Tipping the Scale

(Me and my classmate Iceman performing at Drunken Shakespeare last week.)

After much research, I reworked my American résumé into a more British-looking CV. Then I sent it off to a friend of Phil's who is some sort of headhunter for advice on how to make it better. And what she sent me back were basically instructions on how to turn this CV into something that was nearly identical to the résumé that I had initially. (Is that irony? I'm always so afraid of using -- or, really, misusing -- that word... It's a combination of funny and frustrating, I suppose.)

But there are bits of progress on this road.

- I had a job interview that would give me a three-month, part-time internship. It seemed to go well. It's exactly the sort of thing that I'm qualified for, thanks to my years in Chicago doing database work at a desk. *fingers crossed*

- A really, really awesome internship position opened up at an acting agency. I wouldn't be acting, of course, but I've heard it's a good idea for actors to intern at agencies, to try to learn the ins and outs of a different side of the business. There are only two spots, and I'm guessing it's going to be super competitive... But if I got it, it would be perfection.

- Mom seems to have gotten some positive news regarding the Italian citizenship whatnot. We're still a long ways off from anything actually happening, but this is a start.


So maybe I'm getting closer.

Long distance relationships are, as one might imagine, fraught with difficulties. They are a breeding ground for anxiety. They eat large chunks of time out of your day, during which you sit around waiting and waiting for a Skype call that could come at any time within a vague three-hour span. They force you to sacrifice attending social events with real live people whom you could actually touch if you so chose. They plant seeds of doubt in your mind, making you question over and over again whether this complicated relationship -- and all of the turmoil, work, stress, loneliness, and heartache it brings you -- is worth it. And if you're doing it right, you have to believe with every part of your being that it is.

Each passing day brings with it the painful knowledge of a longer separation, making it harder to recall what the other person smells like, or how it feels when they touch your face. But the passing days also bring with them the knowledge that you are one day closer to being reunited (which doesn't provide a great deal of comfort, truth be told, but you have to gather strength wherever and whenever you can).

I don't know why I've had so many long distance relationships in my life. Just unlucky, I guess. Or maybe so foolhardy that I think it's best to date whomever I want to date, regardless of how separated our present locales may be. Of course, in the past, there has always come a day when the cons of the relationship have outweighed the pros.

I won't lie: the con side of the scale is very heavy at the moment.

(*whiny teen moment* This is really, really hard, you guys.)

But it doesn't matter. I can't imagine not being with him. So those cons, as heavy as they may be, are irrelevant. They are given circumstances, and I accept them.

I will find a way to get to London. I will tip the scale, emptying the con tray in one motion. I will.


May you know how to tip the scale in your own favor.

~A~

My Love Lives in London

Phil came to visit at the end of January. For the first time, he was in my world instead of me being in his. And it was surreal, in the best way possible. It was marvelous.

We went to Universal Studios. (Including the Harry Potter World, which aside from the ButterBeer was COMPLETELY DISAPPOINTING.)




We went to the Jungle Gardens where we fed flamingoes (including Adrian, the baby I studied my first year for an acting observation assignment) and he held an alligator (named Peter Pan).






We played mini-golf (and I won). And we shopped. And we hung out in the tourist-y part of town.


He met my parents. They came down to Florida to meet him. At the first moment I had with them without Phil...

Mom: Oh, Angela! We LOVE Phil!!! Phil is just great! [Dad's name], Angela wants to know how much we love Phil.

Dad: Did she say that?

Angela: No.

Dad: Well. He seems like a nice, polite, hard-working, ambitious, intelligent young man, and he cares about you very much. We're very happy for you.

We had a picnic on the beach.




We went to the Dali museum.


He saw me act for the first time.






We explored the banyan trees and the Ringling grounds.






We put up a reading of a play he wrote (which was a massive success!!!) and hung out at a bar with the cast afterward.






We had an early Valentine's day.


We felt good and right and happy and comfortable and normal and wonderful.


Since he's been gone, it's been tough. The first week apart felt horrible. Far worse than the previous times we've been separated.

Maybe it's because we're deeper in this than we were before. Maybe it's because we don't know when we're going to see each other again. Maybe it's because once you get to a point where being with someone is normal, it's hard to feel normal without them.

I applied to a job in London that would grant me a 6-month internship visa. I could use some prayers, if you're the praying sort. Or I'll take some good vibes and well wishes if you're not.

If I don't get it... I don't know what we'll do.

The German citizenship isn't happening, and now it looks like Italian may be out as well. The Tier 1 Work Visa for highly skilled migrants (like people with MFAs) has now been discontinued for "overseas applicants" like me.

If we got engaged, I could live in the U.K. for 6 months, but I wouldn't be able to work... and I can't afford that. Which means we'd have to get married super-fast, and I'm not okay with that.

Phil is the man I want to marry. But I don't want my marriage to start as a result of a worst case scenario. "Well this didn't work, that didn't work, and this other thing didn't work. Darn it, I guess we'll have to get married." It just doesn't seem right.



So if anyone out there knows anyone that could help me, please let me know. In particular, I am looking for:
- Immigration solicitors/lawyers
- Members of Parliament, or other officials in the British government
- Anyone in the Royal Family
- Anyone in London who might be able to offer me a job that could get me a work visa
- Anyone in London who might be able to offer me an internship (either paid or with free housing) that could get me an internship visa
- Anyone who is a US citizen who is currently living in the UK on some sort of visa.
- Italian government officials
- Anyone who works in the Italian embassy, even as a secretary
- Con artists, mafiosos, or other unsavory characters who might be able to finagle a way for me to get into the U.K. with the ability to work


That's how desperate I am to get back to this boy.



May you not have to resort to illegalities to get what you want.

~A~

Happily Sleepless

I can't sleep. Not that the inability to sleep is unusual for an insomniac like me. But this is different.

I can't sleep because I'm excited.

On Saturday, I fly to London.

On Sunday (around 2:20am EST, or 7:20am GMT), I will be in London.

That's about 50 hours from the time I'm writing this.

Phil is meeting me at the airport.

...

Guys, have I mentioned how crazy about him I am?

(I like him a completely normal amount.)

I'm so happy that I'm about ready to cry.

I can't wait.

:)


May you find someone who makes you feel complete.

~A~

Whirled World, Part VI: London

The Romantic I Was Meant to Be

(Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, & Part V)

I knew that I wouldn't have a lot of time to spend with Phil when I returned to London. I was getting back late on June 29th, and was leaving early on July 1st. And unfortunately, he had a writing deadline: the draft of the television episode he was writing was due on the 1st. So June 30th -- our one day together -- would be the day when he'd be hurrying to implement all of the last minute notes handed to him by the production company. And additionally, Phil's new roommate was moving in on the morning of the 1st, around the time I was supposed to be heading for the airport.

Phil seemed stressed. It was clear that my visit was happening at the worst possible time for him. I told him not to worry. After all, I know my way around the city, and I'm rather self-sufficient. I'd take as much of him as I could get, but I didn't want to make any demands on him that would throw off his world.

