A Belle in Brooklyn: The Go-to Girl for Advice on Living Your Best Single Life
4.5/5
()
About this ebook
LIVE A FABULOUS SINGLE LIFE!
Are you stressed about meeting “the one,” getting “the ring,” and exchanging “I dos” at the altar? Do you feel frustrated by the seeming lack of relationship-worthy guys? Would you date yourself right now?
Move over, Carrie Bradshaw! Dating and relationships guru Demetria Lucas, creator of the award-winning blog A Belle in Brooklyn, celebrates the joys and the challenges of singlehood in this fun and candid book. Filled with relatable anecdotes and lessons from her own experience, advice garnered from interviews with other experts, and revelations from hundreds of conversations with her Male Mind Squad—a committee of thirty men from varying backgrounds who answer the tough questions about sex, dating, and relationships—A Belle in Brooklyn encourages you to embrace your freedom and foster your personal development. It also offers invaluable tips for finding a suitable mate when you are ready for one. In the meantime, enjoy your single life—with or without Mr. Perfect!
Demetria L. Lucas
Demetria Lucas is the founder of ABelleInBrooklyn.com where she muses almost daily on dating, sex and relationships as well as pop culture and women’s empowerment. She is also the Relationships Editor at ESSENCE Magazine where she authors her own hook-up page, Dating Guide, and selects gorgeous men for the publication's Single Man of the Month and ESSENCE.com’s Eye Candy of the Week on Monday mornings.
Related to A Belle in Brooklyn
Related ebooks
Sisterhood Unbound: Breaking Free from Codependency's Chains - Empowering Black Women to Reclaim Their Identity and Thrive: Breaking Free from Codependency's Chains - Empowering Black Women to Reclaim Their Identity and Thrive! Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsI Don't Belong to You: Quiet the Noise and Find Your Voice Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5I Hope You Fail: Ten Hater Statements Holding You Back from Getting Everything You Want Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsBlack Girl Cry: What Black Women Need to Know to Amplify Their Voices Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsWoosah: A Survival Guide for Women of Color Working in Corporate Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsDon't Waste Your Pretty: The Go-to Guide for Making Smarter Decisions in Life & Love Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5The Little Book of Big Lies: A Journey into Inner Fitness Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5More Than Pretty: Doing the Soul Work that Uncovers Your True Beauty Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Slay In Your Lane: The Black Girl Bible Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Big, Bold, and Beautiful: Owning the Woman God Made You to Be Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Empowered Black Girl: Joyful Affirmations and Words of Resilience (Book for Black Girls Ages 12+) Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsRhythm: Uplifting Quotes from the African American Perspective Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsDear Black Girl: Letters From Your Sisters on Stepping Into Your Power Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Small Doses: Potent Truths for Everyday Use Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Bevelations: Lessons from a Mutha, Auntie, Bestie Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5About My Sister's Business: The Black Woman's Road Map To Successful Entrepreneurship Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsBigger Than Me Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Resilient Black Girl: 52 Weeks of Anti-Racist Activities for Black Joy and Resilience Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsSelf-Care for Black Women: 150 Ways to Radically Accept & Prioritize Your Mind, Body, & Soul Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5One Day I Saw A Black King Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsLove, Serica Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsLet Love Have the Last Word: A Memoir Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Black Girl's Guide to Healing Emotional Wounds Devotional Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsInspiration: Profiles of Black Women Changing Our World Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsBlack Girls Rock!: Owning Our Magic. Rocking Our Truth. Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5A Divine Exchange Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsMisery & Company Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5I Will Say It With My Chest: Affirmations for Black Women Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratings
Relationships For You
