You're Not Pretty Enough (17 page)

Interlaken/Zermatt, Switzerland.

We had barely unpacked the bags from our last trip when we decided to drive to Interlaken, Switzerland, which was a little over fourteen hours from Amsterdam by car. We packed snacks, maps, and travel books and
practiced Swiss-German phrases.

“Wo häts en Chübel, es Grosses?”

“Yes, probably the most important phrase.”
Where can I find a large glass of beer?

We drove on the Autobahn. Though we were moving at a swift pace, we often had to move quickly to the right lane to make way for numerous Mercedes cars that whizzed past, giving the appearance that their wheels barely touched the ground. We arrived late at night in Interlaken, which translates as
between lakes—
in this case Lake Brienz to the east and Lake Thun to the west. It was dark and quiet and fairytale-like as we drove around the water into town.

We woke up in the early morning just as the fog was lifting
from the mountains and drank kaffee and ate pastries outside. Suitably charged we headed to the Jungfrau region and climbed and hiked and refreshed ourselves in the natural springs that surrounded us. We watched people base jump out of
small planes, and we discovered Trummelbach Falls, a connected system of ten illuminated glacial waterfalls in the mountains. We fell more in love.

On the night of the Fourth of July we headed to the Funny
Farm, a hostel set up to promote partying and hookups. There was the Space Camp pool area with trees and lights and room to lounge with our drinks. There was the Guinness tent, which served my favorite beer. The bathrooms were pitch black with disco balls hanging from the ceiling. DJs were playing tunes, and the smell of weed drifted under our noses. We decided to split up and find the source among the one hundred or so people ten years younger than us on average. I introduced myself to a group of nineteen- to twenty-year-olds, and a young
woman struck up a conversation with me.

“Are you traveling with your boyfriend?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Oh my God, what’s that like? Because I’m traveling with
friends, and my boyfriend is back home, and he’s super jealous, like worried that I’m going to kiss someone, and you know what? I already have! But who cares? I’m nineteen, and if I want to kiss someone while I’m traveling through
Europe, I mean, I should, right?”

“Totally…”

At this point a boy of about twenty, who was clearly wasted, sat down beside me, took my hand, and stared at my face, smiling. He didn’t say a word. I wanted to go.
Where is Dave?
I went looking for him, and the
boy followed, holding on to my shirt as I dragged him around.

I found Dave talking to a Dutch guy in the Guinness tent. “Yeah,” he said to the guy as I approached. “I know what you mean. But when you
really think about it, you only cheat on someone you don’t really want to be with anyway. I mean, that’s how I felt about an ex-girlfriend…”

“Wait,” I interrupted. “You cheated on a girlfriend?”

“Well, yeah, but not really…Wait who’s that?” he asked,
referring to the mute twenty-year-old holding my hand.

“Him? I don’t know! Don’t change the subject!” The Dutch guy looked uncomfortable.

“Jen, I was twenty! I was immature…It’s not like I would do
that
now.”

“Or don’t you mean
yet?”
I stomped off, and when my appendage didn’t disengage, I led him to some tables by the tent and said, “Stay here!” before going to the pool area to pout. Dave found me a few minutes
later.

“You’re being a little sensitive, don’t you think?”

“Can we just go?”

We walked in silence back to our hotel.
Once a cheater,
always a cheater,
I thought. But I knew it was a misdirection, a way to avoid thinking and talking about THE FEAR.
Don’t you mean once burned, twice shy?

I also knew my irritation was rooted in the vague plans for
our elopement, which was targeted for Italy in late September. I was sure I wanted to be with Dave, but I wasn’t sure he was fully cooked. He had been in a long-term relationship as well as had his fair share of short-term flings (at the bar they called him “The Kid,” as in, “Back in the day, ‘The Kid’ used to
score some hot ass!”) He had traveled extensively, and we had the same values. These were pros; I didn’t want to be with someone with whom I wasn’t compatible or who would look back one day and think,
I haven’t lived
. But he was
also comfortable with prolonged periods without structure, and I was not. He didn’t like dealing with budgets or spending. He began looking for ways to extend our stay in Europe indefinitely. I was already thinking of what life
would look like when we returned to the states and whether it would be different
if
we returned as a married couple. I thought about all of this as we walked in silence.

“I don’t want to get married,” I said to him once we were in
our private hostel bed, pretending to sleep. I was lying on my side with my back turned to him. He turned on the light.

“Why?”

“Because. Things will change. You don’t think they will, but they do. The person you were in love with becomes the person you no longer even
like
. And when that happens, you’ll feel
caged
…

“I will not feel ‘caged’ with you.”

“You will, at some point you will, and when you do, we’ll
find new ways to hurt each other. Then you’ll meet some willing girl at the bar and…”

“I’m not your ex-husband. I’m not going to do that to you. I want to
marry
you. I’ve never wanted to marry
anyone
, but I want
to marry
you.
Doesn’t that mean something?”

I rolled over and faced him, snuggling up close so as much of our naked skin was touching as possible.

“
You
mean everything. Marriage means
shit.”
My
God
was
I a Nicholas Sparks character? I mean, I didn’t have a disease nor was I involved in a mystery of any sort (that I
knew of
…bum bum bum). I just didn’t want to repeat mistakes, because repeating them would make
me question my judgment, deeply, and if I came out the other side with the notion that I was flawed, I would slide on some of the progress I’d made.
Better to be risk averse
, I thought, even though I loved him and even though I was committed to it
like
a marriage. Wasn’t that enough?

“Well, it’s not ‘shit’ to me, Jen, but OK, I won’t pressure you.”

“What do we do about the wedding date in Italy?”

“Let’s just keep it on the books. If you want to cancel,
we’ll cancel.”

