Around the World in 80 Dates (27 page)

The rest of the evening, like the three days that followed, was perfect. As usual, it was an extraordinary meal, and we all talked and laughed until around 10 p.m., when Judy and Gerry left. “We have so enjoyed meeting you, Jennifer,” Judy told me as we hugged and kissed good-bye. “You two look so happy together; I do hope it's not too long before we see you again.”

I agreed wholeheartedly.

 

San Francisco was like a holiday—neither of us worked and we didn't check email once. We had plans to visit some of the Costco crew: Rico and Annie, Brenda, and Jefe all lived about half an hour away. Lonely Planet's U.S. office was also in the area and I'd let some of my old friends from the company know we were in town.

But, in the end, we saw no one: We stayed in bed late; lazed on the boat in the sun; drove around with the convertible roof down, singing to Johnny Cash and Def Leppard's request to
“Pour some sugar on meeee
…” at the tops of our voices. And, of course, we talked.

We talked about Garry coming to see me in London next month. And Garry was traveling to Japan with Seattle's basketball team, the Sonics. Russia had fallen through but Hector had some dates for me in China; could I go via Tokyo? We got out our diaries: The timing would be tight and I'd have to scramble to set up dates there, but it could work.

These were not always easy conversations to have; we didn't know what would happen after this point, plus there was the business of my ongoing dating. Plus we were both a little frazzled from our relationship being so fast and intense: It was as if we were
speed-learning
each other, knowing that, for the foreseeable future, this was all the time we had together. “We've fitted three years of relationship into three weeks,” Garry observed as we curled up on deck together under the moonlight, drinking wine. We felt the same way about the situation: incredibly grateful to have met each other, but at times overwhelmed by the pace at which the relationship was forced to run.

And to think I'd initially imagined I'd meet my Soul Mate and simply drive off into the sunset, the road straight and easy to navigate.

But, whatever the pressure or complications, I didn't regret it and wouldn't have changed it for the world. And even more perfectly, any time I got scared and thought I was in too deep, Garry would say or do things that made it clear he felt the same way.

We were in this together.

 

In the end, it was Garry's dad who made the last day easier than it might have been.

He rang to ask if Garry minded giving him a hand with a boat he had to move from a harbor nearby. I think Garry was a little worried I'd get upset since we'd planned a trip into downtown San Francisco, but I was pleased. Gerry was fun, and messing around with fast boats rather than thinking about leaving was exactly the distraction we needed.

So we spent the rest of the morning tinkering with boats (they tinkered, I sunbathed), then roared around the bay for a couple of hours.

After saying good-bye to Gerry, we had an entertaining afternoon in San Francisco. We watched a large transsexual shoplifter get chased down the road by police on bicycles; we played tourist and rode the cable car from Union Square, via Chinatown and trendy North Beach, out to Fisherman's Wharf. The sunset stained the ocean orange and purple, and as we queued to catch the cable car back we held hands, listening to a soulful street musician sing “Georgia.” Then we drove to Lulu's, a trendy but low-key restaurant, where we ate oysters and made up stories about the old moguls who hungrily watched the starving starlets at their tables.

We got back to the boat late, and got to sleep even later. Knowing it was our last evening together, we didn't want it to end.

 

Early the next morning, tired from the lack of sleep and a little hungover from the excess of Oregon pinot, we found a diner in the airport and ordered a huge breakfast. Slumping next to each other in the laminated booth, we stared at the taxiing planes as we sipped scalding black coffee from chunky china mugs.

Airports are famously awful places for saying good-bye: busy and anonymous, they have no room for what's been, only what's coming next. It's one big Hello and Good-bye factory: pairing and parting busy people the length of its production line.

That I was off somewhere new was what I always loved about airports. But not this time. This time I didn't want new: I wanted what I had. I wanted to be with Garry.

Feeling upset and tired, though, neither of us wanted to dwell on what was to come, so we ate instead. I can't speak for Garry, but I wasn't even hungry. That didn't stop us. We ate our way through an insane amount of pancakes and eggs and coffee and toast and French toast and home fries and more coffee. When the time came to say good-bye, I felt unbelievably full and unbelievably sick.