The truth, of course, was that I'd already said my goodbyes to London. More than anything, the reason I was excited to return was that I'd have more time to say goodbye to him.

My flight from Milan to Gatwick mysteriously got in twenty minutes early. Around 8:00pm. I texted Phil to let him know. He seemed ecstatic. But I told him that we had some things to take care of before we left the airport, and it would still be a while before I was on my way.

Two-Shots-Up and I had taken turns paying for our reservations to things like hostels and boats (some in pounds, some in euros, and some in dollars), and had to get everything evened out. In order to do this, we had to pay for the internet at side-by-side airport computers, and trust each other's math. It took awhile, but it seemed like a good idea to get it all out of the way. In the end, I think she owed me about 3 Euro, and I told her to just forget about it.

But then the second problem: somewhere in Greece, Two-Shots-Up had lost her mobile phone. And she was going to be staying in her friend's flat in London while said friend was out of town. And she couldn't get in touch with the friend's flatmates (any of the ten -- yes, ten -- of them). And my mobile, which we were both relying on, was low on both batteries and credit (I had a pay-as-you-go phone). She was worried about getting to the place and being locked out. I said I'd go with her if necessary, or that she might be able to come with me. She felt guilty for keeping me away from Phil. But eventually, she got in touch with the right person, and I began the tube journey to Phil's place alone... two hours after I'd landed.

He said he'd meet me at Angel station. I got there first. I'd taken a train, a train, a Milan subway, a bus, a plane, the Gatwick Express, and a couple of tube lines to get to him. The last water that had touched my hair was the Mediterranean Sea. I was frustrated from the stressed conversations with Two-Shots-Up. Sweaty. Dirty. Tired.

And then he walked down the street. And I nearly cried.

He had dressed up to meet me. He looked incredibly handsome, even more than I remembered. And when he hugged me, I breathed deeply. He smelled so nice.

And I felt like I was home. My journey had led me back to him. Back to his arms.

I don't think I knew how much I'd missed him until I saw him.

He helped me with the luggage that I'd managed all over Europe. Part of me felt silly for that, but mostly grateful. As we walked to his flat, I just kept staring at him. I had to keep noticing the moments as they were happening. I had to make sure they were real.

He kissed me in the elevator. And he led me into his flat.

I put down my suitcase in the hallway. And I saw rose petals.

Yes, rose petals.

The kind of thing I'd normally laugh at. I've never been a romantic. I roll my eyes at cheesy things. I don't watch chick flicks and yearn for a man to treat me like a princess. I actually told my first boyfriend about how I thought it was condescending that he insisted on opening doors for me. And I usually forget when it's Valentine's Day.

But in that moment...

I realized that I am a romantic.

I just never knew it.

Maybe it's one more example of me talking myself into wanting things I have, and talking myself out of things I think I won't have. Maybe the reason I never wanted romance is because I thought I'd never had it.

But I had it. And I hugged him. And I cried.

The rose petals were everywhere. And roses around his room. An ice bucket with champagne, and two champagne flutes (all of which he had purchased that morning in preparation for my arrival). And a plate of strawberries (echoing the memory of grapes that he had once suggested we should feed to each other in a park "in a decadent manner").

I thanked him. He held me. And he said he had one more surprise for me.

He had finished the draft of his episode early so that he'd get to spend more time with me.

And I felt... lucky.

He told me that we didn't have to do the whole champagne and strawberries thing if I didn't want to. He had a feeling I'd be tired, and I could just go to bed if I wanted. Or we could watch a movie. Or talk. Whatever I wanted to do. It was up to me.

So I told him that I wanted to take a shower. (Seriously, it sucks to feel gross when someone is pouring affection over you.)

Once clean, we talked. And ate strawberries. And I gave him at least one of his presents from my travels.

I don't remember what I gave him when, in retrospect. (It's been two months since this happened... can you blame me for being foggy on the details?)

I know I gave him a small elephant statue from Delphi (a reference to the movie Frankie and Johnny, which we had discussed). And a snow globe from Riomaggiore (which is quite funny, as it doesn't snow there... and was a reference to the play we'd met at, The Real Thing). And a silly hat. And some Italian pesto. And a funny postcard I found that blended political sentiment with a safe sex message: "YES WE CONDOM!" (He put it on his fridge.)

In the morning, we went and got breakfast at a little café down the street from his place. We sat outside. I was happy. And simultaneously calm and excited.

We went to the Study Centre to retrieve the two bags I'd left there during my travels. I saw Deron (one of the men whom I thought was interested in me... but I did not reciprocate feelings for). I tried to rush Phil out of that situation, grabbing my own suitcase and saying, "No, I can get it. I'm stronger than you." I meant it jokingly, but realized my error as soon as it had come out of my mouth. (Word to the wise: NEVER emasculate a man like that. I apologized profusely, but Phil is still giving me a hard time about that one...) But at least I got us away from Deron before Phil and I had to have the "who are we to each other" explanatory exchange... We hadn't had it with each other yet, and I seriously didn't want to have to answer the awkward question that I felt coming from Deron.

I said goodbye to Blake as Phil waited downstairs. I brought him olive paté from Cinque Terre, which he seemed pleased with. I gave him an awkward hug, and told him I was sure I'd see him in Florida.

After dragging myself back to his place, Phil and I got sandwiches at a Caffé Nero to eat on our way. He told me that the strange soft electric violet-blue on the bags was his favorite color (so I saved the bag and took it with me back to the States to try to identify it, which is NOT the blue on the website... the closest I've come so far is Majorelle Blue). We ate on a bench by the Millennium Bridge as he complained about work. It felt very couple-y.



We walked over the bridge and went to the Tate Modern at my request. I had been in 2003, but somehow had not made it in the six weeks of this summer. I got to visit my favorite Dalí. Phil made friends with a strange sculpture. We saw great some Jackson Pollocks and a Monet. And we were both thoroughly confused by some of the art. (read: "art")

(Me with "Metamorphosis of Narcissus" by Salvador Dalí)

(Phil being goofy with a sculpture he liked.)

We ended up in an exhibit called "EXPOSED: Voyeurism, Surveillance and the Camera". It was seriously cool. I loved the celebrity room, which did a great job of showing how sick and obsessive we are as a culture. The room about sexual voyeurism was a bit of a turn-on, but Phil went off missing around that point, so I never made any move toward becoming an exhibitionist in a room of voyeurs. I found him around the war surveillance tapes and photographs.

(Stupid accidental photo-bomber guy ruining a perfectly good picture.)

On the way back we stopped at a cute milkshake place. I can't remember what candy-bar concoction I ended up with. It might've been Snickers. I just remember that it wasn't as good as Phil's cookie dough shake.

And then the calls and e-mails started coming. Despite his efforts with getting the draft in early, Phil was being harassed by the Big Bad Company. They began bombarding him with notes about the script. I told him not to worry. I had to repack my suitcases in a way that would make them all under the plane weight limits, and this would give me time to do that. He seemed amazed that I was okay with him having to work. But I was.