The Good Girl's Guide to Great Sex: Creating a Marriage That's Both Holy and Hot Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5A Child Called It: One Child's Courage to Survive Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5All About Love: New Visions Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Big Book of 30-Day Challenges: 60 Habit-Forming Programs to Live an Infinitely Better Life Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The 5 Love Languages: The Secret to Love that Lasts Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Girl, Wash Your Face: Stop Believing the Lies About Who You Are so You Can Become Who You Were Meant to Be Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Running on Empty: Overcome Your Childhood Emotional Neglect Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5I'm Glad My Mom Died Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Boundaries with Kids: How Healthy Choices Grow Healthy Children Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5How to Talk so Little Kids Will Listen: A Survival Guide to Life with Children Ages 2-7 Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Feeling Good: The New Mood Therapy Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Uninvited: Living Loved When You Feel Less Than, Left Out, and Lonely Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5She Comes First: The Thinking Man's Guide to Pleasuring a Woman Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Dumbing Us Down - 25th Anniversary Edition: The Hidden Curriculum of Compulsory Schooling Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Princess Bride: S. Morgenstern's Classic Tale of True Love and High Adventure Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Boundaries Workbook: When to Say Yes, How to Say No to Take Control of Your Life Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Codependence and the Power of Detachment: How to Set Boundaries and Make Your Life Your Own Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Unoffendable: How Just One Change Can Make All of Life Better (updated with two new chapters) Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Maybe You Should Talk to Someone: the heartfelt, funny memoir by a New York Times bestselling therapist Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Habits of the Household: Practicing the Story of God in Everyday Family Rhythms Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5It's Not Supposed to Be This Way: Finding Unexpected Strength When Disappointments Leave You Shattered Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Maybe You Should Talk to Someone: A Therapist, HER Therapist, and Our Lives Revealed Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5ADHD: A Hunter in a Farmer's World Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5How to Talk So Kids Will Listen & Listen So Kids Will Talk Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Art of Loving Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/58 Rules of Love: How to Find It, Keep It, and Let It Go Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5How to Not Die Alone: The Surprising Science That Will Help You Find Love Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Polysecure: Attachment, Trauma and Consensual Nonmonogamy Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5
Reviews for A Belle in Brooklyn
5 ratings1 review
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5I would give this book 3 and a half stars. I am not the intended audience for this book. I read it because I am a fan of the author and enjoy her podcast. If I was in my 20s and single, I would have related to this book to a greater degree. But, it was still interesting.
Book preview
A Belle in Brooklyn - Demetria L. Lucas
A
BELLE
IN
BROOKLYN
A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com
Copyright © 2011 by Demetria L. Lucas
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Atria Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.
First Atria Books hardcover edition June 2011
ATRIA BOOKS and colophon are trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event, contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com.
Designed by Jill Putorti
Manufactured in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Lucas, Demetria.
A belle in Brooklyn : the go-to girl for advice on living your best single life / Demetria Lucas.
p. cm.
1. Man-woman relationships. 2. Dating (Social customs) 3. Single women. 4. Lucas, Demetria. I. Title.
HQ801.L823 2011
646.7'708996073—dc22
2011011689
ISBN 978-1-4516-0631-7
ISBN 978-1-4516-0930-1 (ebook)
For my grandmothers,
Comilla and Aletha.
Contents
Introduction
Chapter 1: You Can’t Start the Play in the Second Act
Chapter 2: New Beginnings
Chapter 3: The Round Table
Chapter 4: Male Baggage
Chapter 5: Deal Breakers
Chapter 6: The Condom Conundrum
Chapter 7: Men: The Manual
Chapter 8: An A/B Conversation
Chapter 9: Can’t Be Friends
Chapter 10: Cry Freedom
Chapter 11: My Father Called Me a Party Girl
Chapter 12: Get Over Mr. Ex
Chapter 13: Henny. Mixed.
Chapter 14: NSFW
Chapter 15: The Morning Commute
Chapter 16: The Atlanta Fiasco
Chapter 17: Hollywood Shuffle
Chapter 18: No Letters. No Numbers.
Chapter 19: She Don’t Believe in Shooting Stars . . .
Chapter 20: Misery Loves Company
Chapter 21: Cast a Wide Net
Chapter 22: Would You Date You?
