Janine lived in a posh flat overlooking the Victoria and Albert museum, with a posh room and extremely posh parents. Her motherwas a writer who smoked Benson and Hedges, collected East Asian art, stocked her kitchen with organic food and had an on-call yoga instructor. When we asked what she recommended for sight-seeing, she handed us a highly-rated guidebook. Hers. She set us up in Janine’s plush, fabulously decorated room before sending us off into the night without curfew or restrictions, only a key which, she warned us, got increasingly difficult to maneuver when inebriated.
2:00 found us pint in one hand, cigarette in the other, exuberantly belting out lyrics to British classics along with the locals. In our minds, we had assimilated gloriously to English culture by showing our appreciation for their music and beer, and wanted to stay forever in our new-found home. Security, however, had other plans.
“Bonne,” she starts, slowly, “Do we even know where we’re going?”
I stop too. I have to think about it. We didn’t ever exactly consult a map. Not that we’d even know on which direction on the map we should be going.
“Hmm.” I ponder, then shrug brightly. “Well, you know, London’s not that big a city. And I’m sure we’re headed in the right general direction.”
I have no idea what I’m saying. But it sounds credible, and Bonne is satisfied.
“Good,” she declares, skipping to catch up with me. “What were you saying about Janine’s mom?”
Three quarters of an hour later, our feet are dragging.
“Are you sure we’re going in the right direction?” Bonne whines.
I stall for time, searching desperately for some indication that this could be so. Then, by some stroke of fortune, I notice a bus stop with the words ‘Victoria and Albert’ posted across its top. At some point, this bus ends up in Janine’s neighborhood. Which means all we have to do is follow the blue line home and pray that we’re going the right way.
It’s 5:30 when we finally arrive at a stoop that seems to resemble Janine’s. It’s 5:45 when we arrive, finally, at Janine’s stoop. It’s not until 6:10 am that we manage to manuever the key in such a way that lets us into her flat and can tiptoe carefully into our room as dawn breaks outside the window.
I’m confused when I wake up, seemingly refreshed, to exactly the same scene. Have I only been asleep a few minutes? I look at the clock; 6:25. How bizarre! Then, upon second look, I realize what’s changed. And suddenly, I consider going back to sleep for another night rather than having to face the embarassment of exiting the room now. Bonne, the traitor, is gone from her bed, presumably having a good laugh with Janine’s parents over her lazy, waste of space of a travel companion. Maybe she’s already been out on the town, having taken in a full day of sights. But no, the door opens and a disheveled, pajama clad soul wanders in, eyes half shut and coffee mug in hand.
“I can’t believe we slept this long,” she groans.
“Hoooraayyyyy!” We yelled, gallavanting through the London mist toward signs of late-night civilization. We had made it after all, and the adventures had only just begun.
But what was this? It couldn’t be…. Could it? It appeared to be an angel, emitting a heavenly glow. It beckoned, it tantalized. As we approached in reverent awe, the fog parted and the form began to take shape. A mermaid angel! It WAS!!
We took off at top speed, letting nothing stop us, not even the counter as we threw ourselves across it, salivating and stuttering as we attempted to obtain, in one breath, all the endless varieties of concoctions we had been missing out on for the past five months. The baristas furrowed their brows and scratched their heads and erased their notepads as they tried to follow our orders for a “venti grande mocha tazo latte cinno amaretto with extra expresso and whipped cream in a PAPER CUP one that you can hold in your hand and CARRY OUT can you BELIEVE it!"
And soon we were curled around our paper cups, nursing our coffee in silent bliss and beaming contentedly around the establishment. Starbucks. We truly were not in Kansas any longer.
Half an hour later, with 24 ounces of caffeine surging through our systems, we were fully charged for a night of pubbing in the London rain.
2:00 found us pint in one hand, cigarette in the other, exuberantly belting out lyrics to British classics along with the locals. In our minds, we had assimilated gloriously to English culture by showing our appreciation for their music and beer, and wanted to stay forever in our new-found home. Security, however, had other plans.So we set off into the streets, high on life and lager and content to do some wandering and window shopping while laughing over the events of the night.
We oogled Burberry hats and Lacoste umbrellas. We took pictures posed outside of Mini-Cooper and Jaguar dealerships. We collapsed on the lawn of the Dorchester, admiring the lights strung in the trees overhead.
We squealed at the sight of a Hilton, imagining what that crazy Paris, the newest celebrity of the moment, was doing to make next week’s headlines. We didn’t need any uptight pubs; the entire city of London could be our playground!
Two hours later, we’re into suburbia, and strolling up and down the blocks planning out our futures as twenty-somethings. I’m inspired to live in a flat and emulate the life of Janine’s mom. Something about what I say stops Bonne cold, and she stands in the middle of the sidewalk perplexedly.
“Bonne,” she starts, slowly, “Do we even know where we’re going?”
I stop too. I have to think about it. We didn’t ever exactly consult a map. Not that we’d even know on which direction on the map we should be going.
“Hmm.” I ponder, then shrug brightly. “Well, you know, London’s not that big a city. And I’m sure we’re headed in the right general direction.”
I have no idea what I’m saying. But it sounds credible, and Bonne is satisfied.
“Good,” she declares, skipping to catch up with me. “What were you saying about Janine’s mom?”
Three quarters of an hour later, our feet are dragging.
“Are you sure we’re going in the right direction?” Bonne whines.
I stall for time, searching desperately for some indication that this could be so. Then, by some stroke of fortune, I notice a bus stop with the words ‘Victoria and Albert’ posted across its top. At some point, this bus ends up in Janine’s neighborhood. Which means all we have to do is follow the blue line home and pray that we’re going the right way.
It’s 5:30 when we finally arrive at a stoop that seems to resemble Janine’s. It’s 5:45 when we arrive, finally, at Janine’s stoop. It’s not until 6:10 am that we manage to manuever the key in such a way that lets us into her flat and can tiptoe carefully into our room as dawn breaks outside the window.
I’m confused when I wake up, seemingly refreshed, to exactly the same scene. Have I only been asleep a few minutes? I look at the clock; 6:25. How bizarre! Then, upon second look, I realize what’s changed. And suddenly, I consider going back to sleep for another night rather than having to face the embarassment of exiting the room now. Bonne, the traitor, is gone from her bed, presumably having a good laugh with Janine’s parents over her lazy, waste of space of a travel companion. Maybe she’s already been out on the town, having taken in a full day of sights. But no, the door opens and a disheveled, pajama clad soul wanders in, eyes half shut and coffee mug in hand.
“I can’t believe we slept this long,” she groans.
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