“He’s Cuban, Chelsea.”
“Whatever.”
“Do you think she’ll break up with him?” she asked me.
“Yes, I do. He’s a loser, and by the way, he’s shaped like a woman. He’s got a woman’s ass.”
“Really?”
“Yes, he has a woman’s body, and with time, it will become increasingly more and more bitchlike.”
“He did kind of have man boobs,” she said.
“Sarah, they were bigger than mine. He’s got to be at least a D-cup.”
“Oh my God, he did. And by the way, he wasn’t that good in bed either.”
“Of course he wasn’t, Sarah. Bitch tits can’t be good in bed. It makes you feel like you’re hooking up with another chick.”
A waiter opened up the door to darkness and spoke a few words before the maitre d’ waved us over. “Mademoiselles, I do hope you enjoy Dans le Noir,” he announced as creepily as Willy Wonka introducing all the Oompa Loompas to his guests at the chocolate factory. “Bon appetit.”
Our waiter, who was clearly blind, and looking to my left while talking to us, introduced himself as Brian. He wasn’t French, but he did have an accent of some kind that was extremely hard to pinpoint because he had the same pitch as Michael Jackson. Sarah, at this point, was of course brimming with excitement. Not only were we about to dine in the dark, but there was a real live blind man about to escort us into our bad dream.
“Put your hand on my shoulder,” he said as he turned on his heels and led us into a dark corridor. Thinking that sounded a lot like a song lyric, I put my hand on Brian’s shoulder, Sarah put her hand on mine, and Brian led us into what may have well as been a well. Not only was it pitch black, but I had no sense of anything around me and was relying on a blind man who had the voice of a four-year-old girl.
“Are you having fun yet?” I called over my shoulder.
“Oh my God, oh my God, Chelsea, I can’t see,” she whispered, squeezing my shoulder.
“Just take it nice and slow, ladies,” Brian said as he led us toward voices and clanging noises. “Okay, just take deep breaths if you feel overwhelmed.”
“You’re starting to sound like a porn director, Brian.”
“Okay, girls, here we are,” he said, ignoring my comment as he led us to our chairs. “The table is right in front of you.”
“Thank you, Brian. I would have never figured that out,” I told him, putting my elbows on the table and spreading my legs apart like a trucker. If no one could see me, I was going to take full advantage of it and break all the table manners I had grown bored with. All I was missing were a toothpick and a walkie-talkie.
Brian took our drink orders and left us alone. There were voices near us but none directly next to us.
“Chelsea, I’m getting really claustrophobic.”
“Just breathe.”
“I am,” she said, clutching my hands, “but this is freaking me out.” She was giggling, but in a very passive-aggressive way, and I wasn’t sure if there was going to be some sort of full-blown panic attack.
“Sarah,” I said sternly, “the lights are off, that is all. Just keep breathing in through your mouth and out through your ass.”
“I’m hot.”
“Drink your water,” I said, feeling around for any water and knocking the silverware onto the floor in the process. “Here.”
“I think I need to take my sweater off.”
“So take it off.”
“I can’t,” she whispered. “I have nothing on underneath.”
“Sarah, no one can see you here, who cares? Take it off and rest your tickets on the table. I’m thinking about pulling my pants down just for shits and giggles.”
“I think I may need to take it off, Chelsea. I think I’m hyperventilating.”
“Take it off, Sarah, please, I do not want you to hyperventilate,” I pleaded, and then got up and felt my way over to her side of the table. “Do you want me to pour a glass of water over your head?”
“No, no, I’ll be fine,” she said, taking deep breaths. Once her sweater was off, she started to calm down. Brian walked over to the table.
“It’s me,” he whispered. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes,” Sarah told him. “I’m just a little claustrophobic. Can I get some more water?”
“And can I get some more Ketel One?” I added. “Are you sure you’re okay?” I asked Sarah.
“Yes, I’m fine, go sit down.”
“Sarah?”
“What?”
“If you had to have sex with the maitre d’ for two hours missionary style, or you had to go down on Star Jones for half an hour, who would you choose?”
“The maitre d’.”
I found my way back to my seat just as Brian came back and put his hand on my shoulder. “Hi,” he said, “it’s me.”
“I know.”
“I’m putting your vodka on the right,” he said, maneuvering my hand to touch the glass. “And Sarah, I’m going to put your water on your right as well.”