Chapter 23: Giving to Get
Chapter 24: Dating Code of Honor
Chapter 25: Growing Pains: I Got Issues
Chapter 26: Weighty Matters?
Chapter 27: Sick And Tired of Being Sick And Tired
Chapter 28: Exception to The Rule
Chapter 29: A Good Jump-Off is Hard to Find
Chapter 30: Great Expectations
Chapter 31: A Work in Progress
Chapter 32: Choir Boy
Chapter 33: The Confusing Kind
Chapter 34: Teenage Love Affair
Chapter 35: Shifty Negro Syndrome
Chapter 36: Viagra Monologues
Chapter 37: Red Velvet
Chapter 38: Falling Back
Chapter 39: Acknowledgments
INTRODUCTION
While I was writing this book in 2010, there was an onslaught of articles (Washington Post, Economist, New York Times), prime-time TV segments (Nightline—twice), books, and countless blogs examining Why Black Women Are Soooo Single.
It seemed that whenever a media source needed some sort of Nielsen ratings bonanza or to send their website’s comments section into a frenzy, they’d trot out a horrific tale of no love and lots of loss. The plot was always the same: a single Black woman from a densely populated city clinging to a flavored martini, a Louis Vuitton Speedy, and/or a perfectly coiffed girlfriend wondering where all the good men had gone. (Go-to answers: dead, gay, unemployed, on the down low, in jail, or with a White woman.)
As I watched, read, and listened to the same story over and over, I wondered why the problem
of singleness was being presented as a Black issue or even a female one. There are 96 million people in the United States who have no spouse, according to a 2010 study from the U.S. Census Bureau. That means 43 percent of all Americans over the age of eighteen are single. So where are the news stories about White women and Latinas and Asian ladies who are desperately single and searching? The closest I saw was The New Math on Campus
in the New York Times, a story where White women at the University of North Carolina talked about their dating dilemmas and all the quotes sounded as if they’d been lifted from an early Terry McMillan novel.
What about the single men? Black ones and the ones of all other colors, too? If women are not getting married and we’re supposed to be marrying them, shouldn’t they get an equal number of stories? I’ve never understood how we’re having an ongoing national discussion about the difficulty facing heterosexuals who want relationships and almost the entire conversation is about or aimed at women.
While Nightline had single Black women talking about crying into their pillows and throwing Black men-at-large under the proverbial bus, I couldn’t help but recall that the most prominent tale of Dating While White, Sex and the City, featured women well past thirty shown practically high off new experiences, the carefree unaccountability of considering anyone else’s feelings, and the thrill of picking through men like trying to find organic produce at Whole Foods. For White women, singlehood looked exhilarating and adventurous, not desperate, the way it is too often shown for us as a tedious but important exercise to make sure we don’t end up alone. (See Pam from Martin, Regine from Living Single, or any character from a Terry McMillan novel for reference.)
As I tuned into Sex and the City each week or popped in the DVDs during the off seasons, I became increasingly frustrated. I knew plenty of Black women who were single and satisfied or single and searching but more optimistic than desperate. We lived full and adventurous lives, finding ourselves regularly sitting across from (and flirting with) attractive suitors with good conversation and pretty white teeth. It was a rare occasion that any of us sat home unwillingly for lack of a quality male option to happily plunk down his debit card after dinner and a drink. We still got giddy over meeting up with a new guy and exchanging witty banter at chic venues. And we knew there were a lot of cheerful single women like us who enjoyed dating, whose sole focus in life wasn’t how to get a man to put a ring on it.
I began blogging in 2007 because Happy Black Girl stories weren’t being told. I was sick of depictions of my Black and single life that made it look so burdened and heavy. I wanted everyone to know about regular Black girls and women with semidramatic adventures that were pretty painless and very amusing but resulted in extraordinary growth. I wanted everyone to know about the quality men in the world, the ones I met every day, that I know exist, but are rarely shown in the media. I’d been waiting for someone to tell that tale again since it had been years since Tracy Chambers (Mahogany), Nola Darling (She’s Gotta Have It), and Nina Mosley (Love Jones) had a say. Then I realized that as a writer, I could just pick up my laptop and start typing.