At the departure gate, our arms wrapped around each other with my face buried in Garry's shoulder, I could smell the sour odor of fried food in my hair. We stood for about ten minutes, partially because we were too stuffed to move but mostly because we knew the moment we pulled apart, it would all be over. But we'd had our time together, until the next time; we had to accept this was good-bye.

We stroked each other's faces, trying to absorb and memorize every freckle, every lash. “Thank you for everything, Garry,” I told him. I know that sounds like something from a bland greeting card, but in truth I was grateful for everything. That I'd met him; that he had been so willing to let me into his world, share his house, his truck, introduce me to his friends and family. The fact that he'd let me see so many different parts of his life meant I was leaving not only feeling like I knew a lot about him, but also reassured and optimistic that he wanted me in his life. It wasn't just that, after Keep Your Distance Kelly, being with someone who wanted to be with me was very welcome. I also believed Garry and I were similar people, alike in what we wanted and needed, for ourselves and each other. To have found someone like that, who was cute as hell to boot, was truly something to be thankful for.

Even if he lived in America.

When Garry looked up at the monitor and said with a sad smile, “Jen, they're calling your plane,” I started to cry. I knew it wasn't fair—we were both trying to be brave and get through this in one piece—but I couldn't help it.

I wanted to tell him that I loved him, but I stopped myself. Nothing had been said since the half-declaration on the boat, and a part of me felt it was still too soon. We'd only known each other for three weeks. “I'll see you soon,” Garry said, looking distressed as he wiped away the tears that now streamed down my cheeks, “…London or Tokyo, I'll see you soon.”

“Garry…” I said, looking up at him through the fresh tears that clung to the ends of my lashes, “…I love you.”

And the tears shook themselves free from my lashes as new ones rose up to take their place. The tears glistened in Garry's eyes too as he pulled me to him, cradling me in his arms. “I love you too, baby,” he whispered.

Back in London, I got ready
to give Garry the grand tour.

Exhausted from the lack of sleep and the excess of emotions, I fell asleep as soon as the plane took off.

I slept lightly and my mind flitted around the events of the last few weeks, plucking individual moments from memory like rosy apples from a tree. Garry drinking my chili vodka shot in the Costco bar at Burning Man; last night on the boat, curled up quietly on deck, his hand stroking my hair, Frank Sinatra on the radio singing “I Left My Heart in San Francisco.”

I hated that these were now just memories, that I had to look back to what had happened rather than forward to what was ahead of me. Before too long they would become like gum that had been chewed and chewed until all favor was gone. They'd become stories and set pieces rather than the rich jumble of sensations, emotions, and experiences I could still so vividly recall.

I dreamed about Garry visiting me in London; cutting through the back alleys of Soho; walking along the South Bank from the National Theatre to the Tate Modern and Borough Market…

But as I dreamed, pleasure turned to fear and I woke up: What if it didn't work in London? What if our relationship only worked on his home ground, when I was happy and uncomplicated, not distracted by the demands of my London life? Was I going to slide back into old habits and end up a dull workaholic again?

I gave up trying to sleep and slouched tiredly in my seat. I knew it was pathetic, but I missed Garry already. Instead of us being together with our
what nexts?,
I was now alone with my
what ifs?

 

Arriving back home took the edge off my worries as, once again, the welcome flood of friends, family, and a variety of wardrobe options washed over me. And funnily enough, even though he was in America, Garry became part of my London life too. In the morning when I logged on, there'd be an email from him, and most nights (eight hours ahead, so his afternoons) we'd sit on the computer and instant-message each other or sit on the phone for hours. I loved hearing how his day had gone, what JR had said, where he'd gone for a drink with Doug and his girlfriend Bette. And, in turn, I loved to tell him where the Sonar Sisters (Lizzy and Grainne got so excited hearing about Garry that their voices would get higher and higher until eventually their conversation was only audible to bats, dogs, and whales) and I had been the night before; what had happened during my bike ride to Starbucks that morning. I missed him, but technology made it possible to still feel close to each other.