I dressed sexy that night. I kept on the blue and white polka-dotted dress that I'd acquired from the Hot Topic-inspired section of Camdentown that I'd been wearing all day. I added thigh-high hold-up stockings with a sexy open weave pattern in the back and lace tops. I put on glamorous makeup. I held back my hair with a white rose pin. And I put on the killer lace-up heels that I'd been dying to wear. I looked seriously hot.

Phil wanted to go out to a restaurant initially. I can't remember why we didn't. (Maybe I looked too hot?) I remember ordering a pizza online, and then going out to get mixers for the Raspberry Stoli I'd gotten at an airport duty-free shop. We chatted with his roommates. We watched an episode of 30 Rock. We ate pizza.

We played some sort of drinking game version of Scrabble. I got a bingo on my first play, making the score about 15 to 75. Phil wasn't thrilled. I'm not an expert in Scrabble, but I played online with my coworkers in Chicago a lot as a way of making the day go by faster. So on an on average play, I aim to get 20-40 points. Phil was aiming to get over 10. We quit about halfway through the game due to his increasing frustration. Luckily, he was in a pretty good mood despite that.

We had considered going to a bar or a club, but we never did. We just stayed in and enjoyed each other's company.

Eventually, we had a conversation. A "let's be realistic" conversation. A "this isn't going to work" conversation. An "it's been fun while it's lasted" conversation. While we lay next to each other on his bed.

I didn't cry. I knew it was coming. I couldn't help but thinking of the conversation I'd had with Brian, while laying next to him on his bed, in which he said he didn't love me anymore. Or the conversation where Michael came to my place, sat on my bed, and promptly dumped me.

(I really need to stop having relationship conversations on beds. They don't turn out well for me.)

He was right, and I knew it. This couldn't be. It was too hard. It was too scary. It was too unlikely. It would end in heartbreak. So I smiled and said it was alright, and that I knew this had to be how it ended. I was glad that I'd gotten to spend as much time with him as I had.

My subconscious brain took it out on him with a vicious attack of flying fists in my sleep.

We got up in the morning. We ate cereal with bananas. He made me one last cup of tea.

Phil let his new roommate into the building with his belongings in tow. And he escorted me out of it, lugging half of mine.

We stopped at the post office so that I could get stamps for the postcards I'd been writing one at a time on my trip, but had as of yet to send. Phil promised to mail them for me. He asked permission to read them on his way back home. I granted it, feeling silly... After all, I had quoted him on a couple of the postcards without crediting him. I had quoted the text message he sent me the day after we met.

Phil
06/06/2010
8:28pm
Wouldnt it be nice to bottle this feeling ... X

That is, after all, what I wanted: to bottle the feeling of London, and take it with me. Not just Phil, but all of it. The circus friends who gave me hope. The liberation I got from seeing Hair. The sense of culture everywhere, and the appreciation for art that everyone seemed to have. The history and the ambience. The cold rainy days, and the sweaty summer ones. The chaos of the markets, and the solitude of the river. City-watching from Greenwich, and people-watching on the Tube. I want to drink it, inhale it, and bathe in it. I want to carry it with me wherever I am.

He brought me to Paddington station so that I could catch the Heathrow Express to the airport. We hugged. We kissed. We thanked each other. We stared into each others eyes with the kind of silence that says more than words. The train was there waiting for me with open doors. I knew I could take a later one. I could postpone this and drag it out. But I knew it would be just as hard to say goodbye in another 15 minutes as it was then. Besides, he had more notes on his script from the Back-Breaking Creeps, and they wanted him to get in touch with them ASAP.

We got my bags on board. I stood on the train saying a last goodbye as he stood on the platform, inches away from me.

And suddenly, I felt lightness. I looked at him, and I wasn't afraid or sad anymore. I smiled. And I laughed. And I felt hope.

"This isn't the end," I told him, still smiling. "I know there's more."

The sliding door closed between us.

He waved. I walked to a seat. I watched him walk up the stairs, texting. He stopped on the landing and looked back at the train. I wondered which of his editors he was writing, although I secretly hoped that he was actually writing to me. As the train pulled out of the station, he stood there waving to me.

And then I got his text message.

Phil
07/01/2010
12:12pm
We just had a battlestar moment! Like the episode with starbuck interrogating that cylon at the end. But you got it. I will miss you so much. Im supposed to be a writer but words have failed me. you are a beautiful human being and my life has been so enriched because of you. X

And I cried.

I don't know why I turned into such an insane crying lunatic over this whole situation. Crying over a boy whom I'd known for three weeks and had in reality spent very little time with. But he watched Battlestar Galactica at my recommendation and referenced an episode in his text (proving that he's the very sort of geeky, awkward Sci-Fi lover that I adore). And he just... *sigh*

Angela (to Phil)
07/01/2010
12:22pm
You have made me the sentimental romantic that I never thought I'd be. You are the magic that I thought movies lied about. I found a piece of myself in you.

I made it to the airport. I got through security. I noticed that I had a long, long time before my flight was taking off. And then I sat down on the floor near the entrance of the British Airways exclusive-sounding club, and bummed Wi-Fi long enough to write an e-mail to Phil.

Why e-mails are better than text messages:

1. They don't cost 10p every time you want to send one. (which is a pain when you're down to 76p in credit on your mobile)
2. You can send them even in airports with no mobile phone reception. (if you can bum Wi-Fi off of the neighboring Galleries Lounge with your handy dandy laptop)
3. You're not limited to 160 characters (or whatever ridiculous amount they put on there).
4. You can type with your eyes closed and let your brain do the talking, instead of trying to hunt down which numbers correspond to various letters and pieces of punctuation, and calculate how many times you have to press them (or wait between pressing them).
5. You can attach songs. :)
5. Less guilt if there's lag time between the received message and the response to it.

That said, even now that I have a better medium on which to communicate my emotions, I don't really know what to say.

Part of me wants to say goodbye, but I think we've taken care of that.

Part of me wants to say all the things that I almost did and said, but didn't... Like how I considered making some grand gesture, like jumping off the train, interrupting the text message you were composing as you smiled and paced on the stairs, kissing you until time didn't matter any more, and not caring if all my luggage went off to Heathrow without me. (That idea, by the way, is insanely uncharacteristic of an OCD worrier like me... so the fact that it even went through my head shows how much of an effect you've had on my psyche.)

Part of me wants to express joy over every text message and e-mail you've sent me, including (and especially) that last one.

Part of me wants to type up every moment I've spent with you, just so that there's a more permanent record of our time together than the memories I keep in my heart (which will surely grow more idealized and hazy with time).

Part of me wants to recite every thing about you that I think is wonderful. Not only because I want you to know what you are to me, but also because I think you need someone to tell you how fantastic you are. As much as you say that you're big, busy and important, and as many times as you slide remarks into conversations about your being intelligent and talented, I still think my conviction regarding your favorable qualities is stronger than yours.

