Tales From a Broad (4 page)

“That might not be such a bad thing.” I
pointed to one of the faded shirts she had selected and wrinkled my
nose.

“Keep an open mind, Aunt Lu,” Tess sang,
hitting me with the hanger.

“I know, I know. You’re right. I’m probably
just jealous.” I eyed Tess in the mirror, watching her button the
shirt over her own. “Actually, there’s no probably involved. I
am
jealous. That,”—I waved a finger in the air up and down
her body—“was never a look I could pull off. If I tried, that’s
exactly what I would look like: a woman trying to look like you, or
even her, for that matter.” I pointed to a mannequin sporting a
basketball shirtdress and a fedora.

Tess laughed. “Halloween in June? She can’t
even pull it off.”

“I’ll just continue to play it safe and hide
my lack of individuality behind designer logos,” I sniffed, fishing
through my Louis Vuitton wallet on a chain for a lip gloss. “Don’t
be fooled by these LV logos. You might think they stand for Louis
Vuitton, but they’re really screaming “lacking variety” like an
obnoxious sounding parrot.” I swung my bag with its colored logos
like a lasso and threw it around the mannequin’s neck.

Laughingly, we said our goodbyes and feeling
rather vintage myself, I left Tess deliberating between a ten-year
old skirt and a ripped up pair of jeans. I, on the other hand,
opted for a little pop culture and went to check out the infamous
blue door from the Julia Roberts movie,
Notting Hill
. Which,
I discovered, happened to be black. Feeling rather let down, I
hopped onto a tour bus for a quick spin around the city.

* * * *

“Our next stop is Piccadilly Circus, world
famous junction of five major streets,” Henry the tour guide spoke
into his microphone.

I gathered my belongings, eager to get off
the bus and stretch my legs. Henry had handed me a rain poncho when
I climbed on top of the open-air double-decker bus two hours ago,
and the plastic now clung to my neck. It had been drizzling for
most of the tour, but I could see the sun peeking through the
clouds. Of course it was. The tour was almost over.

I pulled the poncho over my head and felt my
earlobe pull as the plastic tangled up in my gold hoop earring. If
only I could’ve kept the damn poncho over my head. My shoulder
length hair was a frizzy mess, and I kicked myself for not packing
a hat.

“It would be quite the challenge to find a
glitzier, busier place in London,” Henry’s voice boomed across the
bus. Even with the microphone, it was still a struggle to hear his
voice over a band of political protesters in the street. I strained
to concentrate as he continued to speak.

“Walk a block or two and you will hit some of
our poshest stores,” he said and paused, with a finger in the air.
“In fact, the name Piccadilly actually originates from a
seventeenth century frilled collar named
piccadil
.” The
protesters’ chants began to fade as the bus moved along.

“Interesting,” I mumbled. I gave a sideways
glance to the woman who had been sitting beside me since I had
gotten on at the Notting Hill stop. My voice sounded raspy to my
own ears, probably because it had been hours since I had spoken to
anyone. I cleared my throat.

“Here I thought it had been named after a
pickle.” I scribbled notes on a pamphlet I had received when I
purchased my ticket.

“And
Circus
comes from the Latin word
circle,” Henry continued. “A round open space at a street
junction.” The bus began to slow down.

“Here I thought it was ‘cause of the freak
show that comes here,” my neighbor said. She nudged me with a dry,
wrinkled elbow. She had coral painted nails, tan leathered skin and
from the sound of her southern accent, I guessed she was from
Georgia or maybe Alabama. A Disney World sweatshirt stretched
across her large breasts. She pointed her chin towards the crowd
that had gathered in front of the Piccadilly fountain. “Will ya
look yonder?” Her eyes widened in horror. “Didja evah?”

I followed her gaze. I saw two men holding
hands, one man with an earring in his nose and the other with pink
hair. Slightly offbeat, but a circus act? Hardly.

“Here we are,” Henry announced, rescuing me
from a response. “Piccadilly Circus—home of the longest billboard
in the world!”

He waved his arm with flourish into the air
as the bus came to a screeching halt underneath a massive
billboard. Henry stumbled backwards into one of railings but didn’t
seem to be rattled in the slightest. “Piccadilly Circus has been
compared to New York’s Times Square. A virtual twin sister,” he
smiled with pride. His face may have actually radiated more light
than the sign that hovered over his head.

