Gone, till I change (2011)

Day 2

Day 2. I couldn't sleep well. I was awakened by my roommates when they entered our "sharing room" around 3 a.m., laughing and smoking joints under my bed until dawn. Am I the only one who doesn't want to rot here in Willesden Green? After unsuccessfully trying to recover some sleep, I finally got out of bed at 9:30am and reached the kitchen to prepare my instant coffee before leaving for the city center.

While most travelers are still asleep, I meet with two young women who are already up. A brunette, square cut to the shoulders, and a platinum blonde. Make-up, jackets, leatherette, high heels. Totally different from the other Europeans living at the hostel.

- Hi, I'm Susana, Says the blonde one, greeting me with cheek kisses.

- Carol, says the brunette. And you? Are you new here ?

Susana and Carol are both Portuguese and twenty five years old. They arrived in London a few days ago and are trying to get jobs as barmaids. Unlike my roommates who perceive me as a fierce competitor and keep the places where they've applied a secret, Susana and Carol want to help me.

- Tonight, we're going out for a business meeting. Come with us!

This "business meeting", as they call it, seems more like partying in a club with prospective employers: two bar managers in their thirties. I accept Susana and Carol's offer; I'll most likely benefit from their influence over my roommates' defeatist attitudes. The girls wish me luck with the Resume distribution I have planned for the day.

- Remember, said Susana, a no is always guaranteed if you don't try!

I'll remember that sentence and do everything I can to guarantee a "yes".

***

It's almost 11 a.m. when I arrive at the city center. Trying to meet the restaurant manager right before the lunch rush might be a bad idea. Today is Sunday: will the restaurants be more crowded? Or less than usual? I have no idea. Too bad, I don't want to wait. I get out of Knightsbridge station, a few steps from Bar Boulud. Paulo, the head waiter, is an acquaintance of my uncle who, as a successful lawyer in Montreal, patronizes the finest restaurants of Europe and North America.

At 66 Knightsbridge, the door is still locked, but the hostess opens up for me. Even though I haven't taken any appointments, I ask to meet Paulo and introduce myself as my Uncle Robert's niece, hoping Paulo will remember him.

- Wait a moment, please. I will check if Paulo is available to see you.

The lobby is sumptuous and airy. The wooden floor glows under the cream and burgundy tables and chairs. The benches match the sepia hue of the walls and paintings. The cellar accommodates some three hundred bottles at the back of the spacious and bright room. Through a bay window overlooking Knightsbridge, the sun's rays penetrate and sparkle through the delicate stemware suspended over a thin metallic support above the bar.

Thank goodness I put on a fancy shirt this morning. My stomach twists. I'm an impostor. My entire catering experience came from a countryside village pizzeria, where I've worked all weekends and summers of the last five years. I am not fluent in English, not to mention the London accent! Even in French, I am so shy; simple conversation with clients is a stressful challenge. How could I have imagined myself working in a top range restaurant like Bar Boulud?

From the back of the huge dining room, the hostess appears, walking in my direction. With each of her steps, my discomfort grows. Within a few seconds, my hands and armpits are sweaty.

- He is in a meeting.

I exhale slowly. Obviously. Who would hope to meet the manager of one of London's most famous restaurants just by showing up without notice? Gabrielle, from a little suburban city called Longueuil. Alright, I'm leaving. I'm quitting while I'm ahead.