London, Again

It was way back in 2017 when I met Alessandro in London. So 2 years later, when I got a message out of the blue from him I was in shock.

“Hey, any chance you’re in Houston?”

Haha no. It was downright adorable he asked me that, as if California and Texas weren’t a four-hour plane ride away.

But the timing, as random as it seemed, was impeccable. I had just broken up with my boyfriend of a year and moved to Dubai three days earlier. How do boys know?

“No way! My boss is actually living in Dubai, so I might come soon.” He replied when I informed him of my somewhat crazy (okay, actually certifiably insane) life move.

And sure enough, he did. Three short months later he was in Dubai for work. Staying at a hotel a 5 minute walk from my place. I had hardly explored the city, so we did it together. We ventured to the Gold Souk. There Alessandro learned never to wear a Rolex in Old Dubai and I learned Alessandro had a Rolex. We toured the many rooftop restaurants in Dubai and got drinks in the Burj Khalifa all courtesy of his per diem. It was a dream of a week and I remembered why I liked him so much in the first place.

Two months later when I had my first long break and no one to travel with, it didn’t seem too crazy to text Alessandro. Though after many chats with my guy friends I realized how ballsy it was. Luckily, it seemed like Alessandro was in the not-weird camp when I texted him asking if I could visit.

“Yes, come!” He replied enthusiastically.

And so I did.

But before I even left, the hiccups started. First, Alessandro forgot he had a wedding that weekend. But not to worry, he somehow scored himself a plus one for me to come and pre-ordered my meal. Then, he had to leave for a business trip before I left London. But he said he would just leave the keys to his apartment and I could stay there still. It would all be okay.

Alessandro was being awfully generous, so I packed my bag full of Middle Eastern treats – dates and a little wooden camel figurine – and tried to head off.

But those little hiccups turned into full-on roadblocks. My normally 20-minute ride to the airport took an hour and half. By the time I arrived, I could really feel the giant water bottle I was nervously chugging in the taxi in a sad attempt to quell my anxiety-induced IBS. I sprinted across the impossibly large Dubai airport to a bathroom that truly was in the middle of nowhere before speed walking to the check-in counter. I had an hour. I didn’t have to check my bag. “It would be fine”, I told myself.

I approached the check-in counter out of breath and the stern but friendly Emirates employee told me I was 2-minutes late to check in. Two minutes. As in 120 seconds.

I should’ve just peed my pants.

I had never missed a flight before. But after a very expensive chat with the check-in agent I was booked on the 7am flight. I would just have to spend the night in the airport. I dialed up Alessandro and held back tears as I told him I would be delayed.

By the time I actually made it to London I was sleep deprived, anxious, and excited. After 36 hours in an airport, I was sure I had never looked worse but Alessandro didn’t seem to notice. When I pulled up in the black cab he was already waiting for him, standing outside his cute Kensington apartment.

I almost fell into his arms as he gave me a giant hug. He grabbed my suitcase and began carrying it up the four flights of stairs to his place. I stumbled behind him and felt a wave of emotion rush over me. Was it excitement? Nervousness? Relief? I was about 36 hours past the point of being able to tell. Finally I had made it and Alessandro was the perfect gentleman I remember him being. When we reached the landing outside his door I could already smell the homemade pasta waiting for us. I gobbled it up and collapsed on his bed for a nap as he went back to work to finish up.

That homemade pasta was just the beginning. Alessandro had planned out every part of our weekend. The first night was a nice dinner with live dancing. We split a bottle of wine, but he must’ve drank most of it (or have a very low wine tolerance). I pulled him to the dancefloor and tried to recreate the twirl-filled night we first met, but poor Alessandro kept drunkenly tripping over his own feet. It was probably for the best because moments later my sleep deprivation hit me like a wave so I brought us both home.

The next day was the wedding and my turn to be the drunkest. It was a shockingly small wedding and I felt really lucky to sneak in there as a last-minute guest. As with all weddings the dinner-talk turned to couples, relationships and I just giggled when they asked about us. Mentions of me living in Dubai turned to, “How long have you been doing long distance?” and talk about rings loomed awkwardly overhead. I didn’t know how to break it to these people that we were just friends (or maybe long-distance fuck buddies) but Alessandro didn’t correct them either.

I made sure to get the bride and groom’s money’s worth out of the open bar. This meant Alessandro’s sad attempt at an afterparty was cut short because I was too drunk. But being the great fake-boyfriend he is, he took me home and carefully tucked me into bed. Changing me into my pajamas like a toddler. He went to quickly brush his teeth, but I was asleep before he even came back. I had sprawled all over the bed leaving little room for him and no matter how hard, he nudged me, I wouldn’t wake up. The next morning he told me he held his hand to my mouth to make sure I was still breathing.

