How To Date A Greek Boy

Prostitute Capital!

Over breakfast the next day, we decided that we’d seen enough of London, so we should be getting a move on. So after eating, we didn’t head out as usual; we headed back to the room and packed.

Just as I’d started stuffing things in my backpack unceremoniously, my hand grazed over the notebook I’d packed. Removing it, I straightened out its dog ears, and smiled fondly. I’d almost forgotten about the book, and my promise to myself to write about my travels. The others always caught up on lost sleep or listened to music during travelling. But now, I knew I wouldn’t be sleeping while we travelled to our next destination.

I’d catalogue my journey.                     

While I was remembering old promises, Fran was making new ones. I noticed her picking up a flyer from a bedside table while she packed up. It had a picture of the Thames in the background, and it informed the reader of the various boat rides on the River. Fran smiled to herself and carefully put the flyer in between the pages of a book in her back pack, and though she didn’t say anything, I knew what she was thinking.
One day, after all of this is over, I’ll come back here as a changed person.
I didn’t realize that I’d already changed quite a bit.

At the airport, the courier service said it had openings for volunteers to Amsterdam, Rome, and Paris, but they didn’t have seven openings to any one place. Some of us would have to take a regular flight.

As we debated which place we’d go to next, a black (sorry, African) guy came up to us.
“I heard yo’ guys wanted to go places?” He said with a thick accent. “I could make yo’ go places if yo’ deliver these parcels to my Nana for me. I can’t carry them all together; the maximum luggage on one ticket is 20kg. Damn airline regulations. ”

He went on to hand us three heavy suitcases. We had to deliver them to an address in Amsterdam where his Grandmother lived. Our flights would be paid for by the guy. There was only one catch- we couldn’t open the locks on the bags. According to the man, we seemed like good, honest kids, so he could trust us to deliver the parcels safely.

I looked up and around our little circle and all of the others murmured their consent.
“So… Amsterdam, huh?”
“Prostitute capital of the world!”

I didn’t even need to check who said that.

While we waited in the departure lounge for our flight, Crista researched youth hostels in Amsterdam on her phone. Finally we found one close to center of town, from where the market (and as Hermes so happily pointed out, the red light area) were walking distance.

While they were booking, I received a text on my phone.
Mum – Skype username is ProfCharlesMom. I thought it’d be funny to annoy Charlie. Hope ur having fun! Luv, Mum.

Me – I’m calling in 5! Stay online.

After Crista booked the hostel dorm, I powered up Fran’s laptop, taking full advantage of the free wi-fi at the airport (yes, Heathrow has free wi-fi. Don’t you just love London?). Opening Skype, I connected to Mum, chuckling at her username all over again.

The day Charlie became part of the internet revolution, he signed up for all the sites his friends always talked about, even the ones where the minimum age was eighteen. He’d always been a huge X-Men buff, and the fact that he shared Professor Charles Xavier’s first name just added to his enthusiasm, the result of which showed on every website and messenger that required a username – ProfCharles.

Hence Mum’s enthusiasm about her username. She’s always loved teasing Charlie about the whole “I’m a teenager and my parents embarrass me” thing, and this was definitely going to embarrass him loads.

As the program powered, a grainy picture of Mum’s face greeted me.
“Hey baby!” She cooed, her face lighting up on seeing me after so long.
“How you doing, Ma?” I smiled. I’d missed her. Mum spelled safety, Mum spelled reassurance, Mum spelled love and Mum spelled home.

As I saw her face after more than two weeks, I realized that you may travel the world, but there truly were few places like home.

“Who’s ProfCharlesMum?” Kon asked, peeking over my shoulder to the screen.
Instantly, Mum’s expression changed, and I knew what was coming.
“Who’s that?”
Oopsie.

Let’s just say that by the time our flight was announced, everyone got a first-hand experience of Mum’s over caring nature, and Mum had a first-hand account of everyone’s family history, address, and relations to each other.
Not awkward at all.
Not even when Fran told her she was dating Hermes now, and Mum told her (in a motherly tone she reserved only for Fran) to not be silly, and make him cover his willy.
But otherwise, everyone understood why Mum was so protective of me, and so much like another mother to Fran, because they knew us so well by now. They calmly explained everything to Mum and reassuringly answered the endless questions that only a worried Mother would dare to ask.

I think I should ask her why she hasn’t applied to the Secret Services as yet. She’d make a great detective.

After take-off, I opened up my book, and pen in hand, I started chronicling our misadventures throughout this trip. I made it a point to add in every little detail- what we saw, who we met, where we stayed, what we did, leaving blank pages in the middle for photos that I would stick in later when they came out.

Next to me, Kon had dozed off, his head lolling on my shoulder. His mouth was slightly open, a stray bit of drool on the edges. In case you’re thinking, I didn’t wipe it off, that would’ve been pretty disgusting. I let it stay, the slight imperfection only accentuating his attractiveness in my eyes. I smiled down at his peaceful form, devoid of any expressions. Girls always say they love the sleeping forms of boys, but when Kon slept, you couldn’t see the sparkle in his blue irises, couldn’t catch that mischievous glint he always had in his expression, couldn’t notice his smile that could put a Philips tube light to shame with its brightness. I liked Kon far better when he was awake and conscious.
But do you really like him enough to let down all your inhibitions and ask him out?
My smile widened. I’d known the answer to that for quite some time now.

By the time the pilot announced we had twenty minutes left to touch down in Amsterdam, I’d finished chronicling everything up till our arrival in London. I put away my stuff, and lay back, inhaling deeply. Some of Kon’s scent invaded my senses, and I was swamped by an immense desire to touch his face.

Reaching out, I lightly trailed my fingers over his features. Three seats away from me, Hermes leaned forward at the exact same moment I decided to be creepy and touch a sleeping boy, catching me in the extremely embarrassing act. He pressed his lips together, trying hard not to laugh, and raised an eyebrow at me as I pretended I didn’t see him.

Pressing the button to the side, I reclined my seat, adjusted Kon’s head so that it wouldn’t slide off my shoulder, and slept peacefully for the first time in 48 hours.

A few minutes after landing, I was jostled awake by Kon, his hair in a state of beautiful dishevelment which could be blamed on me continuously shifting while he had dozed on my shoulder.

I got a few nudges and conspicuous looks from Hermes and still pretended to ignore them as everyone started collecting their luggage from the overhead compartments and shuffling forward in slow motion.

The pilot came on, announcing that we needed to collect our cargo luggage from conveyor belt number 7.
But when we got there, an extremely weird sight greeted us.

The area around conveyor belt number 7 was surrounded by armed policemen, a few of them carrying suitcases.
The very same suitcases the man at London had asked us to deliver to his Nana, to be precise.