I Know What I'm Doing (23 page)

“That. That beautiful piece of finery needs its own seat,” the Two Hugh Look-Alike said. “And I don’t care if someone comes in. I’ll tell them it’s my friend’s bag and that my friend will be right back. Are you here alone?” he asked.

“Yes. Yes. Just had a quick hour for some wine and cheese.”

“Well, I guess who needs friends with a bag like that, right?”

And on that quip his boyfriend walked in. They embraced and I wanted to tap them on the shoulder and say, “I use my votes to support LGBT rights. I took a gay guy to a prom. I almost exclusively love to hang out with gay men but do you guys ever make exceptions?” But what I actually said was, “Do you know of any straight guys around here that are as stylish as you two who would want to talk to a woman about her handbag?” They laughed. They bought my bag and me another round, and honestly, because my purse is so quiet and demure—it got most of the attention. But technically I met a man in London. I met
two men.
Take that, society. I found a loophole.

•  •  •

The week of shows went great. Even though I didn’t have a boyfriend to travel with, I somehow still managed to do my job and not collapse into a heap of self-loathing or find myself in Leicester Square on my knees screaming, “Whyyyy, God?” On my last night in London I had plans to take myself on another fabulous date, hoping that this time I wouldn’t fall asleep on myself. I’m a bad date, though. I don’t plan ahead. I wander. Wandering is a great thing to do if you’re vacationing at a Buddhist retreat in the pines but it’s no way to get a table at a trendy restaurant in London. Just like how some women always get caught in a cycle of dating alcoholics—I’m always in a cycle of not noticing a restaurant is shitty until it’s too late.

I found myself meandering down Cranbourn Street concerned by how crowded some restaurants already were at six thirty—with lines spilling out onto sidewalks. Even though I’m a vegetarian, I’m a pretty easy-to-please restaurant-goer. I’m happy with bread and cheese. Dining for me is mainly about sitting down, having a glass of wine, and looking at some twinkly white lights that normally only hang at Christmas. This nondiscerning attitude gets me into trouble because I can’t tell that a restaurant sucks until it’s too late and I’ve already sat down, ordered a glass of wine, and feel like there’s no possible way I can leave—which is exactly what happened to me in . . . some place whose name I don’t think I ever knew.

At first the hideaway seemed adorable, with the low ceilings, dark wood, and twinkling white lights on the trees outside. I sat myself, and the only other people inside were an elderly couple. I was handed a menu and before I even looked I said, “Bring me your best glass of pinot grigio.” Glancing at the menu I noticed that none of the food made sense. They didn’t even bullshit by calling it fusion. It was just
con
fusion. A Greek salad. A hamburger. A sprig of parsley. Falafel. Sushi. Last Thanksgiving’s turkey bones. A
Star Wars
action figure. Nothing went together or was from any particular culture.

And then came the final disappointment. My white wine was delivered to me in a stemless wineglass. FUCK STEMLESS WINEGLASSES. ESPECIALLY FUCK STEMLESS WINEGLASSES WITH WHITE WINE. And don’t go telling me that glasses without a stem are European. I mean, sure, I was in Europe, but I should at least have options. As a paying customer I want a stem, or at least a warning. I want the restaurant rating hanging in the window and a sign that says, “We serve wine in glasses that children drink juice out of, thereby sucking ALL of the joy out of being an adult drinking a grown-up drink.” The waitress said, “I’ll give you some more time to look at the menu.” I wish whoever came up with the menu had taken some more time to look at the menu.

Then the elderly couple started to fight. The worst part was that the husband was partially deaf, so he kept telling his wife that he couldn’t even hear her nagging. He fell into her trap every time asking, “WHAT?” And she squawked louder, “You’re using too many napkins and it’s very disgusting!” Normally a woman eating alone watching an elderly couple dine thinks to herself,
That’s nice. Those two have someone to grow old with and always have dinner with. I hope I don’t die alone tonight
, and not
Jesus Christ. Thank God I’m alone. Imagine being trapped with someone until DEATH do you part and she’s harping on you that you’re using too many napkins?

