Gone, till I change (2011)

CHAPTER 2: No is always guaranteed if you don't try Day 3

Day 3. The manager of the hostel, although he hates most of us young travelers, does have his favorites – strictly women. I heard from Susana and Carol that they got him to agree to give them some kitchen accessories. I tried my luck. My happy face paid off: he took me to the storage room, a real Ali Baba cave. Searching through a mountain of cardboard boxes, I found not only a knife, a fork and a plate, but also a totally new mug, a bowl and a set of cauldrons! My new possessions in hand, I had to escape the suddenly very small storage room : I almost lost it, as the manager, whispering his honeyed words closer and closer to my cheek, tried to keep me in his treasure cave. I'm naïve, but not enough to doubt that his generosity is self-interested.

Back at the dormitory, I proudly tighten the handles of the saucepans with my Swiss army knife screwdriver – how can my mother always be right?! Now, my last challenge is to store away my utensils in the wardrobe, which is already overpacked. My roommates have plenty of flaws; besides making fun of my accent, waking me up and smoking weed under my bed at night, they invade all storage spaces of our room. I had enough of them. I'll just pack their stuff. After checking their empty beds, making sure no heads are buried under the duvets, I carve a place for myself. I'm already done when I notice a huge pink suitcase recently added to the dormitory's mess... Someone new?

Over the railing of the sixth bed, till then free, appears a round face framed with chocolate brown hair with a square cut toupet.

- Hello!

Brown almond eyes. A piercing under the lower lip.

- My name is Felicia!

She says, with a strong Spanish accent. Her smile carves her dimples in her face.

- Hi! I'm Gabrielle. I come from Canada!

- I love Canada! Me, Madrid. London for English.

She seems to have used up all her English vocabulary. I switch to Spanish. During my humanitarian trip to Guatemala, I fell in love with the warmth of the language, its cool "r"s and its pure vowels. Felicia explains that she came to London to work and learn English. With the economic crisis, it's been difficult to find a job in Spain and being bilingual is an asset that could help with her psychology degree. She plans to stay here for five months. Felicia radiates softness and sensitivity. I decide she's the one: she'll be my companion in London.

- Hey, I've got to go downtown later today. Why don't you come with me? I can help you with buying a mobile phone; it's essential to find a job here.

When exiting the metro, Felicia and I deviated from our itinerary to take a look at the Marble Arch, the white marble monument which the metro station is named after. This arch, marking the northeast entrance of the enormous Hyde Park, has four Roman columns framing three passages. The one in the center, the widest, is obstructed by huge gates in forged iron. Taken from its medieval decor, the Marble Arch now appears like an impostor in the heart of urban life, planted at a noisy intersection filled with tourists. After briefly glancing over the arch, Felicia and I resume our journey.

On Oxford Street,the names of the biggest companies in the world compete in neon warfare; an image that is as uninspiring as Quebec shopping centers. We finally spot a Vodafone shop, where Felicia buys her phone. On her request, we immediately head for an attraction that is hardly more exotic than Oxford Street: the Primark - an English version of America's Walmart. This large surface store offers ridiculous prices. Unlike Felicia who is shopping happily, I resist. I hardly spend for fun, and even less as long as I have not found a job. I do have a weakness for fur. And leopard prints. Hence my sister says I have poor taste for clothes. I'd say, for sure, I'm far away from following France or Quebec trends.

It is nightfall when Felicia and I return to the hostel, hungry and very loaded. Felicia arrived arms full at the cashier desk, dropping plenty of clothes and accessories. I bought, for fifteen pounds, a pant and two black shirts: the essentials to work as a waitress.

When I arrived at the kitchen to prepare an omelet, Graziano was there. He invited me for a beer in the West End.

We exit the metro at Piccadilly station, on the northwest corner of a huge crossroads. Piccadilly Circus, the ancient center of the British Empire, located at the crossroads of five major arteries, is now a very busy and touristic place. It reminds me of Times Square, with its multitude of advertising billboards shedding light in the dark sky.

Graziano takes me further south to show me a monument that was erected in honor of Lord Shaftesbury, who campaigned extensively for the protection of children working in mining in the nineteenth century. At the top of the famous fountain, I notice a figurine is familiar to me: a Cupid armed with an arrow.

- I saw this angel yesterday, on a newspaper's first page... The Evening Standard.

- It's called the Angel of Christian Charity, he informs me.

At the corner of Piccadilly and Haymarket streets, we pass by the bronze fountain where four massive horses arise: The horses of Helios. All around the basin, young adults are sitting. As we get closer to the Ivy, the restaurant where Graziano works, Audi, Porsche and limousines indicate the entrance to the establishment, at the junction of two narrow streets. The large windows that adorn the facades of the three-story restaurant hide celebrities through colorful stained glass. The building is an isosceles triangle embracing the crossroad shape, in between three streets.

We arrived at the bar after many detours. Yellow-green lighting, pop music. The Verve is frequented by real Londoners: English natives, lanky blonde giants in suits and ties; not travelers like us, who live in a seedy hostel for a few months. What a pleasure to be here, stealthily observing this unknown wildlife! I enjoy this moment while swallowing two pints of white beer, a courtesy of my new ally. I'm not used to gallantry: Quebecers systematically separate the bill, sometimes even couples!

Tomorrow, a busy day awaits both Graziano and I. Therefore, we don't let this evening drag out and get back to the hostel early in the night. There, my mate asks if I could epilate his eyebrows. In return, he will teach me how to be a waitress. In a corner of the spiral staircase near the boys' dormitory, armed with my clamp, I pull his hair out.

- Remove those that grow above the eyebrow line, not those below, he specifies.

I work with care, enjoying the touch of his strong brow bone underlining his short forehead, topped with black hair. Meandering wherever my fancy takes me, I even venture to hold his square jaw between my fingertips, and position his face towards mine. He is watching me from below, amused.

- Wow, your eyes are green, he remarks.

I smile, embarrassed. Compliments are rare in Quebec. Caught off guard, not knowing what to do with flattery, I've learned to turn it down or to feign indifference. But these two tactics are useless when my flaming cheeks betray me.

- Come sleep with me, says Graziano.

His smile raised his cheekbones.

- Only sleep, he insists, getting more beguiling every second.

I don't answer, swinging between envy and suspicion. I've slept with one only boy till now. For sure, I wouldn't do anything tonight. But even to sleep, I'd prefer to wait to build a bond of trust. Instead of answering, I focus on my monk's labor.

- Please...

With his tight-fitting V-neck sweater and overflowing self-esteem, Graziano attracts me and repels me at the same time. I laugh, rolling my eyes. His squints sulkily, narrowing his eyelids. Ignoring it, I rip out the last hair.

- There you go!

He stands up. Grabs my arms to pull me. Out of balance, I capsize against his robust torso. He holds my wrists gently but firmly and stretches his neck, pretending he's about to kiss me against my will, testing my tenacity...

Amused by his little game, I move my head back as far as possible. Graziano counter-attacks to the right, to the left. But I remain cold as ice, except a few laughs, and he gives up. I won't waver today.