A Single Girl's Valentine's Day

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I freakin' love the Piccadilly area. Even in the freezing cold, it seems romantic with all the lights and beautiful architecture.

I'm at a semi-posh bar called Digress, where there is supposed to be a party of American expats. I've met only one other American here: that chick from Knoxville, Tennessee, whom I met on inauguration day a month ago.

Still, I'm making the rounds, chatting with people. I meet two different Bangladeshi men who both stare at me as if I'm naked or something. I converse in Spanish with a handsome flight attendant from Uruguay. I meet a couple of young English guys. So young, in fact, I wonder if they're of legal drinking age. They're terribly shy, so I flirt with them a little bit, just to make them feel good. It works a little too well, because later in the night, the bolder of the two nervously asks for my number.

I meet a German construction engineer, Dan, and his unemployed Irish friend whose name I can't remember. They're pretty funny and compete for my attention, which I rather enjoy. 😊

This music in this bar sucks, man. I'm so sick of techno/house/dance music. Can't they play something with real instruments?

I go downstairs and explore the entire bar area down there. For some reason, it reeks of vomit down here. There are less tables down here and a big dance floor with a disco ball. A flatscreen TV is mounted on the wall, showing videos of the dance songs being played. Not a soul is dancing.

"Hello there!" someone says.

I turn and see one of those Bangladeshi men, wide-eyed and grinning. "Hey, how are you?"

"Fine," he says, leaning closer to hear me, but he's breathing in my face. "Having fun down here?"

"Sure, I guess," I say, trying to hold my breath.

"Would you like a drink?" he asks.

"Jack and coke sounds good. Thanks."

"JD and coke?" he asks.

Why does everyone call it that? I'm irritated with him already, and he turns to go to the bar and buy our drinks. Standing alone in the middle of the dance floor, I notice that everyone is staring at me from the sidelines.

My English friend, Sharon, shows up. "Sorry I'm so late!" she shouts over the music, hugging me tightly. "I couldn't find a place to park."

We chat for a while, then go upstairs to talk. I remember the guy who is buying me a drink, but I don't care. He can drink it himself. Sharon and I order some chicken fingers and sit down to catch up. It's been so long since we hung out. Sharon is a dark-haired, bubbly, fast-talking English lady. She spent four years living in Florida, going to school, and now would do anything to go back. She loves America so much, she's as bad as I am talking about how things in England aren't as good as in America. She's a good friend.

Eventually, Dan the German sits down next to me and joins our conversation. He's funny and I enjoy his conversation. When he asks for my number as Sharon and I are leaving, I give it to him. I'm not terribly excited about him, but there could be potential there. If nothing else, he'd make a fun friend.

Still, I feel in my bones that when I meet the man of my dreams, we'll know each other right away. No maybe's, no questions, no confusion, no complexities. Just Simplicity and Truth.

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