Most of me wants to thank you. But that almost seems silly. You know how much happiness you've brought me over the last couple of weeks. If you don't know, then you haven't been paying attention.

By the time the woman came to check my ticket, my cheeks were tear-stained. But they weren't tears of sorrow; rather, they were tears of joy. And I thanked God for bringing us together.

I wasn't wrong that night when I said that I thought my life had just changed. You have changed me. You have made me feel interesting, intelligent, lovable, and beautiful. You have opened me up, given me hope, and showed me that sometimes life really does play out in a romantic and cinematic fashion. My life was good before I met you, but you turned it into something magical. I'm the protagonist at the very beginning of a story, and I've been waking up every morning excited for the next chapter.

Today wasn't really a goodbye. I couldn't possibly say goodbye that easily to someone who has infiltrated my life the way that you have. We will meet again. We will speak soon. We will be able to write whenever we wish. And we will continue to help each other out on our journeys through life. I'm sure of all of that.

Good luck with the script. Good luck with the new roommate. Good luck with the Ball-Busting Cankers, Big Bad Criminals, Beastly Barbaric Cannibals, Bane Belligerent Cows, and the Brow-Beating Cursed.

I wish you all good things.
All good things come to an end.

~A~

I attached Shawn Colvin's cover of "Every Little Thing He Does Is Magic". He had been magic to me from the beginning. It seemed fitting.

I sat on the floor of Heathrow and pouted for awhile. I decided I wanted a fun, silly, pointless chick lit book to cheer me up on the flight, so I went through the (frequently warned against, but actually usually successful) process of choosing one by its cover. I ate a banana. I goofed off on the internet. I wrote a couple more postcards. I consoled myself. I started reading my chick lit book. And I nearly missed my plane, because it turned out I was in the completely wrong terminal, and ended up running like a madwoman even though I'd gotten to the airport with hours to spare.

As I ran with my luggage, part of me wanted to miss the plane. Have an excuse to stay just a little bit longer. But no. I'd inconvenienced him enough. He had work to do. He had a life to live. And I had... Connecticut, I guess.

The line to get on the plane was long and going at the speed of honey, so I made it in plenty of time. I saw my classmate O.D. on the plane, already asleep, two rows ahead of me.

I couldn't stop thinking about Phil. Would it be overkill to send a text (with some of the last remaining change on my phone) to tell him I had sent an e-mail? Was that stereotypical over-reacting girl stalker behavior?

Angela (to Phil)
07/01/2010
3:39pm
Boarded. Sent you a frivolous, superfluous, sappy, pretentious, honest email. Still not wholly convinced that I'll be waking up without you tomorrow.

Probably stereotypical over-reacting girl stalker behavior. But I decided I didn't care. I sent it. And my phone buzzed quickly with a text from him.

Phil
07/01/2010
3:39pm
Have read it and replied with an equally if not more sappy response. bon voyage my darling. x

I felt better.

I pulled out my book with the cute cover art and generically chick-lit title. The one that I thought would be a light-hearted read for my trans-Atlantic journey. As it turns out, Single in the City is about a 26-year-old who moves from Connecticut to London, and then falls in love. I might've known that if I had picked it for something other than the cover art, but as it was, I had picked it up by coincidence. Having woken up in London that morning, and knowing I'd be going to bed in Connecticut that night, nearly-26-year-old Angela got a little emotional.

It's actually an entertaining book. But it wasn't ideal timing for me to be reading about adventures in the place that I was unhappily leaving.

So I put the book down and turned on the television implanted in the seat-back in front of me. I found a limited selection of mediocre entertainment to choose from. (Yes, I'm aware how spoiled that complaint makes me sound.) And since I wasn't in the mood to watch the anime that had taken over several channels (or to watch the latter half of the movie Valentine's Day, which, by the way, seems to be just as bad as you might imagine), I ended up tuning in to Dear John.

I don’t watch a lot of films in that über-chick sappy romance genre. It’s not my thing. If it’s a romantic comedy (especially one that’s mostly comedy), that’s one thing (e.g. The 40 Year Old Virgin). Dramas that contain romantic elements would also be on the list of exceptions (e.g. Atonement). I’ll even accept musical theatre (e.g. Moulin Rouge). But romance for romance sake? Not something I seek out.

Additionally, I find Amanda Seyfried overrated. And I had heard nothing but bad things about Channing Tatum.

So really the only situation in which there would be a chance of me seeing this movie was the scenario involving me being strapped into a seat of a pressure-controlled cabin for 9 hours with limited options for entertainment.

In spite of my preconceived notions of how much of a disaster this movie would surely turn out to be, I watched the entire thing (minus the first few minutes, during which I was desperately seeking a better alternative on the other 12 channels, to no avail).

Why?

Because it was about two people who met, spent two weeks together, and were separated.

(Direct quotation from the movie: “Two weeks together. That’s all it took. Two weeks for me to fall for you.”)

If I had seen that movie a month ago, I would’ve either laughed or rolled my eyes before turning off the television and choosing to attempt the impossible act of sleeping on an airplane seat.

It’s too cheesy. Too naïve. Too Hollywood. Too romantic-movie-plot. Too unrealistic.

But sometimes the universe laughs at us, and life becomes like the movies. After the time I’d spent with Phil, I couldn’t turn that movie off. It was too connected to my immediate experience. It was one more coincidence in the collection that had surrounded my time with him. So I watched it.

(Also, the movie contains a conversation in which the girl says that she doesn’t smoke, rarely drinks, avoids cursing, and implies that she might very well be a virgin. After that, there was no way I could stop watching.)

I know I wrote this in my e-mail to him, but I think it bears repeating: being around Phil turned me into more of a romantic than I ever remember being in the past.

I won't pretend it was a good movie. It wasn't. And I won't pretend the story told in the movie was ours. But it did make me want to write him a letter. I started composing one on the plane.

And as I wrote, I realized how much of myself I had discovered in my time abroad. I found a little piece of myself in the mountains of Delphi. I found a little piece of myself as I wept at the Parthenon. I found a piece with Stratos the Greek man, who gave me wisdom and confidence. A piece in Santorini, where I found my sense of adventure and lost my fear. A piece in Cinque Terre, where I learned how to vacation. As I'd said in my text to him, I found a piece of myself in Phil: the romantic that I never knew was there.

And then, there's London... I found more of myself in London than I knew was lost. In fact, there was so much of me over there that I couldn't fit it all into my suitcases that night when I sat rearranging their contents on Phil's living room floor as he worked. I took a lot from London, but I think I need to go back and be with the rest of my pieces. I think going back to London might be the only way to be whole.

Eventually, the plane landed. I had an awkward conversation with O.D. at baggage claim (during which he failed to mention that he had gotten engaged since the last time I'd seen him). I got in the car with my parents. And I talked about Phil the whole way home. And the whole time, I kept reminding them that Phil and I were not dating. We were not doing the long-distance thing. Even though we fit so well together. Even though I was crazy about him. Even though he was my favorite thing in the world at that very moment.