The next morning we made the trek from Interlaken to Zermatt. It was only forty-six miles away but required us to go up and then down a large mountain range by car, so it took hours. I had to will myself to
stay calm as Dave drove the narrow road (with no guardrails!) beside sharp, ten-thousand-foot drops into the spectacular, snow-covered mountains to our right.

“Don’t look down,” I cautioned.

“Well, now that’s the only thing I want to do!” But he kept
his hands firmly planted at ten and two. At the top of the range, we saw a chalet and decided to stop for lunch. It was two-thirds full, with about twenty-five people scattered among the tables. We looked at the menu and
decided on cheese fondue for two. When we ordered, the waitress started smiling and giggling, but we didn’t know why. When she brought out the bubbling cauldron of Gruyere, everyone started laughing and clapping as they burst into
song. We sat frozen, unsure of what to do. They continued clapping while we politely smiled then stared at us until we speared our first piece of bread and dipped it in. After that they went back to their meals. Being far from fluent in Swiss-German, we never did get an explanation. But we didn’t care. Our
bellies were full of cheese. When we arrived in Zermatt, we took a cable ride toward the top of the range where it was cold and snowy and walked around for about two hours, exuberant and ready to keep going.

*************

Back in Amsterdam, a more organized life began to emerge. We met a delightful girl from New York City in the middle of Leidseplein, Michelle, who was promoting an American improv comedy troupe called Boom Chicago.
She was from the states, taking graduate classes and reading
Ulysses
for fun. She was bubbly and laughed easily but could immediately turn serious.

“This one time, my mom was in the grocery store, and this
guy in front of her tried to pay his tab with rocks,” she said, cracking up. “My mom wanted to pay for his food, but he seemed so earnest that she thought it would insult him.”

“What did the cashier say?” I asked.

She looked at me stoned-face. “I don’t know. I didn’t think
that story needed a punch line.” This made me howl, and she turned away from me to distribute more materials for the Boom shows.

“Hey,” Dave said to her, “how did you start doing that?”

“This?” she asked, pointing to the materials she was holding. “Oh, it was easy. I just went into the ticket counter and told them I wanted to be a promoter. These leaflets are guides to the city. That’s how I
draw them in. ‘Free guide to the city!’ Once I start talking to them I say, ‘and there’s also this great comedy show tonight—if you take this guide into the ticket booth, you’ll get a discount.’”

She pointed to a white square on the back cover with a
stamp. “See this? That’s my stamp. When people turn this in, the ticket person logs it according to the stamp. Then we meet once per week as a group and get our commissions in cash.”

“Really?” I said.

“Yeah. And it’s soooo easy to sell. After a few days of walking around and getting stoned, the Brits and Americans—especially the couples—are ready for some passive entertainment. I just smoke some weed and head out for a few hours whenever I want and enjoy the sunshine and talk to
people.”

Dave and I looked at each other. “I can easily get you in,” she said and soon she did.

It gave us some spending money and a lot of free entertainment, because that troupe was mad talented. We got to hang with Jordan
Peele
(MADtv, Key & Peele)
, Ike Barinholz
(Eastbound & Down, The Mindy Project),
and Nicole Parker (
MADtv)
who were there during that time
.

Dave continued the mixed martial arts training he was devoted to back home, and I decided to sign up for ten Muay Thai kickboxing classes thinking,
I’ve done Tae Bo, so this will be like that, right?
No. No, it was not.

The program was intense, with a thirty-minute warm-up that
nearly made me puke a few times on its own, followed by instruction, then sparring. My body, which was accustomed to light jogs on the treadmill and strength training using five-pound weights was about to be tested. We had shin
guards and gloves only. No face guards. During instruction, we’d pair up, and my partners would punch and kick with force much harder than I anticipated. When we sparred, no one held back. This wasn’t an aerobic exercise class, I
quickly surmised. People were training here.
To be fighters.
My first couple weeks, I simply dodged and weaved as best I could, and when I tried to throw punches, I looked like a cat playfully pawing at a string. The instructor
was Dutch-Surinamese Muay Thai World Champion Ivan Hippolyte, and he took a special interest in me.

After a few classes, he said, “How are you liking it?”

“I like it. But it’s really hard.”

“You will get the hang of it. You have it in you. Push your
body. I will help you.” I’d like to think that if I didn’t have huge breasts and a pretty face he’d have offered that anyway, but I’m no fool. Still, I took him up on it. I liked the idea of pushing my body. I hadn’t done that before.

Me and Ivan.

“You will?”

“Yes, after classes, when I have breaks, I will work with
you.”

“Do I have to pay you?”

He laughed. “No.” I decided to buy a thirty-class package and see what I could do. I got better. I met with Ivan, who spent thirty
minutes after class with me drilling me on moves. My body started changing and becoming more toned. I was getting stronger.

I met women, one in particular named Kim, who was really generous with me and encouraged me from the get-go.

“Kick from the back position. You’ll get more power that way,” she’d say in her Dutch accent, and, “Good, good, that’s it,” when I got it right.

The place smelled of sweat and cleaning supplies and was
brightly lit. It contained a bright blue mat as flooring and mirrors or glass for walls. At the front of the training area was a weight room where huge men with shaved heads and several tattoos lifted hundreds of pounds. The gloves and shin guards had a funk so foul from encasing hundreds of different hands and
legs that I swiftly decided to invest in my own. I liked going to the 8:00 p.m. classes because it coincided with Dave’s training schedule. For a girl who liked her alone time, I was discovering I didn’t mind spending endless hours
with him. In fact, I missed him whenever we were apart, which was hardly ever. We’d arrive home at around the same time and shower. Then we’d eat dinner, sometimes smoke a joint, and zone out in front of the television, fighting
sleep so we could spend more awake time together. Oh, but we were deliciously tired those nights.