At the time, I was in my third year as a book editor, working with bestselling romance authors and in my sixth year as a professional journalist, covering entertainment and lifestyles. My musings began on MySpace, quickly gained a following, and moved to a wider audience at HoneyMag.com, where my blog about my hilarious dating misadventures as a Southern woman living too far above the Mason Dixon
became the most popular feature on the site.
As the audience grew, so did the number of letters in my in-box. Women from eighteen to sixty began thanking me for offering an alternative portrayal of Black life and for writing what they felt but couldn’t find the words to say. That’s when I knew I was on to something that was bigger than me and my girls.
Four months after my blog launched on Honey, I accepted a position as the relationships editor at Essence magazine, a job that utilizes my desire to debunk the negative depictions of single Black women, tackle our dating dilemmas, and help us live our best lives possible, whether our goal is to have fun or to have a relationship. I’ve also popped up in newspaper articles (I was dubbed The Black Carrie Bradshaw
in a Washington Post feature article, which I have mixed feelings about) and on TV shows, both as a dating expert who teaches Sandy Denton aka Pepa
from Salt-N-Pepa how to meet men on Let’s Talk About Pep, and selecting a sexy man to be featured in Essence on Being Terry Kennedy.
Over the last four years, I’ve also completed thousands of interviews with men and women to gather information so we can close the dating divide,
hosted roundtable discussions where the sexes are provided a forum to hash out their issues face-to-face, searched for and offered up single men to the Essence audience, interviewed hundreds of experts about what we can all do better, became a life and relationships coach, answered thousands of dating and relationship questions on Formspring, and penned a monthly column for Essence that tackles current dating issues. Slowly but surely, I’m convinced, a dent can be made in the way we are portrayed, and the way we see ourselves. Together, we can close the gap between how women and men relate to one another.
In your hands, you hold my best attempt to make a difference. I’ve shared my life—mistakes and all—as well as the insights I’ve gained. My story isn’t perfect, it’s not always pretty, but it’s honest, with ups and downs and many more highs than lows. Some details have been changed to protect the innocent (or guilty, depending on how you look at it), mostly names and physical descriptions but some places, too. I hope you can learn as much by reading about my trials and triumphs as I did by living and growing through them.
YOU CAN’T START THE PLAY IN THE SECOND ACT
I went to Dream every Friday night to free my mind and hope the rest would follow. It was 2002, and the posh four-story super club in Washington, D.C., was newly opened. Dream was the only place to be after-hours in the city if you were young and/or fabulous or aspiring to be such. I was not fabulous. I was miserable, twenty-three, a recent graduate and stuck in Maryland when I desperately wanted to be back in New York. Calling my situation a quarter-life crisis would be an understatement.
I would show up to the club with Aliya, my best friend since junior high, around seven. We usually two-stepped until midnight and were safely and soberly, or relatively such, tucked in our beds before one A.M. One of those nights, I met a boy. He was . . . beautiful. No, scratch that. He was of such beauty that he appeared to be handcrafted by God herself. That’s much more accurate.
I spotted him in the crowd on the venue’s third floor, the one with the open-air deck. He was walking in my direction but not headed toward me. I smiled. He smiled back. I bit my bottom lip and looked away, pretending to be coy. But then I realized he could pass me by and I might never see him again. Something feisty in me kicked in.
I made eye contact again, pointed to him, crooked my finger, and yelled You! Come here!
loud enough for him to hear me over the bass line of the classic Baltimore club track How U Wanna Carry It?
It worked. He happily and promptly obliged. I introduced myself cheerfully, told him he was the cutest thing ever. I even stood on my tiptoes to ruffle his Maxwell-esque hair (the early years) with my fingers. As we chatted, I beamed. So did he.