“Well, there ya go,” my neighbor said. She
gazed around with a critical eye. “That city’s loaded with crazies.
I went there once and was nervous as a whore in church.”

I made a face, but just couldn’t even bring
myself to acknowledge her ignorance. She was probably also the type
who thought all New Yorkers carried a gun. I stood up and walked
toward the exit, taking in the sights around me. There were many
fluorescent signs, a video display, lots of pigeons... Yes, I could
see many similarities between the two tourist attractions, but
Piccadilly didn’t have the same feeling as Times Square. Piccadilly
had a cool fountain, but there was no Naked Cowboy strumming on a
guitar like the one I saw daily in New York.

I thrust a five euro bill into Henry’s hand
and climbed off the bus. The sun was completely shining now, and I
reached into my bag for my sunglasses. Now, if only my mood would
turn a bit brighter, I thought wistfully as my feet hit the
sidewalk. I threw on my sunglasses and began to walk.

Throughout the tour, I had started to feel a
little anxiety about the hostel. I had become rather exhausted and
was really feeling the effects of no sleep. I reminded myself that
this was all part of the experience and my chance to re-do my
structured past. It didn’t matter that we were staying in a
dormitory setting. If this was the most affordable way to travel
Europe, then so be it. The last time I checked, my name wasn’t
Paris Hilton.

Yet, I couldn’t help but worry about how we
were going to sleep that night. I pictured my valuables stuffed
into my pajama pockets, nearly suffocating in my hooded cocoon sack
with every toss and turn. Just thinking about the dirty bodies that
have slept in the bunk I’d been assigned gave me a head to toe
itch.

And as much as I wanted to scrub my body
clean after we’d gotten off the plane, I came to the conclusion I
was probably cleaner
not
taking a shower. Our loo looked
like it had never been introduced to bleach. How on earth was I
going to beautify?

We hadn’t been gone for twenty-four hours,
and already, I felt like the American Werewolf in London. I had a
handful of stray eyebrow hairs, a sprinkle of clogged pores, and
after sightseeing in the rain, my hair that was formerly just
greasy, had turned into a greasy poof.

I took out my phone and dialed Tess’s number.
I tapped my foot impatiently while listening to the ringing in my
ear. I hadn’t heard from her since we parted ways, and I hoped that
she was okay.

“Aunt Lu? Hi!” Tess’s voice boomed through my
phone. She sounded more than okay, and I wondered where she was and
what she was doing.

“Hi!” I exclaimed, forcing myself to meet her
level of enthusiasm. “Where are you?”

“At a pub,” Tess replied
matter-of-factly.

“Did the Tower of Terror drive you to drink?”
I smiled.

“No.” Tess laughed into the phone. “I
actually met a couple of guys from Chicago of all places. They seem
really cool.”

“One is actually pretty cute,” she added, her
voice dropping to a whisper. “Come join us.” Her voice sounded so
hopeful I knew I couldn’t say no.

“I think a drink is exactly what Dr. Jekyll
ordered,” I replied.

“Yay! We’re at the Queen’s Head on
Knightsbridge. Kind of where we caught the bus this morning. By
Harrods. And don’t get any ideas. I promise we’ll go to there
tomorrow,
together
.”

“Sounds like a plan.” I smiled. “See you
soon.”

One hour later, I walked towards the pub,
feeling slightly uplifted. I had passed Burberry on my walk over
and picked up a new hat and sandals, which I had somehow managed to
convince myself were authentic to London. I never shop at Burberry
New York, but how could I pass up Burberry London? My new purchases
made me feel like a real Brit.

I probably could’ve saved money and just
bought a blow dryer, but there was nothing in the world like retail
therapy. I couldn’t wait to wash my hair and rid my locks from icky
airplane germs. Only then would my head be worthy of the hat’s fine
silk lining.

I strolled down the street and paused in
front of a general store that sat beside the pub. I peered in the
window and caught myself in the reflection. My hands flew to my
head and tried to smooth my wild hair down.

The window display held a mannequin family.
They sported some pretty funky sunglasses as they picnicked on a
teak table. The store seemed to have everything under the sun, so I
wondered if they happened to sell a computer charger because I’d
left mine back in New York.