I only half-believed myself.

When I got back to my parents' house, I read the e-mail Phil had mentioned in his text. He had sent me his blog post about the day we met.

He warned me that it might be uncomfortable or weird to read it, just as it had been when I'd read him a few posts from my own blog a couple of weeks before. But that he was sending it in its entirety anyway, as it was the truth of his experience.

I don't think he'd like me attaching it here in its entirety, as he's a far more private person than I am. But here's a little tiny bit of it:

It was a hot June day and in the lobby I noticed a stunning woman in an elegant blue summer dress. She looked stunningly glamorous – dark flowing hair, strikingly beautiful features, terrific figure…there was an air of the exotic about. I thought that she was perhaps Brazilian, Mexican or Spanish. She reminded me a little of the girl that Chandler meets (again, ironically, at the Theatre, to see Joey in the musical Freud!) in the first season of Friends, and whom he is convinced is a million miles out of his league. She seemed to be from another entirely more glamorous universe. There was I in my khaki combat shorts and cheap checked shirt, looking like a German tourist.

Anyway, when I eventually took my seat (on the aisle, naturally) to my great surprise this stunning creature was in the seat next to mine. Futhermore, somewhat astonishingly, she was on her own (I would imagine her to be accompanied at all times by some Greek God type figure, some bronzed Adonis called Marco who has been her boyfriend since birth). Despite her good looks, she seemed warm and friendly. At the interval, she even sparked up a conversation with me about the play. (On a side note, ‘The Real Thing’ is one of my favourites, and appropriately enough it deals with the various romantic entanglements of a passionate playwright – [...] art and life bleed into one another). I discover – of course – that she was

A) An actress

B) American

C) Going back to the USA in less than two weeks

(For the record, he did not look like a German tourist.)

He was right: he had written some things that were hard for me to read. That it was an adjustment for him to be dating a virgin. That he's learned his lesson about long-distance relationships. That he'd be an idiot to not have spotted a pattern in his love-life (of dating Americans and the heartbreak that follows).

But there were other parts that made me melt.

"It was like the world stopped. She leant over to me, a stunned look in her eye, and told me that she felt like her life just changed. It was one of the best days of my life. My romantic streak [...] had been re-awakened."

After reading it, my heart fluttered. I wanted to get on a plane and go right back. I wanted to Skype him right that very moment. Even though the difficulties were there and there was an ocean between us, it still seemed like maybe things could work.

I had hope.

Maybe it was silly. Maybe it was stupid. Maybe it was dangerous.

But it was there. Hope.

I guess that's just the romantic in me.

May you find the hopeful romantic in you,

~A~

P.S. I love you all. Thank you for reading. Thank you for the comments and encouragement. Thank you for your love.

P.P.S. The Whirled World series is over, but this story certainly isn't. I have so much to tell you. Some good, some bad, and all of it surely to be long-winded.

Whirled World, Part II: Delphi

My Many Men, and The Persistent Adonis


June 17th was the day I'd been dreading since I got to London. While some of my classmates had anxious countdowns to get back to their loved ones in the States, I was in denial that I'd ever have to leave the UK.

I stayed up until the wee hours, doing the packing that I had put off doing (in favor of spending more time enjoying London... and Phil). As a result, I had about 45 minutes of quasi-sleep before I had to get up and start hurrying about, doing all the last minute "check out of the building" nonsense, and getting my bum (that's what they call them there) on a bus to London Gatwick.

Killer, All-The-Way, Two-Shots-Up, and I caught our EasyJet flight to Athens, and then promptly boarded a bus to Delphi (which was tricky in and of itself, as the buses in Delphi had frivolously gone on strike until 5pm that day. As it turns out, I really don't understand Greek transportation strikes).

On the way to Delphi, I took out my laptop. The night before, I'd downloaded an attachment from an e-mail that Phil had sent me. A script for a sci-fi/action movie he'd written. He had sent it to me with a note that I could read it on a beach and think of him. But I was bored on a bus (and Lady MacBook has been so fussy lately that I wouldn't dare risk bringing her near sand and/or water), so I read it then.

And it was seriously good.

I'm not supposed to say any more than that. But trust me. Good. Phil is very good at what he does. I kept having audible reactions as I read it (gasping, laughing, and the like) that made my traveling buddies look over to me with curiosity.

Look... I am not attracted to Phil because he's a writer. I'm not. I like Phil because he's awesome. But this whole writer thing? Huge bonus.

And as I noticed that, I realized that Phil's not the first writer I've dated... And then I started trying to make mental connections between Boyfriends #1 (Jake), #2 (Michael), #3 (Brian... although technically our agreed terminology was "metaphysically dating", but in retrospect I absolutely classify him as a boyfriend of time gone by), #4 (Daniel, The Filmmaker), and Phil. Here's all I've come up with:

- They are all writers in some capacity (3 of them did screenwriting; 4 have flirted with me in e-mail correspondence at the beginnings of the relationships; all 5 have had some sort of blog at some point while I was dating them)
- They're all 6-foot or taller. (Although really, I think that's just a coincidence. I've certainly been interested in -- and have quasi-dated -- men shorter than that. And I don't think I would have any problem dating someone shorter than I am... I'm 5'6", for the record.)
- They're all Caucasian. (Also probably a coincidence. My first kiss was with a Mexican guy... but then he stopped returning my phone calls and started dating a Mexican chick. They've now been married for 3 years, so I guess I can't really be all that upset.)
- They're all Christian. (Not a coincidence. 2 Catholic, 1 Protestant, 1 Non-Denominational, and 1 that I honestly can't remember right now.)
- They all like Sci-Fi.


Other potential patterns amongst them:
- 2 were in the Air Force
- 4 have brown hair
- 2 professional actors (and 2 others had acted for fun)
- 2 loved Lost (and 2 others enjoyed Lost, fell behind in watching episodes, and swore to me they were going to get caught up again)
- 2 were obsessed with Star Wars
- 2 really loved the Indiana Jones movies
- 2 liked the video game "Portal"
- 2 are only children
- 2 are eldest children
- 3 are Leos (well, 2.5... one was on the Leo/Virgo cusp)
- 2 are on the cusp (Leo/Virgo & Virgo/Libra... For the record, I'm on the Libra/Scorpio cusp. And supposedly people on the cusp are drawn to other people on the cusp. If you're curious, the 5th guy was a Cancer... and he's the one who's often the answer to "one of these things is not like the others" puzzle of this list)


And then I remembered something else... Music. They had all, in one form or another, given me music.

(Honestly, this is not an important part of the story, but I think it's amusing, so I'm going to elaborate.)

Boyfriend #1: About 2 months into dating him, he made me a mix CD. It reminded me a great deal of the song "Mix Tape" from Avenue Q in that I had no idea what he was trying to say with it. Some of the songs were clearly chosen because he thought that they lyrically applied to our relationship ("I Think We're Alone Now", "I've Got My Mind Set on You", "The Longest Time"). But some were about CHEATING... ("Tempted", "Roll to Me", "Runaround Sue",... I assume he chose the first two for their titles as opposed to by their actual lyrics). And some were just a big ball of mystery ("I, Don Quixote"... WTF?).