We saw each other at the club every Friday for the rest of the summer. He would see me, give me a hug, buy me a drink. His boys would spot Aliya and me, and they would come up to tell me what floor Dude was on to make sure we could find each other in the massive club. Or they’d bring Dude over to me, and we’d just sort of stare at each other, smiling like dolts going, Hey.
Pause. Hey.
Blush. Hey.
Giggle. Hey.
I was smitten, but I didn’t even remember Dude’s name, much less know his number.
Three months of these Friday interludes went by. (I’d figured out how to meet men, not how to get them to ask me out.) In passing conversation, I’d pieced together that he was a senior at a local university and was a year younger than me and that our parents worked in the same industry. I’m sure more details were exchanged, but I usually couldn’t hear him over the music. I knew the facts that mattered, though: he was cool and he had great energy.
One Thursday afternoon, I got a call offering me a position in NYC. I’d spent three hours a day for seven months scouring the Internet for job listings and applying for anything that sounded remotely interesting. This one was far from my dream job, but it was in New York, where I desperately wanted to be. Of course, I took it. I had to move and start working in two weeks, and for part of those weeks I had arranged to take an overseas vacation with my dad.
My summer of Friday-night partying came to an abrupt halt, as the next evening would be my last at Dream for the foreseeable future. In honor of my departure, Aliya and I decided to arrive at the club when the doors opened, dance to R&B, hip-hop, reggae, and house until we sweated through our dresses. We would not leave till the lights came on, at which point we would switch into flip-flops and walk to the parking lot arm-in-arm. After, we’d head to Adams Morgan for big pizza
—a slice that’s the equivalent of one-fourth of a pie. It was the only proper way to say good-bye to the city.
That night, Dude finally asked for my number, told me he’d like to call me sometime. But summer was almost over, and so was my stay in D.C. What’s the use? To be friends? I already knew I didn’t want to be just
Dude’s friend. With a deep sigh, I asked him, Dude, why’d you wait so long? I’m moving.
Moving?
He looked stunned. What do you mean, moving?
I’m leaving. I’m going to NY,
I said. I’m out.
He asked for my number again anyway.
I asked him back, What’s the point?
We hugged with no malice or love lost, but he didn’t let me go from the embrace right away. I wondered if he was thinking about the could-have-been possibilities, too, like that old Pepsi commercial when the couple gets on the elevator and on the ride to the lobby their whole possible life together flashes before their eyes. I sighed. He said good-bye, and we went our separate ways.
Monday morning, I crossed the Atlantic, landing in Paris. I was in an ill hotel, much different from my last visit when I was still an undergrad and stayed at a hostel. After I settled in. I bought crêpes that tasted like gourmet delicacies from street carts. I took a photo in front of the Arc de Triomphe, then strolled through the surrounding streets once walked by James Baldwin, Josephine Baker, and Richard Wright. Dude crossed my mind more than once. I didn’t know him, still didn’t even know his name, but I knew enough about him to know I could dig him. I started to wish that I had more time in D.C., but I stopped myself.
I’d prayed every day to get back to New York. It was all I wanted in life. Just a job, any job, a chance to compete with the best of the best. And I had the opportunity I’d been begging for, literally, on bended knee. A great guy (or two) would be a small sacrifice to live a big dream. Me and Dude? I wished it could have been explored. If it was meant to be, then it would have been, right? You win some, you lose some. Maybe next lifetime? I told myself every clichéd platitude I could think of to keep from letting my mind wander to the what-ifs and possibilities. Then I got to my favorite: If not this time, then the next time. And maybe that time will be the right time. I’d watched Love Jones way too many times.
My second day in Paris, I saw the Mona Lisa at the Louvre (much smaller than you would imagine and barely visible behind all the bullet-proof glass), sat in a café on the Champs-Élysée and sipped espresso (which I don’t even like, but it seemed like the Parisian thing to do), and people-watched for hours. I took the subway and reveled in the ability to take public transportation in a foreign land in a foreign language and not get lost.
