London lad lessons

You may have noticed that I’ve neglected to ever write a post solely on the subject of European guys. Learning how to deal with them as a hyper-communicative, flirty blonde is an essential part of the “European experience”, and my recent trip to London confronted me with three notable albeit brief encounters worth recounting.

Bachelor #1 – Let’s call him “Salsa Guy”. Alone in London for the last day of my trip, I went to Bar Salsa to find a packed house of dancers taking advantage of the long weekend. It was a nice milestone to realize how far I’ve come from Ginger in Germany two years ago thinking that “Club Salsa is Mildly Terrifying” to Ginger in England going out alone without hesitation. Salsa Guy was a fantastic merengue/reggaeton dancer (read: sophisticated grinding) and eventually inquired as to my age. Shocked to discover that he was seven years older than I, he mentioned in all seriousness — and I quote — “I would marry you if you were older”. Ahem, sorry? My dear, it wouldn’t matter how old I was, you do not simply tell me after thirty minutes of dancing that you’re fantasizing about wedding bells. Needless to say, I switched partners after that point…

Bachelor #2 – Walking around unfamiliar parts of London at three in the morning as a young woman wearing disheveled dancing clothes, make-up likely smeared from sweat, complete with crazy lioness-hair is probably not the smartest thing I’ve ever done. On the way home from dancing I see Mr. Blue Suit out of the corner of my eye because, well, his suit was really freaking blue.

I pass him, walking at a good clip, but hear someone coming up next to me about a block later. Mr. Blue Suit says, “You alright, love?” in a voice that clearly indicates his lack of concern for my well-being. I shoot him a sideways glance, keep walking at the same pace and instinctively answer in what interestingly turns out to be a French accent, “I…don’t…speak English”. Mr. Blue Suit is taken aback, quickly recovers and says, “But you do speak a bit, right?” and as I turn the corner away from him he tries one last time, “But you speak a bit!?” and I’m gone. It doesn’t shake me, I find a bus stop and ride back to the hostel I’ve begrudgingly booked for that night, bringing me to…

Bachelor #3 – Signore Salvatore caught the exasperated glance I threw him after unsuccessfully attempting to key open the door leading up to the room I’d booked. Later that afternoon I ran into him in the 8-bed room I was given and (of course) he had the bunk under my bed. We chatted for a grand total of three minutes — half in English, half in Italian — before I ran off to Platform 9 and 3/4. When I returned later that night, I found this on my pillow:

Cute, right? [Alternative sub-interpretation: a woman’s affection can be bought with cliché trinkets]. Sadly for him, I was gone that night and he slept long the following morning, so we never spoke again. I made sure to scribble a quick thank-you, but had to smile to myself wondering how many key chains he might go through in a lifetime.

Ah, boys


2 thoughts on “London lad lessons

  1. If I had known you would be wandering alone at 3 in the morning, we would have made you sleep on our floor again! As a mother, that story scared me. Be safe young lady.

    1. Don’t worry, my own mother was definitely more scared than you were. I’ve just gotten accustomed to doing things on my own, that’s all..and dancing till all hours of the night happens to be one of the things I do best 🙂

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