Boyfriend #2: He didn't make me a CD. No. Instead, he sent me lists of songs that I should download, or when he was on my computer he downloaded them for me. He once even acknowledged that he was just trying to submit me to his tastes, hoping they would rub off on me. He used a different verb, though, although I can't for the life of me remember what it was. I think it sounded like "submerge", but meant something more like "brainwash" or "indoctrinate". (Actually, this story is pretty telling of our entire relationship... Him trying to get me to convert to his way of life, and me letting him try while knowing deep down that it wasn't going to work.) His music included a lot of Wilco, The Decemberists, Elvis Costello, and Harry Nilsson. And then he told me how much he hated some of the music I liked at the time, such as a Basement Jaxx song I was obsessed with, the Butterfly Boucher jam that I was calling "my favorite song", and all of my Motion City Soundtrack.

(Side note: Boyfriend #2 also once refused to dance with me or kiss me while the song "Stolen" by Dashboard Confessional was playing in the background, as he said it made him feel like he was on an episode of One Tree Hill. In contrast, I sent Phil that song and he freaking LOVES it. It's probably his favorite of all the songs I've sent him.)

Boyfriend #3: He made me CDs of songs that he thought I'd actually like. (Novel concept!) And he's the closest I think I've ever come to finding someone who had the same musical tastes as me. He introduced me to Kara DioGuardi and Platinum Weird (totally great). Strangely, he also had a thing for Disney stars. He sent me songs from the solo albums of Vanessa Hudgens and Ashley Tisdale. Yes, songs. As in plural. (*NOTE: I heart you, Brian. And the fact that you like that music? Totally endearing. Don't ever change.*)

Boyfriend #4: Before I took a 5.5 hour road-trip to see him, he mailed me a package containing 4 mixed CDs of music that he wanted to introduce me to. CD 1: Rock Opera. CD 2: Christian Rock. CD 3: Instrumental music from the soundtracks of movies and video games. CD 4: Electronica/Techno and a couple of random Rock songs. (Okay, go look at whatever random playlist is currently on top of this blog. Because I'm like 99% sure that no matter what playlist I've set it on now or in the future, you will look at it and wonder how he and I dated as long as we did. Seriously? Themes from Halo? Three songs by Naio Ssaion? I'm pretty musically eclectic, but I just couldn't listen to some of that.)

Phil: A week into knowing him, he made me a mix CD. He chose the songs lyrically, much in the way that Boyfriend #1 had attempted, but more successfully. Only 11 songs. Definitely NOT chosen for their titles ("Letters to God, pt. II", "Daniel", and "Death" are amongst them), but actually for what the lyrics mid-song are. And one ("Last Train Home") he explained is on the CD because he bought it earlier in the day on the day we met, so in his head it's forever linked to me. Some of them I love ("Enchanted", "Death", "Saturday Night", "Be Sensible"). I don't hate any of them, which I'm glad about (because seriously, I can't stand Elvis Costello, and I just can't go through that again).

(NOTE: If you are reading this post around the time I've written it, then some of the songs he sent me are on the playlist on the top of this page. "Daniel", "Last Train Home", "Apartment Story", "Enchanted", "Sweet Disposition", "Saturday Night" -- although a different version, "Death", "VCR", and "Hysteric".)

Yes. All this stuff was going through my head on the bus to Delphi. It was a long bus ride, and I'm a fast reader (and I'm generally a pretty quick thinker as well... it matches my fast-paced and erratic psycho-physical rhythm). Eventually I stopped thinking about my past relationships and started taking pictures out the window of the bus.

I didn't get a text from Phil all day, which was unusual to the point of being worrisome. But when I checked my e-mail he explained that he gets charged an extortionate amount to text abroad. Among other things, he wrote:

My life has an Angela-shaped hole in it right now. The last two nights have been so boring!

(My heart did a selfish little dance at that.)

Delphi was idyllic. Gorgeous. Like a little slice of heaven. The view of the mountains from the balcony of my 17-euro-per-person hotel room was unbelievable... and I don't even really LIKE mountains. I found a little piece of myself in Delphi that I didn't know was missing. We only spent a couple of days there, and it was hard to leave for Athens. I think we all knew that Athens wouldn't be as lovely as Delphi was.

I had the best tzaziki of my life there. I even got bold and ventured into the unfamiliar territory of lamb. I walked to where Apollo's oracle sat, and marveled at how far people traveled through the mountains to get to that spot. I bought super cool handmade ring made of sterling silver and rock crystal.

And I talked about Phil everywhere I went.

No seriously, everywhere. As in, my travel buddies apparently started having conversations behind my back about whether to try to get me to stop talking about Phil, and if so, how to do it most tactfully. (Two-Shots-Up mentioned on our last night in Delphi that I'd been talking about him a lot, so I made the conscious decision to stop talking about him altogether for a while. It was actually quite challenging, as he had become my favorite subject.)

One of my conversations about Phil was with an American woman named Sharaine who worked in a jewelry store (and who sold me an amethyst ring for a much better price than she should have). She told me the story of how she met a man when she was on a trip to Greece, how he pursued her, how she came to visit him... and how they've now been married for 8 years. She told me not to lose my head over this guy. But she also told me not to rule him out.

Later that night, I found myself club-hopping with Two-Shots-Up. And by "club-hopping", I mean, "We went to both clubs in Delphi." The entire town has two streets. The two clubs are on the same street, about a 2 minute walk apart.

As soon as we walked into a club, a man handed me a tequila shot. People (well, men) were buying us drinks left and right. The bartender kept giving us free shots that he called "Sex on the Beach", but which we don't think actually were. The first 4 tasted like straight grapefruit juice; if there was any alcohol in them, we could neither taste it nor feel it. His recipe changed around shot 5, and then it tasted like grapefruit juice mixed with black licorice (which I can only assume was ouzo). Weakest drinks I've ever had (and I'm the kind of person who can taste the alcohol in EVERYTHING).

The bartenders loved us. And one of the DJs actually cleared a space on his DJ station because he wanted me to dance on it. So, of course, I did. Also danced on a bar. (Which I used to do semi-professionally in Chicago as part of Tony n Tina's Wedding, so I'm quite good at dancing on counters of various widths.) It was quite fun. Most of the people in the bar were teenagers from Spain, so that was a little weird, but still entertaining.

We had so much mojo flowing between the two of us that boys were appearing out of the air. I had to fight men off with a (metaphorical) stick. And by metaphorical stick, I mean I used variations on the statement, "I have a boy back in England."

One of the (many) men to hit on me was in a black undershirt and looked like he'd oiled his muscles that day. He wanted me to dance on a chair for him. I did nothing to encourage him. I even escaped to the bathroom at one point. But nonetheless, he asked why I wouldn't kiss him. So I exaggerated a little on my "boy back in England" line, and instead gave him a standard answer that I'd use in the USA: "I have a boyfriend." That made him leave me alone, but it left me feeling uncomfortable. It's easier to use that line when I'm single and it's a complete lie. It's weird to use it when I'm in a weird label-less, commitment-less, relationship limbo.