That night, I took the elevator in the Eiffel Tower to the highest level possible (not the actual top) and looked out at the city. I was humbled by all the beauty stretched before me. The City of Love, or Light, depending on which travel guide you read, is a great something to behold.
When I got back on solid ground, I walked underneath the structure with my head bent back, admiring its intricate construction as if I were seeing it for the first time. When I’d taken my fill, I walked across the street and peered at the Seine River to admire the gold-tipped statues adorning the archways that cross it.
I could have gazed for another hour, if not for the rumble in my stomach. I headed to a nearby street stall to get yet another crêpe, and I saw . . .
Dude?
He looked up, paused mid-chew on the first bite of his crêpe and his mouth spread in a huge grin. He had Nutella on his teeth.
I flashed all thirty-two, too. We were both smiling like idiots.
Hey.
Pause.
Hey.
Blush.
Hey.
Giggle.
Hey.
Just like old times.
Dude and I talk for hours as we walk along the edge of the Seine. It’s seventy degrees or thereabout—all of the signs are in Celsius, and I can’t do the conversion to Fahrenheit in my head. It’s breezy, and the sky is lit with a half-moon. Turns out our parents are both in Paris for an international conference, and God bless them, they both brought their kids along for the European getaway. It’s his first time in France, and he doesn’t speak French, either. His hotel is near mine. Today is his first day in the city.
Is this fate? Divine intervention? Luck? Destiny? Cosmos? I don’t usually believe in such things, but running into Dude makes me wonder if I should.
I try not to keep looking at him as he talks, but I can’t help myself. Until now, I’ve only seen him in collared shirts, tailored slacks, and hard-bottom shoes. A decent outfit can make any man look half-official. Tonight Dude has on a backpack, camo shorts, and a crisp white tee. Oh, and flip-flops. Dressed down, he is still certified.
Every time I look over at him, I catch him smiling at me. I bite my lip and stare all the way up at him.
What?
he asks, grinning.
I shrug. Nothin.
We’re both stuck on stupid.
By the time one of us thinks to check a watch, we’ve wandered to the middle of God knows where and have no idea how to get to the nearest subway station. Not that it would make a difference, since the English-speaking couple we finally encounter tells us the subway closed an hour ago. I guess we could take a cab, but instead, we walk back to the Eiffel Tower, pull out a subway map, and figure the way to the hotel based on trains named after nearby landmarks. This should not work, but somehow it does. We both have an internal GPS apparently.
By the time we get back to my hotel, it’s past three A.M. That’s four hours after we bumped into each other. I feel as if I know Dude’s whole life story—fears, regrets, ambitions, goals, passions, and shortcomings. I shouldn’t be nervous to ask if I’m going to see him again, but I am.
Well, this is me,
I say. I wait for him to say he’d like to see me tomorrow. I do not want to seem too eager for his attention. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi, I count in my head. So I guess this is good night,
I hint.
He smiles at me again. It’s like the only expression either one of us can make right now.
I wanna see you tomorrow,
he says.
I exhale like I’m in a Terry McMillan novel. Thank you, God!
Meet you at noon?
he suggests.
Here?
Yeah.
Pause. Smile. Blush. Giggle. Right here,
he adds. We’ll get lunch.
I nod. Giggle. Bite my lip. ’Kay.
’Kay.
Mutual staring commences.
Finally, he pulls me into a big hug and kisses me on my cheek. He hesitates a moment longer than normal, then lets go. We’re just looking at each other again.
I can’t believe you’re here,
we blurt almost at the same time, then laugh. We’re like awkward adolescents with our first crush.
Get some sleep,
he says, ruffling my hair, the same way I did him when we first met. I have a big, curly-fluffy ’fro just like his. Smile. Giggle. It’s late.