Since I was living in a commune, I was
hauling my dead laptop in my bag all day rather than risk it being
borrowed by one of my fellow communers. It had literally become a
huge pain in the neck. Figuring a laptop that actually worked would
make the pain somewhat worthwhile, I walked through the automatic
door.

“Hello,” I said, smiling at the clerk behind
the register. He was an elderly man who looked like he should have
already retired. Years ago. “I’m looking for a charger for my Mac.
Do you by any chance carry those?”

The guy scratched his bald head and gave me a
sideways look. I self-consciously tucked my hair behind my ears.
“For your
Mac
?” He looked rather perplexed.

“Yes.”

“Mac n tosh?”

I nodded politely, inhaling slowly through my
nose. Why was it so odd to charge a Mac? Were laptops solar-powered
in London?

The man tapped a wrinkled finger to his lips
for a moment. “I will be right back.” He slowly disappeared through
the double doors behind him.

When he returned several minutes later, he
had a small plastic boot mat in hand. “Err, I’m sorry, ma’am. This
is all we have, but if you fold your coat, you can probably use
this as a charger.”

I shook my head in confusion. “What? I need a
charger for my Mac. My
computer
—I don’t get it.” I wondered
if Brits were all stuffy PC users.

He stared at me for a moment as I brandished
my dead laptop. Then rolling his eyes he pointed over my shoulder.
“Of all the waste of time conversations I’ve ever had with daft
Americans, this one takes the biscuit. Try aisle five.” He walked
off to help another female customer.

“I just don’t speak American,” he shrugged to
the woman. She raised an eyebrow at me and bit her lip.

I stood there completely dumbfounded,
probably looking rather fit for his accusation. My face burned half
from anger and the other half from humiliation.

“AISLE forget it,” I shouted, mocking his
nasty tone with a pretend British accent. My ears prickled, and I
swallowed hard. I couldn’t believe I had allowed a perfect stranger
not only to summon, but to actually release the inner bitch in
me.

My embarrassment grew as I heard someone
clearing his throat behind me. Anger filled me. Who was going to
make fun of me next? Shame on me for letting myself go there, but I
certainly wasn’t going to take any more public mortification. I
turned around to face a handsome guy who was grinning from ear to
ear. I was momentarily taken aback. He may have had the nicest
smile I’d ever seen in my life. I had yet to encounter a Brit with
such fabulous teeth. I remembered the way I looked and suddenly a
wave of insecurity washed over me.

“Ah.” He wagged his finger. “It’s people like
you, young lady, who give us Americans a bad name.”

Ah, he was American. That explained the
teeth. I wondered whether he was an ex-pat or a vacationer like
myself. But what was with the young lady bit? The guy seemed to be
in his early thirties.

“Excuse me?” I purposely tried to use my best
are-you-talking-to-me tone, but I wasn’t sure whether he was
flirting or picking on me.

“I, and probably the rest of the city, knew
what you meant. The old timers here in London call raincoats,
macs,” he said with a chuckle. “And plates are chargers. I think he
thought you were looking for a plate for your raincoat.” He
laughed.

My mouth started to drop. It probably was
somewhat funny, but I was too embarrassed to be amused. I couldn’t
even bring myself to politely fake it. I shut my mouth firmly and
spoke through gritted teeth. “So that’s why I give Americans a bad
name? Because I didn’t know what a damn raincoat was called?”

“Nooo.
That
was funny. But your
attitude?” He paused to give me a sideways look. “Not so much.”

I opened my mouth to speak when he cut me off
at the pass. “Smile.” He shrugged his shoulders. “The sun is
actually shining here today. What could be so terrible?” He held
his hands up and looked at me expectantly.

“Quite a bit,” I snapped. I crossed my arms
across my chest and glared at the handsome guy. I wanted
desperately to smile, toss my frizzy hair over my shoulder, and
laugh, but I just couldn’t. Laugh or toss. Frizzy hair doesn’t
exactly go there.

“Just because your day is hunky dory...” I
trailed off, unsure of what to say next.

I felt kind of foolish for my bitter
behavior. He actually looked like a really nice guy. I groaned
inwardly and was about to apologize, but before I could gather my
thoughts, he sighed and turned away.