the newspaper for me, something she still does. These days, I guess you'd call them co-dependents.

Back in front of the Capitol Records building, the Beatle grapevine was at work. Girls were pulling up in cabs, being dropped off in carloads, running to the door. The growing crowd depressed me. I wanted to encounter Paul alone.

I snuck around the building to the back, where there were fewer people. After a while, a silver van pulled up. Before I could even scream, all four Beatles hurried out the back door and jumped in the van. They were inches away. Ringo Starr bumped his head getting in. John Lennon flashed a look at me. Paul paused at the door and smiled.

I went away to college the year Abbey Road came out. I remember walking into town to buy it. The leaves were falling, the light was fading, and I missed home and my high school friends. I took the record out of the bag and saw not the famous Beatles, but four old buddies who'd been with me for years. I put it on and lay on the floor with my head between the speakers.

The Beatles broke up. Years passed. I changed majors, changed colleges, graduated, went to work. I bought the solo records but boycotted the solo tours. I was still mad at Paul for leaving the band. I forgave him, forgave them all, when John died. I spent days listening to the old albums and crying, then years where I couldn't listen to them at all. The sound of John's voice hurt too much. Three Beatles songs on the radio in a row spooked me, making me think another one had died. When I got married, years later, I walked down the aisle to Bach, and the Beatles.

More years passed. Then I discovered the Internet. The first word I typed into a search engine in 1996 was "Beatles." A whole new world opened up of Beatle web sites, newsgroups and list serves. I met people online who had bootlegs, videos of concerts, and memorabilia collections that far surpassed my motley bunch of old fan magazines. We traded, shared, bartered, bought, and made friends. We talked about meeting at the premiere of Paul's orchestral work Standing Stone in London in October of 1997. My dream of meeting Paul revived, I decided to go.

At an Italian restaurant near the Royal Albert Hall, the day before the premiere, I met my new online friends for lunch. I felt like I was meeting people I had known all my life except that some of these people had met Paul McCartney. Those of us who hadn't sat awestruck, listening to every detail of how they did it.

For some, it was a leap of faith, like the woman who'd gone all the way to Rio de Janeiro in 1990 without a ticket for the show; for others, it was planning and perseverance, like the woman who spent months obtaining credentials to get into the press conference for Linda McCartney's launch of a vegetarian frozen food line. For others, like the ecstatic woman who arrived late to lunch, it was sheer luck.

"I saw him!" she exclaimed. A group of us shot over to the Royal Albert Hall and planted ourselves at the stage door. He went in, we figured he had to come out sometime.

Try seven hours later. We sang Beatle songs, we chatted, we shivered, we took turns going for coffees, we bonded. Finally, he rewarded us with a pause for photos and a wave. His car pulled away and I watched people running after it with albums and pens in hand.

I'd grown up since the sixties. I no longer wanted to marry Paul McCartney, or catch him alone. I didn't think meeting him would change my life. I didn't think it would solve my grownup problems. I didn't think anything would be different afterwards. Still, I wanted to meet him. I wanted to be introduced to him at a party. I had no idea how that would ever happen. It seemed as unreachable as Mars, but it was my dream.

Then Paul announced a signing at the HMV record store on Oxford Street the Thursday after the premiere.

Here was my chance to meet Paul. People began to line up in the late afternoon on Wednesday. My roommate joined them. I was torn. If I didn't want my face-to-face interaction with Paul to be chasing after his car like a dog, did I want it to be after sleeping in the street?

I left my roommate, who on other nights had kept me up until 4 a.m. speculating on such topics as her favorite Paul haircut and which Beatle song was written in the shortest amount of time, in the queue and went back to our hotel. She came in after midnight to grab her bedding. She woke me up.

"You could still come," she told me. "I've been saving your place." I shook my head.

The next morning, I got up, showered and went down to breakfast. The hotel restaurant, usually full of chattering Paul fans, was deserted. I ate alone and took the tube to HMV. I visited the queue and had pangs of regret, which increased as the signing began. I stood behind the barrier and took pictures of friends having their moment with Paul. I flew home a few days later wondering if I had blown my only chance to meet him.

In 2002, Paul went back on the road. I saw him and his new band in three cities, thanks to hooking up online with people who had extra tickets.

I didn't see them the night they played in my hometown. The tickets sold out before I got through, despite pre-registering on the Ticketmaster web site and repeatedly hitting "find tickets" with one hand and the redial button on my telephone with the other.

Before the show in St. Louis, I met some of the musicians. I was curious about them, especially the lead guitarist. Where did he come from? Who else had he played with? How did he hook up with Paul McCartney? I didn't have a chance to ask all my questions so when I got home, I looked him up on the Internet.

I couldn't find much information about him. He didn't have a web site. Maybe I could make him one. Why not? I made web sites for musicians. Did I have the nerve to approach him? Before I could think too much about it, I fired off an email with links to my sites and an offer to make a site for him. I was astounded by my own gutsiness and sure I'd never hear from him.

Several weeks later, he wrote back. We got to know each other through emails and phone calls. I made him a site. We went live right before Thanksgiving. Over the winter, I continued to work on his site. We added more photos and sent out newsletters, and I was having a blast.

The third leg of the tour began in March, 2003. In April, I went to see the show in London. This time, I had free tickets and backstage passes. And an invitation to an after-show party, where the guitarist introduced me to Paul McCartney.

Paul stood between us with a hand on each of our shoulders and I felt like we were being blessed by the high priest of rock and roll. Later, I watched Paul and his wife Heather dance to the tunes the deejay was spinning. We all sang along to Disco Inferno. Paul winked at me as he walked off the dance floor.

I went back to England in May, to Liverpool this time, for the last show of Paul's tour. I partied with Paul McCartney a second time. He said, "Hello, love," and kissed me.

Maybe anything's possible if you want it badly enough or wait long enough. But you know what? Something is different since I met Paul McCartney. He's no longer larger than life. He's a man now. A man who shook my hand, touched my shoulder, and kissed my cheek.

The dream's over because the dream came true.