At the second club, the (hot!) bartender gave me flirty winks between free drinks. He backed off when he saw his friend Sakis trying to hit on me. He looked like he'd walked out of a time-machine from the 1980s. I explained to Sakis that I had a boy back in Britain. He kept insisting (in mediocre English) that he just wanted someone to talk to. But not long after that he started mentioning how we looked like a good couple in the mirror, complimenting my lips, and asking why I wouldn't kiss him. He gave me his phone number before I left the bar, and told me to give me a call if I needed anything in Athens.

Around that time, I tried to get Two-Shots-Up to leave the bar so that I could attempt to Skype with Phil before he went to sleep. It took awhile to pull her away from the masses of men hitting on her. (Have I mentioned that she's super-hot, really friendly, wears sexy clothes, and is a wicked dancer? Total heart-breaker, that one). But when we left the bar, she wanted to hunt down some food.

We ended up at the local gyro joint. They'd shut down the gyro machine, but some guys were sitting inside the restaurant and beckoned us in. They had some pizza for themselves and offered us some. One of them was a young hot guy (and had apparently been dancing with us at one of the clubs... although I didn't remember him from that). The other was funny and seemed nice. They had the idea that we should go get ice cream and keep talking. On the way, Two-Shots-Up noticed how built Young&Hot was, and he encouraged us to touch his muscles. And then I tried not to drool.

After we got the ice cream (the guys paid), it became apparent pretty quickly that they were trying to divide and conquer... The hot guy wanted me, and the other guy wanted Two-Shots-Up. The guy was nice enough, and we started having a conversation... but then he tried to kiss me (out of nowhere), and I pulled away. Like all the others before him, we had the exchange of, "Why won't you kiss me?" and "Because I have a boyfriend." But Hottie's response was (AND I QUOTE), "That's okay. I have a girlfriend. Doesn't bother me." And then he tried to kiss me again.

Greek men are persistent.

Yes, he was charming. Yes, he was cute. Yes, he had a really good body (OMG! SO GOOD!). And yes, technically, the boyfriend thing was a lie and I had no strings attached to me. But I was NOT going to make out with someone else's boyfriend. Cheating is dumb. I'm whole-heartedly against it, and I will not play a role in it.

And you probably know my next thought without me having to type it...

Even if the Greek guy were single, I wouldn't have made out with him. Not just because random make outs aren't really my thing (because they're not), but because it didn't matter how hot he was; I didn't want him.

All I could think about was Phil.

I was actually sad to be eating ice cream under the stars by beautiful Grecian mountains with my own personal authentic Greek Adonis who thought I was sexy and wanted desperately to make out with me. Yes, sad. In that moment, I would've traded it to be in a hotel room, laying on an uncomfortable bed, whispering on Skype (because of paper-thin walls) with an over-worked, sleep-deprived Brit.

The Greek guy tried to flirt, bargain, and plead with me to make out with him, but I refused. He even tried to sneak-attack kiss me (which, by the way, is so not cool. Why do guys think that's going to get a positive response out of me?) and I literally put my hand over my mouth to block him. The more he tried, the less attractive he appeared to me. I got to our room, checked Skype for Phil (who wasn't on), and went to bed.

When I woke up, I had an email from Phil apologizing that he fell asleep before being able to Skype with me. And also saying that, at my recommendation, he had rented the first season of Battlestar Galactica and had begun watching it. (For the record, Boyfriend #3 introduced me to it, and Boyfriend #4 became interested in me after hearing I liked it. See? I told you. All my men like sci-fi.)

I wrote Phil about my adventure, and about fending off the unwanted advances of countless Greek men. I wrote that all I could think about was him. He seemed grateful at that. And he wrote, "Yep, you're much better off with a pale-skinned, bumbling, neurotic Brit. ;)"

And I knew he was right.

Besides, that Greek guy probably didn't even like Sci-Fi.



To be continued...



May you figure out your patterns, both good and bad.

And may you have such great options in your life that temptation becomes easy to walk away from.

~A~

Whirled World, Part I: End of the Beginning

I don't even know where to begin. I've been back in the USA for just over a week. And in the few weeks since I blogged last, so much has happened to me. And parts of it don't truly feel like they happened. Coming back to Connecticut makes it feel like all of my time abroad was some sort of crazy dream.

Honestly, this is way too much for one blog post. So I'll make it as many posts as I need to make it. As I've said before, I'm not writing for an audience... I'm writing for me. So I'm just going to write in a way that helps me organize my thoughts and archive my inner monologue. I'm sorry if it alienates or disappoints you. But then, I've never been a very conventional blogger, so maybe you'll be happy to be along for the ride.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The events of June 16 & June 17, 2010

The night that I wrote Falling into Place, I did indeed meet P from *Insert My Blog Name Here*.

(Me & P, in Cyberdog)

She let me lead her around the madness that is called Camdentown Market. I took her inside a crazy cyber-punk store called Cyberdog. We ate crepes while sitting on motorcycles next to a river. She convinced me to buy a dress as one last London present to myself, and it was a great decision. She allowed me to tell her all about my love life in greater detail than I generally allow myself to go into online, and it was nice to vent. For the record, she's completely delightful (and speaks with a seriously awesome dialect). I wish that we'd been able to spend more time together. If we lived in closer proximity, I know we'd be great friends. :)

Then I went to see a show with my classmate Wifey. It was a 3+ hour production of As You Like It directed by Sam Mendes at the Old Vic. It was the same theatre where I met Phil. And it was easily the best production of that play I've ever seen. Actually, it ranks high on my list of Shakespeare productions of all time. Splendid production.

After the show got out, I discovered that Phil had been desperately trying to text me during it. He was trying to figure out where I was and how we could meet up. I was supposed to go back to my flat and crack open a bottle of champagne with Wifey that we had purchased together at duty-free on our way back from Paris... But instead I separated from her. And Phil met me by the theatre, looking handsome as usual.

I don't know if I've mentioned this, but he makes himself all handsome before he comes to see me. I mean, I've seen him in casual gear. But for when we have our dates? He's nicely dressed. And he smells good. And it just makes me want to melt. And grab onto him and never let go.

But anyway.

He knew that it had been a pipe dream of mine to go to karaoke at some point while I was in London, so he did research into places that would have karaoke on a Tuesday night. We walked there, under the stars. We walked along the South Bank of the river, which I'd never done at night before. And we talked. And I got to learn even more about this fascinating human being who had (at that point) only entered my life a couple of weeks before. I remember not caring if we ever made it to karaoke or anywhere else that night. I just wanted to absorb as much of him as I could.

As we walked, he admitted that he had been upset when he discovered I had gone to As You Like It. He was frustrated that I would be spending three hours watching a play instead of spending those three hours with him. He was jealous that the play was getting my attention. But he said that once he saw me and we were walking together, that frustration went away. He was so happy to be around me for whatever time he could.