And, as ever, we both had work to do: Garry was preparing for the start of the basketball season and his trip to Japan; I was nailing down the final leg of my journey through Australasia, as well as trying to find some dates in Japan. Fortunately, my friend Kylie worked for the tourist board, plus by lucky chance I was on a radio program with a journalist based in Japan. I emailed him after the interview and he got straight back, saying he'd be delighted to date me, though warned:

For the first time since I'd made the decision to undertake this adventure, I felt calm and content. Possibly because I'd met my Soul Mate and was now on the home stretch of my journey, but also because it seemed that my theory of working your way to your Soul Mate was valid after all. I felt a real sense of satisfaction and achievement and—I have to admit it—All-Purpose Flirty.

This isn't a type of bathroom cleaner, it's one of the side effects of falling in love. I felt so happy and good about everything, I think I must have been exuding a sort of cheerful, uncomplicated energy. I don't know which way round it happened, but total strangers were smiling and saying hello, holding doors open, and generally being lovely. And I was doing it all right back.

It was like the Love Professor said: You get back what you put out there.

Of course, it was all because I'd met Garry. I was aware of the irony: that falling for him seemed to have made me more noticeable and, possibly, more attractive to other men. This came in handy, as I still had another twenty dates to go, but at the same time I didn't want to do anything that was going to threaten my relationship with Garry.

I'll be honest, I really didn't understand how he was managing to cope; it must have been a nightmare for him. If the tables were turned and he told me he was dating twenty women, I can tell you now, I would have completely lost it. Maybe it was because he'd known all along that this was what I was doing, or maybe he was just choosing not to think about it. Whatever the reason, I wanted to help by making it as painless for him as possible. I tried to get the balance right between telling him what I was doing (whether going swimming with Cath or securing a date in Melbourne) but being sensitive to his feelings and not telling him in a way that would hurt or distress him. It was important I didn't keep things from him: Honesty was one of the few straight lines we had in this hall-of-mirrors situation. But I didn't want to make him jealous either, a strong but ultimately useless bond that would foster nothing good. I wanted him to choose to be close because he liked me, not because I was driving him mad and he was scared of losing me.

So I got on with my job.

I dated Robert (or Irritating Robert, as I was soon to think of him), one of the website dating people who'd been the most persistent. Every couple of weeks or so for the last three months it had been:

The abundance of punctuation was unnerving, but it was the excessive use of animated
smilies
that had me on red alert—reading an email peppered with flashing grins, waves, winks, and blinks was like sitting in front of a short-circuiting traffic light.

Whether I saw myself as the Patron Saint of Single Souls, dispensing
mercy dates
among the
relationship needy,
finally giving in to Robert turned out to be a bad idea.
Robert (Date #61)
asked me to dinner at the Dorchester. Not my kind of place, but I went, only to find he'd invited me to his office Summer Ball and told everyone I was his girlfriend.

Robert worked at the head office of a national courier company and the party was like going to the wedding of someone you've never met (including, in my case, your Date): a room full of people talking animatedly about things you didn't understand and couldn't contribute to.

It was a long night, made longer by the sit-down meal where I accidentally bonded with
the loud, drunk wife
who then tried to give me a head massage during the awards ceremony. There was also a Brotherhood of Man tribute band (though, who knows, maybe it was the real thing). Robert led me onto the dance floor and proceeded to throw some moves reminiscent of the scene in
Diamonds Are Forever
where the man has a scorpion dropped down the back of his shirt. Not that I did much better. Accepting that resistance was useless, I gave it some Travolta. Assuming the position, hand on one hip, I energetically flung the other hand out, rapping the old man dancing next to me very hard on the back of the head with my knuckles.

My final sight of Robert, as I mouthed I was
going to the loo
and fled the building, was him doing the funky chicken with
the loud, drunk wife.
I vowed no matter how much the Numbers God needed appeasing in the future, I was never doing a mercy date ever again.

