Around the World in 80 Dates (32 page)

I think of myself as being pretty open-minded, but there are two things I've always been sure of: I get really seasick and I hate Chinese food.

Clearly, this journey was playing havoc with my sense of self.

 

After lunch, Hec and I embarked on a series of crosstown buses—the subway might be fast and easy, but it was the buses that gave you a true sense of what a city was like—to go and meet Les.

It was funny: Virtually every date I'd been on, I'd dressed up and gone off on my own like the modern woman I was. But Hector seemed to be acting as an old-fashioned chaperone: arranging dates with people he knew and coming along with me for the introduction. Hector had always been considerate and courteous; I smiled to myself, wondering if in the back of his mind he was steeling himself for the day he'd meet his daughter's beaux.

Les (Date #64)
was an expat journalist who had worked in London's journalistic hub, Fleet Street, during its notorious heyday. We met him in a tea shop in the foreign embassy district near Silk Alley (and Starbucks).

Meeting Les—although not obvious date material—was a wonderful encounter. He was a seventy-one-year-old Brit and larger-than-life character. He'd spent the last twenty-odd years stacking up adventures throughout Africa and Asia, writing for and running a variety of newspapers and magazines.

At the height of his career in Fleet Street he'd lost his leg through illness, but he refused to allow this to compromise the quality of his life. His old colleagues in London had had trouble making the same adjustment, however; so rather than accept their pity and the loss of his career, he'd moved to Asia. As he said: “In Britain people can kill you with kindness; in Asia, they may seem a harder people but at least they don't write a man off who wants to work. They don't look at a man with one leg and see a cripple.”

It was yet another reminder of how travel revitalizes you and allows you to, if not be reincarnated, then to focus on the parts of your life you value and don't want to lose. It was enormously entertaining and refreshing listening to Les. And I did a lot of listening. In some respects, he actually reminded me of my maternal grandfather, who had run away to sea when he was fourteen and kept us all rapt with the stories of his adventures on the high seas.

That night, Hec went back to see Ang, and I sat at the computer trying to work out where I was going to stay in Bangkok. I was flying there the day after tomorrow and everywhere seemed to be full. I was just about to get a bit stressed about it and moaned on instant message to Garry, when he suggested:

For some reason, his offer made me stop short. I'd been setting up stuff for months now and my standard operating procedure was: Leave it too late, make a fuss about it, get stressed, then—somewhere in the middle of boring everyone rigid about how demanding everything was—get over it and make the booking.

That Garry had taken my complaints seriously, to the point where he actually wanted to do something to help, was incredibly kind. But to have my boyfriend help with the logistics of dating a score of other men felt just a bit weird. Plus, I was committed to the journey, and
sucking up
the logistics hassles was part of that. I just had to tough it out and stop being such a baby.

Nonetheless, I was touched and IM-ed Garry back my appreciation:

I slept badly that night: I dreamed that Garry, Paul, one-legged Les, and I were all wandering around Bangkok trying to find somewhere to stay. Hotel after hotel turned us away; they all had rooms, but when we came to book we could never agree on the number of rooms we needed and it'd end up with us shouting at each other and the manager kicking us out into the street.

When I woke at dawn I felt rattled and bedraggled from the unsettled night. As I lay there feeling uncomfortable and out of sorts, my stomach made a strange noise, like water gurgling down a sink. I looked at it, perplexed: What was that all about? Thirty seconds later in the bathroom, as I threw up what felt like every meal I'd eaten since 1986, I realized I must have picked up a traveler's tummy bug. Damn, on the day of my hot date with Paul, too.

Sometime later, crawling from the toilet to the sink, I ran the cold tap and splashed freezing water onto my burning face. Steadying myself against the edge, I slowly pulled myself upright. Catching sight of my reflection in the mirror, I let out a long groan. My hair was lank and stringy, like a dog left out in the rain. And under my right eye was a mosquito bite the size of a pebble big enough to skim clear across the English Channel.

My stomach heaved. It was officially a disaster.

I crawled back to bed and fell into a deep sleep, getting up just once more to be violently sick. But by the time I finally woke at 11 a.m. and was well enough to sit at the kitchen table gingerly sipping bottled water, my temperature was back to normal and whatever had made me so ill seemed to be out of my system (in every sense).

As I stared dully out of the window, I was jerked out of my numbness by the shrill ringing of my cell phone. I fumbled for it in my bag.

“Hello?” I answered scratchily.

“Jennifer, hi,” a man's voice replied. “You sound terrible, are you okay?”

“I'm fine, thanks, just a little groggy. Who is this?” I didn't mean to be rude, but there was nothing like a tummy bug to dull your social skills.

He laughed. “Sorry, it's Will….”

Will…? Will who?
I wondered silently.

“…your date,” he added, picking up on my hesitation.

My date. My date? I'd dated sixty-four people, and more than one of them had been called Will.

“…from Tokyo, four days ago,” Will finished, his voice trailing off, clearly hurt.

Oh, that Will.

“Will, hi, I'm sorry,” I apologized quickly. “I just had a bit of a bad night and I'm not quite awake yet. How are you? How's Tokyo?”

“Well, that's why I'm ringing,” he replied, sounding more cheerful. “I'm over in Beijing covering the economic conference and I wondered if you'd like to meet up. I don't know anyone here and I thought we could go exploring together.”

