VACATION READJUSTMENT

Maybe it was when I hit the snooze button, not once but four times, on Saturday morning, a lingering jet lag as the acceptable excuse. I would end up arriving at Hyde Park twenty minutes late for the gay running group.

Perhaps it was two nights earlier after logging in to Manhunt and changing my location to Kensington only to check back and find no messages. Not even a record of profile views.

I suspect it was earlier, maybe even on the first day as I wandered in and about Harrods, realizing I wasn't registering as the new kid old man in town to, well, anyone.

Hell, the moment may have even come before taking off from YVR as I spotted two gay couples boarding and sensed quite strongly that that wasn't my lot. At least not in the foreseeable future. I tried to swat away any defeatist thinking. Your Stella moment awaits! Get your groove back! Or, if you never had it, then just get it. And, if not a full-on groove, a slight indentation. A back scratch.

Whenever it was, it was blessedly early on. Any notions of finding a prince in this land of palaces, a Mr. Right or Mr. Slightly Left of Centre evaporated along with any sighting of that notorious London fog.

Whether I view it as pessimism or realism (even self-preservation), abandoning any hope of a romantic interlude proved a good thing. Shaking off all expectations, I felt complete freedom. Isn't that how a vacation is supposed to be? No goals, no agendas. Seeing what I see. Not seeing everything else. (Oh, why would I ever want to go to a wax museum?!)  The only man I had a conversation with was a daft Scotsman who'd just witnessed a woman stumble on a raised portion of a sidewalk near Trafalgar Square. As had I. Unfortunately, he needed to debrief this exciting event and chatted me up for two long blocks as I politely nodded--in part, I struggled with his accent--before I got wise and asked for directions to a place I'd just passed. Complete U-turn and I was safely all alone once more.

A vacation for an extreme introvert like me mutes all the people, single and otherwise, and allows a closer pondering of the lone black swan in the pond at Hyde Park, of the utter nonsense of being a boy king and of the lives lost while building the fanciful Tower Bridge. I leave London still single but feeling a greater sense of inner peace.

Bloody hell. Maybe Stella got 'er groove back after all.

 

LOOKING IN LONDON

Anything is possible.

That’s how the vacation begins. Never mind all the worst-case scenarios. (Flying’s not really my thing.) I’ve dwelled on them aplenty. It’s the best-case possibilities that give me butterflies. And, as I’m headed for the UK, let’s call them monarch butterflies.

It wouldn’t be so bad to meet my modern-day Mr. Darcy now, would it? I am still waiting for my “When Harry Met Sally” moment, after all. No, I don’t fancy falling for some Billy Crystal type who crassly spits grapes at closed car windows. I’d just be happy to be one of those lovely couples sitting on a loveseat between Harry-Sally scenes as they recount meeting and falling in love. Perhaps my story—our story—begins in London. On a double-decker bus or reaching for the exact same tie at Harrods or listening to a busker performing in Trafalgar Square, our eyes meeting as the singer belts out a mushy lyric.

Yes, anything is possible. That’s what make all the anticipation of a trip—my first overseas!—so grand.

And, even if it doesn’t lead to Forever Love, a fling would be fine, too. I’ve seen “How Stella Got Her Groove Back”. I dig Taye Diggs. So what if the real-life situation didn’t end well for author Terry McMillan. In my book, the fact that the guy turned out to be gay is a good thing. Yes, let this be my Jamaica! (I can’t be in the sun anyway.) May I be so lucky as to meet a hunky Londoner! This is the land of princes. (Just, please, not Harry. He strikes me as a bit of a buffoon. Too much Charles, not enough Diana.)

One possibility is dashed as I take my seat on Air Canada 855, Calgary to London. I’ve seen “Up in the Air” and know all about that George Clooney character’s frequent travels. Alas, no Clooney for company on this long flight. I’ve got the window seat beside a rather large couple who have already claimed the armrests. The woman drifts off to sleep and I’m penned in, too polite to wake her up to allow my legs a stretch in the aisles.

Without Clooney, I remain decidedly single when the plane touches down at Heathrow. Yes, English gents, still available. Let the possibilities begin.

LONDON CALLING

This being my first year back in Vancouver, I should stay put during my two weeks’ vacation this month. Just enjoy sleeping in and not having to take the ferry to work. Besides, I still have no furniture. My living room has a few moving boxes gathering dust and a stool. It’s a sad abode. I should save all my money and finally buy a sofa. Maybe a coffee table and an area rug, too.

Instead, I’m heading to London.

Perhaps that’s one of the perks of living on my own. I don’t have to be sensible. I don’t have to hear someone else whining about what I haven’t done to the place. It’s depressing, sure. Maybe that’s why I’m not sticking around.

I told my mother last night. (We don’t talk much.) She was excited, knowing that I’ve never gone overseas. Still, she wanted me to be vigilant. I braced for her to say something offensive about Muslims and terrorism. (She’s done it before. Again, we don’t talk much.) Instead, she warned me of pickpockets. “Like in Oliver Twist,” she said. “Yes, mother,” I said. “I’ve seen the movie. I know what Fagin looks like.” (She didn’t pick up on my sarcasm. As I said, we don’t talk much.)

Sadly, there’s some truth that the apple doesn’t far from the tree. I may not be any more evolved. My notions of England are from books and movies. The Oscar-winning musical “Oliver Twist” was my favorite movie as a kid, with “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory” a close second. Dickens’ Oliver Twist remains my favorite novel. I couldn’t get enough of the Merchant-Ivory movies of the ‘80s, like “A Room with a View”, “Maurice” and “Howards End”. And I loved the Emma Thompson-penned “Sense & Sensibility”. England is a place of singing orphans, candy-concocting Oompa Loompas and very proper folk who dress in period costumes.

Oh, but I have contemporary images, too. England is the land of bumblers, from Mr. Bean to Basil Fawlty, from Mark Darcy of “Bridget Jones’s Diary” to Bridget Jones of, well, you know. And then there’s Hugh Grant in most anything (including “BJD”).

It’s also the land of tennis. Wimbledon. People who play in all-white and snack on strawberries and cream between sets. I may have to pack an extra suitcase just for puffy white shirts and white sportswear. It’s important that I fit in. Nothing worse than standing out as a foreigner.

So let’s just say it would be better if I head to London with no expectations. I have a hunch I’ve got a lot to learn. Let it all begin from one of those obligatory tours on the open deck of a double-decker bus. Hopefully, there will be a stop where I can take a selfie with an Oompa Loompa. And, with a little luck, we’ll be photobombed by Mr. Bean in the midst of an epic pratfall.

This is going to be so much better than sofa shopping!