And then Garry rang to say he'd booked his flight to London.

I had a million emotions, all of them good. In the time I'd been back, I'd realized how much I loved London. I wanted Garry to see the city, but also to see me in my hometown. He was the reason I felt good about being here—when you're happy and in love, London is a wonderful place. In fact my newfound All-Purpose Flirty wasn't just for the people I beamed at walking down the street; I was flirting with the city too. And from the red of the double-decker buses, the white of the Brick Lane bagels, and the boys in blue on the beat, the city was flirting right back. Eros had shot his arrow from Piccadilly Circus; the London Eye was giving me a big, cheeky wink.

God, I needed to stop being so cheerful: Any minute now I was going to break into song and the entire street would join in, dancing like a scene out of
Mary Poppins,
singing:
“It's a jolly holiday with Garry.”

And it would be good to have a break from having a long-distance relationship: emailing, Instant Messaging, and chatting on the phone were an important part of both of our days, but this was also frustrating at times. Not just that we weren't face to face, but because of the logistics of being an ocean apart. The time difference meant there was always one of us sitting up until 2 a.m. or getting up at 6 a.m.

We rarely talked for less than two hours (after the terrible shock of the first phone bill, we'd renegotiated phone plans to get the cheapest international rates), so we were both constantly exhausted from broken sleep patterns and harassed that we were always late for work or meeting friends in the evening.

One good thing, though: The stress and excitement of the situation meant that the weight was finally falling off me. I might have become clinically insane by the time Garry got here, but at least I'd look good in a pair of shorts.

 

Eleven p.m. at Heathrow airport and I was sitting in a grim, smoky café waiting to meet Garry.

Not that I was particularly aware of my surroundings: I had so much adrenaline racing around my body, I was concerned I might actually start astral-planing. I was drinking herbal tea to try to calm my nerves, but that and the nerves were making me want to pee constantly. Every time I popped into the loo, I'd worry I was going to miss him arriving, and then I'd catch sight of myself in the mirror, see how anxious I looked, and get nervous all over again.

But the moment he walked through the gate, all nerves vanished instantaneously. I suddenly didn't feel awkward or nervous about seeing him at all, just really, really glad he was here.

Looking amazing (he'd had a long flight and looked great; I'd had a short drive and looked like crap—where was the justice in that?), he cut through the barrier, finding the shortest possible route to my side. Walking up with a huge smile on his face, he said, “Hey, baby,” dumped his bags on the ground, reached out, and pulled me into a close embrace.

I buried my face in his neck and silently hugged him right back. I was just so happy to see him, I couldn't say a word, I couldn't even kiss him. I just stood wrapped in his embrace, pulling my fingers through his hair, trying to absorb the fact that after the last few weeks of emailing and phoning and waiting, he was actually here in London.

We must have looked like the poster for
Lovers Reunited at the Airport,
but I didn't care. I felt only relief. Like arriving back from a school trip late at night and sleepily spotting your parents waiting to collect you, a sense of
all is right in the world
washed over me.

 

It was now my turn to play tour guide, and I really enjoyed it. We explored the huge Buddhist temple by Wimbledon common; watched the herds of deer roaming wild in Richmond Park; wandered wide-eyed around the cornucopia of Harrods' food hall; and annoyed everyone as we sang
“I don't want to go to Chelsea,”
jumping on and off buses in Chelsea and along the King's Road.

I explained the mysteries of roundabouts, Marmite, Teletext, the
Telegraph
crossword, clotted cream, and night buses. Unable to find a pub serving food after 2 p.m., I tried (and failed) to make a case for English licensing laws. I also tried to explain why Garry couldn't find anywhere serving decent cocktails. That British people drink beer to be sociable, wine to be sophisticated, and cocktails to be insensible. Cocktail names did seem to indicate the drinker's intent: Americans were moderate, elegant drinkers, and they had the Manhattan and the Cosmopolitan. As night follows day, so the Brits had the Slippery Nipple and Sex on the Beach.