But that wasn’t the end of it of Alessandro’s diligently planned weekend. On Sunday, despite a raging hangover, he planned a little walking tour of the city. We marveled at the nice houses and wandered through the park in Hampstead Heath, before having the best roast dinner of my life at the historic Spanish Inn. It was the first weekend of December but they didn’t have room inside, so we ordered mulled wine and bundled up as we ate our roast at a cozy little table outside.

He brought me to a park overlooking the skyline and pointed out the shard, Big Ben, and my personal favorite, the house where Amy Winehouse died. We raced each other down the muddy hill and laughed out-of-breath, before he said almost under his breath, “Want to go home and have sex?”

“Yeah!” I laughed in response.

“Really?” His eyes lit up, as if we hadn’t been having sex all weekend.

We went home, hooked-up and slept off our roast dinner on his last night there.

The next morning he got up early for his business trip to Houston, leaving me the keys. I had a full day of plans to see a museum, meet up with a friend for lunch and another for dinner. Around 2, I came home for a little mid-day nap. While half-asleep, I heard a big clunk, but didn’t really think anything of it.

I got dressed and ready for my second meet up of the day, dinner with a family friend, and went to head out. I tried to unlock the door, but it wouldn’t budge. It was one of those old-timey London locks I really had never come across living in the countries less than 500 years old. There was a latch at the top and keyhole at the bottom and you had to turn them both at the same time to unlock it. To me, a key shouldn’t require coordination, but I thought it was a user error.

I struggled for a good 10 minutes before panic set in. When I looked down at the lock and the latch to discover the deadbolt wouldn’t slide far enough to open. Then desperation set in. I poured soap on it in some sad attempt to make it shift all the way over. I frantically looked out the fourth story window, longing for a balcony, ledge, hidden trap door, anything that would get me out of there. I frantically wondered if I could call Alessandro, but alas he was 30,000 feet over the Atlantic Ocean at that very moment. So I did what any self-respecting 27 year-old would do, called my mom.

When she answered I realized how painfully stupid that was. What was she supposed to do from 7,000 miles away? After flipping the camera do to a thorough examination of the lock, my mother said I should just call by brother. Which I wish I had thought of in the first place because right after she asked, “Wait, who’s house are you staying at?”

I quickly hung up before opening up that can of worms.

After a short facetime of my brother where he managed to both identify the type of lock and make fun of me in less than two minutes, I had come to terms with reality. I had to call a locksmith.

So I took a deep breath, prepared myself to spend 70 pounds on getting out of there and called one. Almost two hours later when he finally arrived, I was desperate. In that time I had run out of toilet paper and realized the only food in the house was a block of parmesan that took up an entire shelf of the fridge and about 20 varieties of pasta (Italians, man). We had a strained conversation through the door, where my American accent might have told the locksmith I’d be easy to rip off.

According the locksmith, the lock was just old. That big clunk I heard while napping was the lock mechanism dropping. It wasn’t my inability to open a door. Which was good for my ego but bad for my wallet.

He would have to drill the lock out. And that would be 250 pounds.

I gasped, but reluctantly agreed after the locksmith reiterated I had no other choice.

After 10 minutes of alarmingly loud drilling I was able to set foot outside. But Alessandro’s door was basically a giant hole.

“I have to go get a new lock from my car to replace it, that’ll be 300 pounds.”

Hold up. What? Apparently that 250 estimate was the cost of just getting me out. If I didn’t want to leave half a door for Alessandro to come home to, it would be more.

And he continued hiking up the charges with every little step. Labor, parts, after-hours fee. What was I supposed to do? He was already halfway through.

In the end, it was more than 750 pounds. And I was in shock.

But it was done. Over with. I set off for dinner only 4 hours late and stressed about how I would ever explain this to Alessandro.

For the time being, I just sent a message that said, “Hey. When you land, give me a call.”

I woke up to my phone ringing with a call from Alessandro. Realizing you have to break that kind of news as soon as you open your eyes gives new meaning to the term wakeup call. I took a deep breath, answered, and told him the story.

“This WOULD happen to you”, he said in a short break in his uncontrollable laughter.

He was right, between missing the flight and the lock fiasco this trip was a certifiable shit show.

When he asked how much it cost, I squeaked out a muted, “750 pounds.” and followed up with some a hurried, “But it’s okay. I’m fine to pay half but if there’s a way to get money for the other half…” He cut me off and reassured me his landlord should pay. It was the lock that broke on its own, not me that broke it…I think. So he gave me clear instructions to leave the receipt out and he would transfer me the money.

And he did. Even with an American bank account not set up for international transfers he sent me the money. In full. Five months before he got his landlord to agree to reimburse him.