Giggle. Again. Bite lip. Again. It is.
He waits for me to walk through the doors of my five-star hotel. I look back and see that he’s gone. I feel like doing cartwheels across the marble floors on my way to the elevator. When the doors close to take me to my floor, I scream into my hands and do the Happy Dance, similar to, but actually much different from, the Pee Pee Dance. Belatedly, I hope there are no cameras in here.
Dude and I spend nearly every waking moment of the next three days together exploring and enjoying Paris. We walk through the Place de la Concorde one night, and he chases me around the Luxor obelisk the way Larenz Tate does Nia Long at Chicago’s Buckingham Fountain. He has me close my eyes and point to a random destination on the subway map, and we take the train there, get off in Château Rouge, where we find Black people and African food. We fill our memory sticks taking flicks together while we hold our own cameras. (I have red eye in every pic.) He buys an English-to-French translation guide and teaches me how to say Où est la salle de bains?
(Where is the bathroom?) and Comment puis-je me rendre à . . .
(How do I get to . . . ?) in a terrible French accent. Later, we take the midnight Bateaux Parisiens cruise on the Seine to learn the history of the city and get a different view of its architecture. We go back to the Eiffel Tower together, and he kisses me for the first time.
Near dusk on day five in the City of Love (or Light), we are sitting in the travel guide aisle of a small, English-only bookstore, flipping through Paris guides. He is trying to find something exciting to do that we haven’t already done.
What are we doing tomorrow?
I ask him. I pretty much couldn’t care less what it is as long as I am doing it with him.
I dunno. I feel like we’ve seen everything. Twice.
He sounds frustrated. What do you want to do? Like, is there anything else you want to see?
In Paris?
I attempt to raise one brow, but I’m sure I raise both. I’ve never been able to do that properly.
He shrugs. In Paris . . . or anywhere.
I look at the bookshelf and scan the spines of the books: Amsterdam. Barcelona. Japan. London. Madrid. Paris. Rome.
The theme song to Mahogany pops into my head: Do you know where you’re going to? Do you like the things that life is showing you?
I’ve wanted to go to Rome ever since I saw Diana Ross as Tracy Chambers. I fell in love with the scene where she’s in the cab, staring at the city with a look of awe and anticipation as she passes by the ancient monuments.
We find an Internet café and book round-trip tickets on his card. We locate a relatively cheap boutique hotel near the Colosseum and put it on mine. This is totally not in my budget, but my grad-school professor once told me that if I was going to spend frivolously, I should do so on experiences, not things.
We are scheduled to leave the next morning at seven and stay overnight, coming back to Paris the morning after that to make our evening flights back to the States.
The boutique hotel isn’t so close to the Colosseum after all. It is miles away, but after we check into our room, which is standard European size (i.e., the equivalent square footage of a large walk-in closet), we decide to hike to it, wherever it is.
On the way, we find a hole-in-the-wall restaurant with the most delicious aromas emitting from its kitchen. I eat the chef’s special, a meatless pasta with cheese and tricolor tortellini. Neither before nor since will I taste anything as good. Dude eats all of his food, then scrapes my plate, before finally ordering an appetizer-size portion of what I had.
When we’re back en route to the Colosseum, we pass a gelateria and stop in even though we’re stuffed. Caramel latte (dulce de leche) for him, stracciatella (chocolate chip) for me.
We are walking along some winding ancient street, eating off each other’s spoons, when he stops and says, Oh, shit.
I look up at him, then look in the direction he’s looking. It’s the Colosseum. It’s one thing to see it in pictures or the CGI re-creation in Gladiator. It’s another to see it in person. It’s no surprise why some consider it one of the seven wonders of the world.
We take a tour of the structure, then wander to the Spanish Steps and take a seat to watch the street entertainers. Dude tells me his what-I-want-to-do-when-I-grow-up-slash-graduate-from-college story while we drink espresso so we can stay up through the night and enjoy every minute of