Put Me in Coach! I’m Ready for K…

London, UK Part 1

My first time in London was a drug-fueled, sleep-deprived run through the city.

A run that lasted seven days until I booked a last-minute twelve-hour bus to Belgium to preserve the last brain cells I could.

At the beginning

It was chill.

Me and my non-partying American friends got off the plane from Barcelona ready to be tourists. We saw all the typical attractions like Buckingham Palace and the London Eye between overeating in Soho and Chinatown.

sightseeing snapshots

But it was short lived. Only two days of exploring, and then they left to catch their flights back to the States.

I was on my own again.

Whenever I’m traveling by myself, I give off a different energy. A kind of,

please talk to me because I have no one to talk to but myself

kind of energy, and people fall into it every time.

By the time I moved my luggage across town to a hostel and unpacked, I had evening plans with a local.

Let’s call him GB.

I met GB the month before on a couch in a bookstore in Paris - the famous Shakespeare and Co. We had chatted about life and writing and almost met again in Paris, but I left before it could happen.

the famous Shakespeare & Company bookstore

We made plans to go to a pub that evening and catch up. I hopped on the tube (public transport) to meet GB, and when he met me outside the station, he hugged me like he missed me. Like really missed me.

But he was younger (I assumed because I never asked) and gay (also an assumption that I didn’t feel the need to confirm) so I thought nothing of it at the time.

Except that it felt nice to be hugged.

Hugs from strangers are much more enjoyable when you're traveling solo and you've been deprived of physical touch for too long.

We had a short walk through the city and started catching up immediately.

When you meet someone who also hates small talk, things like sexuality and age don’t come up. Life goals and dreams for the future are much more interesting.

When we got to the pub, I noticed the Shakespeare sign hanging above the door.

A thoughtful choice considering I’d forgotten where we met until I saw the sign.

Inside the pub, GB’s flat mate was waiting to join us, and it was exactly what you’d expect - lots of wood furnishings, golden light, people chatting instead of music, and beer. It would’ve felt cozier if the sitting surfaces weren’t so uncomfortable.

I ordered a beer at the bar, trying not to smile like an idiot. It felt so good to finally speak my language to order. I missed it.

After spending 1 month and 11 days in Europe, I was relieved to not need Google Translate to understand a menu.

I paid for my beer, and I watched the sun set from the patio as we chatted about American politics and London's foxes.

If anyone’s interested in American politics. It’s the British. To them, we’re like a bad reality show to discuss in detail.

SIDE NOTE: I hate talking about politics. Especially when the focus is Trump and how his presidency could only exist in America.

As we chatted, I got a text.

A text from a British man I had a brief fling with the year before in Croatia.

And a fling the night after a witch told me I’d meet my future husband.

Let’s call him Coach.

Coach and I didn’t have many conversations after that night on the boat, but we kept in touch to mention a visit to his country. My timing was perfect (as always), and I'd be in town for his upcoming boat party on the River Thames.

footage from the day we met:

In east London, Coach was out with a friend at a bar, and he wanted to see me before his party the next day.

It was late, but not too late for a second bar. Plus, the flat mate was leaving early to go home. I responded that I was already out for a drink, but I could meet up soon.

SIDE NOTE: When I tell people I’ll be there “soon” it could be 20 minutes or a couple hours depending on the day. It’s only gotten worse since I’ve started living with the French.

“Soon” was the wrong word choice because the rest of my time at the pub turned into Coach blowing up my phone. Apparently, pubs close at midnight in London, which would’ve been nice to know before agreeing to the plans.

If I’d known, I would’ve declined. Or I at least would’ve mentioned it to the guys I was with before making the decision.

I felt bad double booking, but I was in dire need of a hook-up that the (questionably gay) Brit couldn’t give me. I felt even worse when I saw GB’s disappointment when I told him my plans.

We left the pub after GB’s beer and stopped at a corner shop on the way to the tube for him to pick up some food. The whole time we were in the store, I was counting down the time until the next bar closed. I could've told him good-bye on the street, but I felt bad for the abrupt end to our hangout. Especially after he offered to take me to my metro stop to meet the other man.

We got on the tube and all conversations switched to a rushed undertone thanks to Coach’s “chop chop” text messages.

We made it to my stop, and I parted ways with the young gay guy who didn’t seem so gay anymore.

When I walked out of the Shoreditch station, I immediately felt the difference. I went from a quiet residential area to art covered streets and a hipster vibe.

I overlooked the street art and power-walked to find the bar and meet Coach and his friend.

I have no idea what time I walked in, but it felt too close to the cutoff based on how I was greeted at the door and how fast my drink came.

Finally. The rushing was over, and I could relax and appreciate my free drink while listening in on Coach’s conversation about his friend’s marital problems.

Up until this point, I was able to keep up with most of the night’s conversations.

If you don't know, British accent vary based on where you are in the country. Even if you go a few hours north of London, you'll notice a huge difference. I didn't understand the difference until I had to contribute to a conversation between two Brits from northern England.

Thick northern accents + British lingo reminded me that I was still a foreigner in an “English” speaking country.

If I had to guess, I’d say I caught 80% of what was said, and it makes me question how much I understood when I met Coach the year before.

When the bar closed and kicked us out (but kindly because the British are overly nice about everything), Coach asked if I wanted to take an Uber home with him.

Duh.

After a short wait and goodbyes to his friend, we hopped in the back of an Uber.

By the time the car took off, we were chatting, but this time it was about our dating situations. Mine was non-existent but his was going well?

He told me he was seeing someone, and he wanted me to know that he wouldn’t be able to talk to me much at the party the next day. He then went on to tell me how beautiful and amazing she is and how he wants to introduce us at the party.

Now his urgency to see me the night before the party made sense. I think most people would be offended by the casual,

‘I’ll sleep with you tonight but ignore you tomorrow in public’

statement, but I was relieved.

I wish more men were this honest with women, even if they don’t think it’s what the woman wants to hear.

He took out the need to over-analyze the situation and his expectations. Plus, I still got the (temporary) sexual advantages of a beautiful man.

(And he promised me what I really wanted- molly for the party.)

After I thanked Coach for his honesty, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a clear tiny bag. As I wondered which party powder could be in the baggie, he asked me if I’d ever tried

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