We did end up making it to karaoke, in the dive-iest dive karaoke bar I've ever seen. We took up residence at a table in the dark back corner of the room. I drank a couple of Coronas, which, for me, is enough to get certifiably intoxicated (Side Note: I love being a light-weight. It saves so much time and money.) We sang "Use Somebody" by the Kings of Leon, and the 8 middle-aged drunk people in the bar sang along with us. And then we did a fantastic job on "Love Shack" by The B-52s. No seriously, we rocked that karaoke dive. Phil did his best Fred Schneider impression, and I sang all the girls' parts. The other people in the bar were impressed and complimenting us. We left on a high note.

By the time we got back to the party my classmates were having at my flat, the alcohol was gone (including the Parisian champagne), and everyone had gone to bed.

So Phil and I sat talking on my couch. And he expressed interest in my blog.

Now, I've learned some lessons about this blog and men:
- Michael had access to it, but never read it. It made me feel horribly unimportant to him (which, ultimately, I was... but still, it hurt to feel that way).
- Brian had access to it from the first post, and read it before, during, and after the time we were dating (and might end up reading this very post. *waves to Brian*). After Brian dumped me, he was hurt by the comments left by people supporting me who looked at him some sort of villain (and since I am the heroine of my own story, at that point it was exactly how one would expect them to interpret my writing).
- Daniel didn't read it while we were dating, but he knew the title of it. He found it after we broke up and tortured himself by reading about my life without him. I noticed his IP address (which I had tracked from my other blog), and sent him an e-mail. I wrote that I couldn't make him stop reading it, but that I didn't think it was the best way to get information from me, and I thought he'd end up hurting himself by reading it. He did hurt himself, and then stopped.

Learning from the pain that this blog has caused me and others in the past, I decided it best to not let Phil see it. And I recommended to him that he not attempt to seek it out, for his own emotional safety. He agreed.

But somehow, it felt like it made sense in our extremely honest courtship for him to know what was in it.

Also, I'd been drinking.

So I sat on the couch facing him with Lady MacBook on my lap. And I read to him in a strange sort of narcissistic story-time. He sat there, interested, as I read him a story about himself. Reading my own words was somehow not as uncomfortable as I thought it might be, which perhaps was a result of having just done it for weeks in my playwriting class. I read Discovering Magic, the post about the night I met him. I felt vulnerable, and a bit self-conscious, but like it was the right thing to do.

He sat there listening intently, and I'm sure that his mind was working actively. Mine would have been if the roles had been reversed. I would have been connecting the dots. Attempting reconcile information from the night to see if my memory and his matched. Observing what moments he found important enough to mention. Noticing which other moments were left out. Trying to find out what he found so great about me. And doing my best to determine if he liked me as much as I liked him. I can only speculate that he was doing the same.

When I finished that post, he asked if there were more. So I read him Afraid to Fall. And he still seemed really fascinated by the whole thing. So I read him Falling into Place, which I had written only hours before. I read to him about Alessandro and Blake.

I don't remember ever feeling so exposed. All of my cards were on the table. All the intensity of my feelings for him. All that talk of me rooting for things with him to work out. All of my talk about the other men in my life that proceeded him by a matter of days.

And after it was over, he thanked me. He seemed grateful, realizing that I'd just given him a piece of myself. He said it was a little weird, hearing his own words quoted back to him. But he loved remembering the moments along with me. And he loved knowing that some of the seemingly innocuous things that he said and did in my presence meant enough to me that I remembered them and wrote about them. He said he was in disbelief that I think he's as great as I do.

We spent a little time together the next morning, and left each other with the idea that we'd meet up again in the evening.

I saw Blake only briefly when I got my ticket to the London Eye, and he was with several of his coworkers. We didn't really get to talk, or to get any sort of proper goodbye. I sensed that he wanted to say more to me than he could as we stopped to chat on the bridge. He never again mentioned the fancy restaurant he had promised to take me to so that I could wear my new white dress. It's just as well, as I never mentioned to him that I wore my new white dress on a date with Phil.

(Me, Two-Shots-Up, and our friend on the London Eye. I'm wearing the dress that I bought with P the day before.)

I went on the London Eye without any sort of height-induced panic attack. It was an enclosed space, so I wasn't afraid of falling. Then I went out to dinner and drinks with my classmates and a couple of my professors. Even then, I couldn't stop talking about the guy who had so enchanted me.

But while I was out at the bar, I got a text from Phil, canceling on me for the evening. He was stressed with work and had a deadline to meet. Valid as that may have been, I knew it was an excuse. He then admitted that it was because he didn't want to go through a tearful goodbye.

To be honest, I remember thinking that was stupid. After all, I would be seeing him again in two weeks, and the truly upsetting goodbye would be the one before I flew back to the USA. This one was just a soft goodbye. A practice run. A "Be Back Soon". A short vacation, with the knowledge that I would return to him (at this moment, that's what I hope all of our goodbyes will be).

I hated not seeing him that night. For him, it was easier that way. He liked that our goodbye didn't feel final. In fact, it was easier that morning than most of the times we parted after a night together, simply because there was the hope that we'd see each other soon. But I loathed that my expectation of getting to see him again before leaving wasn't going to be met.



There are few chores, errands, and other acts of responsibility that I truly hate in life. Here's the closest I can come to an exhaustive list right now:
- Putting clothing on hangers
- Planning anything involving travel
- Packing
- Moving



Attempting to pack up all of my stuff into two small suitcases in order to move? Not fun. Attempting to do it while thinking about Phil? Not easy. I ended up sitting in my living room and drinking with my classmates until about 3 hours before my early morning trip to the airport.

I didn't want to leave London. Any other sane person would have been excited for adventures in Greece and Italy. But me? I just wanted to stay.

I wanted to have more time in London. I wanted to have time to finally go to the Tate. Or to spend a proper day in the British Museum (which was literally a block away from where I lived, but I only took a 20-minute walk through it during the entirety of my 6-week stay). Or to take a lesson at The Make-Up Store on Carnaby Street, which I had promised myself (and the sales staff) that I would. Or to get my haircut at Brooks + Brooks, as I'd been saying I would since the week I arrived. Or to go to the Greenwich Market (which Phil and I attempted to go to, but ended up in the wrong part of Greenwich). I wanted to see The Tempest, which was directed by Sam Mendes as a companion piece to that spectacular production of As You Like It and had all the same actors in it (it's part of The Bridge Project).

And, almost separately from my desire to stay in the city I love so well, was my desire to stay with Phil.

I wanted more time to experience the city. I wanted more time to experience the person. And although I knew I'd be coming back and would have another full day in London, I knew that the two things I had fallen for would be competing for my attention... and no matter how I spent that last day, I wouldn't have great closure with either.





To be continued...
(as I suppose could be said about any blog post that is to be followed eventually by another blog post)


May you be safe in your vulnerability.

~A~