Ten minutes later Brian came back and seated two English girls next to us. One of them was very sweet, but the other one didn’t seem very interested in mingling with Americans. I got this impression right after I said “Hello,” and she muttered, “Great, bloody Americans.”
I am very sympathetic to why foreigners think that Americans are loud and obnoxious. Many of us, including myself, are. But just because we have a president who can’t spell “cat” doesn’t mean we all voted for him. Along with a huge constituancy, I am also counting the days until Barack Obama or Ryan Seacrest takes over.
The nice girl asked us if this was our first time at the restaurant, and how we had heard about the place. Sarah jumped in and told her all about her online research and how the restaurant originated in Paris, blah, blah, blah. The nice girl seemed a lot like Sarah as far as research and planning goes, and when it’s coming from someone not so close to you, it can be more charming. I reminded myself to tell Sarah this in a private moment later.
Sarah told the girl that we absolutely loved it here and were having the best time in London. “What a great city you guys get to live in,” she said, panting excitedly.
“Yeah,” I said, trying to get in the conversation.
This is when the mean girl decided she would add to the conversation.
“Yes, it’s nice being exposed to civilization, isn’t it?”
Before I could respond, Brian walked over and leaned down above us. “Hi. It’s me.”
“Yes, Brian. We get it. It’s always you. I’m me and you’re you.”
“Ladies, I apologize, but I am going to have to ask you to put your sweater and pants back on.”
“What?” exclaimed the mean girl sitting on my right. “What are you, a couple of lesbos?” she screeched in her thick British twang.
“No,” I told her. “We’re not lesbians. We were hot and my friend was hyperventilating. We didn’t think anybody could see us, considering it’s pitch black in here.”
“Do girls from your country have any manners?” was her next question.
“You know what, mean girl?” I said. “You are not a nice person. You should be a little more open-minded and not judge people based on what country they’re from. I’m not asking you why all the men in your country refuse to get circumcised, am I?”
“Oh, that’s lovely,” she replied.
“No. Actually, it’s repulsive. They look like fucking aardvarks, and I really don’t appreciate it,” I said, getting up from the table and squeezing myself back into my jeans. “Sarah, can we go now?”
“Yes,” she said, and then screamed, “Brian! It’s us!”
Three minutes later we were in the front of the restaurant opening up our lockers. We paid our bill with the maitre d’, who refused to make eye contact with us. Obviously, he had caught wind of our undress and found it very disappointing. “Au revoir,” Sarah said as we walked out.
“Cheers,” I added in as volatile a way as I could muster. “Can we please just get some fish and chips?” I asked Sarah.
“Your zipper’s down,” she said, shaking her head and then stepping into the street to hail a cab. “When did you take your pants off, Chelsea, and why?”
“I was doing it to support you! It was a sympathy disrobing.”
“Oh, that’s actually nice, thank you.”
“Don’t mention it,” I told her as I turned my hand upside down and put out my middle and index fingers. “Low two?”
“No thanks.” We hopped in a cab and Sarah told the driver to take us to any place that served fish and chips.
“There also needs to be a bar,” I chimed in.
“Yes,” she agreed. “A restaurant that serves fish and chips.”
“I’m starting to become embarrassed about being American,” I told Sarah. “I feel like our only real saving grace is the Olsen twins, and what does that say about us as a whole?”
“Not a lot. Do you hate Americans too?” she asked the driver, who looked more Pakistani than anything else.
“No, of course not,” he told us. “Only the loud ones. Very good tippers.”
“Yes,” I agreed, pulling out my wallet and handing him twenty pounds.
“You might want to wait until the ride is actually over,” Sarah said. “And don’t you think twenty pounds is a little excessive for a five-minute cab ride?”
“If the only way for these people to like us is to buy their respect, than that is what I intend to do.”
“That’s very honorable, Chelsea.”
“I take you to Fish Central in de Barbicon,” our driver informed us in his Pakistani accent.
“Cheerios,” I told him. “Word to your mother.”
Sarah and I walked into the restaurant and were seated in the back, next to an older couple. “I want a cigarette,” she declared.
“You don’t even smoke,” I responded.
“Well, everyone else is smoking, and it would be nice to just fit in after the day we’ve had. I don’t understand. Everyone’s been so nice up until today, and then it seems like everyone we talk to hates us.”
“You know what makes no sense?” I asked her. “We have more foreigners in our country than anyone, and we don’t treat them like that. I would never be mean to someone who was visiting