I don’t know how I didn’t realize that this place wasn’t going to be satisfactory. Shouldn’t I have realized it when I walked in and they said, “Sit anywhere you like”? Why was I thinking,
Anywhere? Wow. What a little gem I’ve found on a bustling street filled with otherwise overly full restaurants that people want to go to
. I wanted to be able to say, “I’m sorry. I’m in the mood for something that I don’t see on the menu. I should have looked before committing to coming in.” But I didn’t. I completely spazzed out and threw a twenty-pound note on the table, knocked over my chair putting my coat on, and started to run out. When the waitress asked where I was going and if everything was okay, I shouted, “My boss is paging me! They need me at the theater!” A pager? It was as if I hadn’t told a lie since 1998. And what job do I have at a West End theater where twenty minutes before showtime I’m free to have a leisurely dinner and I’m not in any official uniform? It wasn’t worth waiting to get my change and having to look her in the eye. I have a fear of confrontation and I even perceive leaving a restaurant that I don’t want to eat in as “confrontation.” I had a fucked-up fantasy that the owner would come out from the back and get in my face. “Oh, you’re not happy with the selections on the menu? That’s fine. My husband left me this morning and my mother just died and now you don’t want to eat in my restaurant? I came to work today because I had to and I said to myself, maybe
one
person will come in here tonight besides the elderly couple who always take that table and argue and maybe this
one
person will make me feel like I can go on living. But I guess
you’re not
that person.”

I went back out into the night, bumping into people as I looked at my iPhone trying to find an e-mail from a friend who had recommended the hard-to-get-into Italian restaurant Bocca Di Lupo in Soho. I plugged the address into my iPhone GPS and let the computer lady’s voice scream out into the night, “Proceeding to Archer Street. Let’s begin.” I got a dirty look from a local on the sidewalk and I snapped, “God forbid you see a tourist!”

I was hungry. I get cranky when I’m hungry. I also get cranky when I’m not hungry.

I got to the restaurant and they were booked until the last of the polar ice caps melt—which in one way, yay, that date is actually a lot sooner than it sounds, but it wasn’t soon enough to get me a table that night. The bar was first-come, first-served and I was told in a haughty tone that the bar had been full since opening. But I spotted a woman who was using a stool for her purse at the bar. I marched over and asked her if that seat was taken. She scrunched up her face. “Yes. It’s taken.” She turned around quickly, not able to look in my direction for one more second. I walked back to the hostess area and announced that I would wait for an opening at the bar. She said, “Well, you can’t stand in here. You must wait outside.” I wasn’t about to give up. I saw a burrata appetizer that looked like a small bag of heavenly, oozy cheese—I guess because that’s what it is. People should feel bad for people who don’t have burrata—not boyfriends.

I stood outside determined to get back in there. I thought about that woman’s purse on the stool next to her. That seat wasn’t being saved. She was on a date. There was no third party joining them. That seat was for her Marc by Marc Jacobs bag. I marched back in, past the hostess, and went back up to the woman on her date. I tapped her on the shoulder. She turned around with that
what
look. I gathered up the courage for confrontation. I spouted, “I know that this seat is taken but it’s taken by a purse. You just don’t want to put your purse on the floor. Or you don’t want someone next to you but that’s not fair. Sure, I’ve put my purse on a seat in this town but it was at a much less crowded wine bar in the afternoon. What you’re doing is squatting and you don’t have the right. I am tired and it’s my last night in London and I would like to sit down.” I would like to say that the restaurant erupted in applause but nobody heard me. This woman barely heard me. She just snatched her purse from the seat, turned her back, and I took my place at the bar. If I hadn’t been single I never would have been able to wrangle myself into this restaurant at the last minute. And between you, me, Double Hugh, his boyfriend, and God—her purse wasn’t so great that it deserved its own seat.

On my walk back to the hotel I passed two girls sitting outside at a bar. They screamed like they’d just seen a mouse. I kept walking. “Jen Kirkman!” Oh my God. Those screams were for me. I stopped. They squealed and slurred, “We are your biggest fans!!! What are you doing in London?”

I said, “I just did six shows at the theater . . . right there.”

“You did? Oh my god! How did we not know?”

After taking selfies with them and letting them squeeze me until my arms were bruised, I left my biggest fans that had no idea that I was performing in London to their blackout drinking and kept walking . . .

