Midnight. Front Gate of St. George’s Gate. Hoards of drunken Kukui partygoers thrust past.
FRESH PRINCE OF OXFORD: “So can I get your number?”
Ladies, if a boy asks for your number at the end of the night, it’s been a successful first blind date. If he thinks you should “definitely see each other again,” that’s also a promising sign. And yet, given my track record and propensity for creatures that “meow,” I was genuinely shocked when the Fresh Prince of Oxford, as I will now forever refer to him, said both those statements to me.
It shouldn’t have been so surprising. Our conversation flowed, our laughter was audible to those near us, and our lack of watch-examining reflected our sincere interest in each other. Seriously, I went 2 hours without looking at a watch, cell phone, or iPod for a time check. The time was irrelevant. Mr. Nigeria-meets-Sierra-Leone (his parental origins) was far more fascinating, and I preferred picking his brain about the current political unrest in Lagos than perusing old text messages from boys who never call. Call me an African politics, nerd, or maybe just a politics of the Middle East escape artist, but I was mesmerized by his familial background.
And it was the perfect time for me to discuss Africa. I have spent the last three days in a cavernous, Israel-bashing hole, where Chomsky, Finkelstein, and Said were found eating, drinking (non-alcohol in Said’s case), and being all around haters on anything Zionist. And to top off the always subjective alternative narrative to Israeli history I have been exposing myself to, I attended a Palestinian Child Protection seminar yesterday, where once again the “Israel is the Goliath” theory emerged.
Given my emotional investment in anything Israel, I welcomed a discussion of political conflict in any place but Israel. And when we weren’t discussing failed policies of structural adjustment in Ghana, we were assessing the success/failures of dates nearby. My mom, the inherent matchmaker, taught me everything I know on this subject. Basically, you examine leg, hand, and facial positions to determine the thought processes of the daters. For example, if a girl’s legs are turned towards her date, that means yay, happy fun times are here. If, however, she is turning them outward, to cite a classic Hollywood film, “She’s just not that into you.”
The Duke of Cambridge, the site of our critical romantic assessments, possessed a mixed bag of couples. This, of course, made for more interesting observations. Fresh Prince and I agreed that one couple was set up by someone other than my mom because there were far too many “awkward turtle” moments between them. Thank G-d, our conversation lacked those moments. Fresh Prince was far less reserved than most British boys. He lived in Nigeria for six years, though. From this I conclude that I like British boys who have lived outside of England more than boys who have never left the motherland. Said boys are less reserved. Provide them an alcoholic beverage or two and then pull up a chair.
Oh, and the best part: He offered to pay. Of course the raging feminist that is emerging within me rejected this offer. But, seriously, British boys never offer to pay for me. It could be my body language as well. My mother says the whole crossing my arms at any moment, while quintessential New York, doesn’t exactly scream “If you buy me alcohol or any food substances, I’ll make it worth your while.” Then there is also the issue of not showing enough skin. Though Fresh Prince said he “appreciated” what I was wearing so maybe more is more, particularly with Brits. According to the Fresh Prince, American girls intimidate British boys– talking incessantly and so confidently. A little reservation, physical or verbal, helps alleviate the fear of G-d Americans seem to instill in them. I guess I’ll be taking a trip to Brooklyn when I get home; the Chassidic girl is clearly my ticket out [of spinsterhood.]
In the interim, I am setting a new goal: Find a non-black Pentecostal for my second blind date.
I appreciate that you are bringing the term “yay, happy fun times” to the UK. Or at the very least to your blog.
T also said this sounded intense, serious, and “potentially very romantic”….. will the real yaffa please stand up!!
Perhaps you are just the “writer” and the blog must be read with a salt mine (not just a grain of salt)
Oh, Yaffa’s most successful date in months more resembled a summit at Camp David than a dinner out on the town between two twenty-year-olds. WHAT A SUPRISE/I AM SECRETLY JEALOUS OF YOUR WEIRDLY MANIFESTED SEXUAL PROWESS.