He knew I was in Beijing staying with friends near
China Daily
's building, but it was still a surprise to hear from him. I tried not to show it—I'd been rude enough already. And besides, he was a nice guy. If there had been time, I probably would have met up with him again. “Will, that's really sweet of you and I really hate to say this, but I don't think I'm going to have time. I'm out tonight and I'm flying to Bangkok tomorrow.”

I heard nothing but silence from his end of the phone. I waited; still no response. I thought maybe the connection had been lost (he was, after all, ringing on a British cell phone in China to another British cell in China). “Hello, Will, are you there?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I am.”

My instincts were immediately primed and on full alert. Why was he being so intense? He answered that question in his next sentence. “Jennifer, when we had our date in Tokyo, I was worried that I possibly didn't make a good impression.”

“Oh, Will,” I replied without hesitation. “You were lovely; it was really good to meet you. Why would you think that?”

He was silent for a moment, then said dejectedly: “Oh, you know, I just really enjoyed meeting you. It was so good to meet someone I could really talk to.”

“And I enjoyed talking to you too, Will,” I replied, trying to reassure him, but at the same time thinking how unexpected it was to be having this conversation. I knew he liked me when we met, and we had got on well, but I hadn't picked up any indication he was really keen on me.

“Well, that's how I felt,” Will said firmly. “And I don't want to make you feel uncomfortable, but I just thought if we could have another date…I'd be more prepared and we'd really hit it off this time.”

Another date?

“Will,” I said, trying to sound reasonable rather than panicky. “I promise, you made a really good impression. I really enjoyed our afternoon together. Honestly, you don't have to worry about going to all that trouble. And anyway…” I said kindly but firmly, “…I hate to say this, but I'm going to be flat-out right up to the time I fly.”

“I've just been in at
China Daily.
I'm in the café across the road,” Will blurted out. “You could come and have a coffee with me. It wouldn't take long.”

I shut my eyes and opened my mouth to let out a long, silent shriek.

Living overseas can be an intensely lonely experience, so I didn't take what Will was saying as a sign he was necessarily a scary stalker. But the fact was I looked and felt like crap, I still had a lot to do, and I really wasn't in the mood for a Date Addendum.

Will must have sensed my reluctance to meet. “Please, Jennifer,” he asked sadly. “Let me have another date. I just want the chance to prove to you that I can be fun.”

I wanted to shout:
“It's not fun I flipping need; it's more sleep and some quality time with www.hotels.com.”
But I didn't. I felt sorry for him. And the fact was, he'd gone out of his way to meet me when I needed to see him, it was only fair I did the same now he needed some company.

So I went across the road and had a Coke (my stomach rebelled at the thought of anything else) with
Will (Date #65).

And he was exactly the same as he was before: chatty boy-next-door, full of talk of London and the life he'd be having over there if he wasn't over here. After an hour talking about politics and our favorite bars, I looked at my watch. “I am so sorry, Will,” I told him gently. “I really have to go.”

He smiled happily. “Please don't apologize, Jennifer,” he told me cheerfully, clearly restored by having a chat. “I really appreciate you coming to meet me. It was good being able to talk like this.”

As I nodded amiably, my heart went out to him. He hadn't wanted the chance to prove he was The One, he'd just wanted to talk to someone from home. And because we had a lot in common and could talk easily, I helped him believe he wasn't sad and anxious but happy, with friends, opinions, and good times ahead. Will was clearly desperately homesick and struggling with the sense of isolation he felt over here. But he was right: I was glad I'd met him; no one deserved to be lonely and on their own in a foreign country.

 

Hector was back at the flat, getting it ready for Ang and Grace's arrival tomorrow. He smiled as I walked in the door. “Hello, Dater Girl, how's your day going? Or, more to the point, how're your Dates going? Got them under control?” I rolled my eyes and told him it was most assuredly
they
who had me under control. But I didn't want to think about it, so instead I helped him carry furniture into the spare bedroom.

Paul had said he'd ring before he picked me up for our date, so relying on having a good half hour to get ready (twenty-nine minutes of which would be spent putting concealer on the bite under my eye), I lost track of time helping Hector get the flat straight. I also (finally) feinted left and dodged right around the obstacle of my indecision and booked a hotel in Bangkok.

But Paul lived in the compound, too. I'd forgotten how living somewhere akin to a student hall of residence can blur the social boundaries and create a sense of informality between residents.

So, instead of calling, Paul just turned up. He knocked on the door and let himself in, looking far more dressed up—black trousers and shirt, with nicely gelled hair—than he had yesterday at lunch.

I was unprepared for his arrival in every sense, no makeup and wearing an old pair of jeans. As I scurried around the flat frantically getting changed, Hector teased Paul about wearing after-shave. The two of them sat down at the kitchen table and chatted over a beer while I got ready.

Hector's flat was small, and although I could disappear into the bedroom to change, I also needed to go to the bathroom. Only a glass door separated the small kitchen from the small bathroom, and the kitchen table was about two feet away from it.

I hate it when people can hear me pee. Even more so when I'm about to go on a date with one of them. But I had to go, so, avoiding eye contact as I passed in front of the table, I went into the bathroom and pulled the glass door shut behind me.

From my vantage point on the toilet, I could see Hector's and Paul's outlines through the frosted glass and I could clearly hear every single word of their conversation about soccer.

I couldn't go.

Five minutes passed. I could make out the sleeve being pulled back on a shadowy arm, as Paul checked his watch to see what the time was. We were obviously running late. I still couldn't go.

In the end I did what I am certain all women do in these situations: I dropped some paper down the toilet and peed really slowly and very quietly. It took forever and was excruciatingly painful, like an instant case of cystitis.