I stood alone on the corner of Gerrard and Wardour Streets with lots of other people waiting for the walk signal. A bus pulled up in front of me and a woman banged on the window. She pointed at me and yelled, “WOOOOO!” Could I really be getting recognized again? I looked to the people around me. I hoped that this girl wouldn’t start a frenzy of people wanting to get a picture with me. I made eye contact with the woman trying to “woo” me. She screamed, “You’re a loser!” She laughed maniacally and continued to shriek, “WOOOOO!” Thank God, I wasn’t getting recognized. That was not a specific “Jen Kirkman, you’re a loser” but more of a “I’m having the time of my life, unlike you, woman alone on a sidewalk!”

I thought for sure this was a bus that was taking people to a mental institution. The entire bus rocked back and forth with the sounds of the pop song “I Love It” by Icona Pop. It was a Party Bus. I didn’t know it was a Party Bus until I asked someone next to me, “What the hell is that?”

“A Party Bus,” he said.

“What’s a Party Bus?”

He sighed. “It’s a bus that has a party.” The subtext being, “You fucking idiot.”

I guess it
was
pretty self-explanatory. I don’t understand why you would want to party on the very type of vehicle that used to take us to and from school and later in life drags our reluctant bodies to and from work. Who wants to listen to dance music while wearing a seat belt? Does the bus escort people to their party destination or is the party actually just on the bus that is always driving around? Can’t people sit with their own thoughts anymore? No one can drive about five miles
to
a party without throwing a party? I also thought getting drunk and yelling “WOOOOOO!” was something only Americans did. It made me feel better that my country isn’t the only one filled with idiots but it made me sad that maybe there’s no escape from humans who can’t hold their alcohol. I knew one thing: I wasn’t a loser because I’d been eating alone and was now walking alone. I was a loser because I got excited about putting my earbuds in and listening to the Cure as I strolled through Soho, hoping that teenaged me—who dreamed of walking around London alone—would appreciate the gesture. I don’t care. I love it.

18

PARIS IS ALWAYS A GOOD IDEA

Oh, London is a man’s town, there’s power in the air; And Paris is a woman’s town, with flowers in her hair.

—HENRY VAN DYKE, AUTHOR

T
raveling to London was the first time I had traveled alone since my divorce but not the first time I traveled without a man. I’d been to Hawaii with my friend Sarah . . . that somehow flew under everyone’s radar. I think because it’s socially acceptable for women to drink margaritas by a pool together.

But when I started planning a trip to Paris for a week in the fall of 2012 with my aforementioned good friend Allison, I got some bizarre reactions. My mother asked me, “Jennifah, ah you a lesbian now?”

“No, Mom. I’m not a
lesbian
. I’m just going to Paris with a woman. Okay, admittedly that does sound pretty lesbianish but it’s Allison. You know, she was one of my bridesmaids.”

“And now she’s a lesbian?”

“No. I am not a lesbian now because I’m divorced and Allison is not a lesbian now because I’m divorced.”

“Jennifah, I have nothing against you being gay. It’s just that it’s a hahhd life. Trust me, I would have had it much easier in so many ways if I had lived with my best friend Doreen instead of yah fathah. For example, I bet that Doreen doesn’t put clean socks in a dirty clothes hamper. But society isn’t nice to gay people and I wouldn’t want you to choose being gay because you think it’s easier.”

“Anything is easier than having this bizarre conversation, but again, I’m not gay. I’m just dying to go back to Paris and Allison and I can both afford it. If we wait for men to take us to Paris we’ll probably miss getting to go this coming September, when we both have the same vacation week.”

Heading to Paris was something of a do-over for me as well. My husband and I had ventured to Paris and the South of France as a sort of Hail Mary in our marriage—but to the outside world we were celebrating our one-year wedding anniversary. I think we were both feeling
le mort
inside and I know that I picked Paris as a vacation spot because it’s pretty much agreed upon to be the most romantic city in the world. If I couldn’t feel hopelessly giddy walking along the River Seine with my husband—then maybe it was time to think about
le divorce
. That (surprise!) unromantic trip to Paris still haunted me and I wanted to go back so that my last memories of Paris wouldn’t be of a stupid fight we had outside of Dior. (I wanted to go in just to look. My ex-husband was a big believer in not going into stores we couldn’t afford just to look. He said it was tacky.) Trust me: traveling with a man doesn’t always mean that everything in your life is perfect.