Iconic

London, baby! I am standing on London Bridge and wondering if it is going to fall down again. And, yeah, I know all that stuff about it not being the original bridge, and how the real one burned to the ground (to the water?) and how this one is the seventh iteration of it, but you know how it is sometimes. And I think it’s funny how it looks like a regular bridge, with none of the trappings you would expect of a famous landmark. So yeah, I’m standing here, looking out across the Thames (it’s pronounced “Tims,” — weird, huh?) and I see this boat chugging along slowly but surely. It is full of about a hundred tourists, all with cameras out, ready to snap a picture or 50. I knew how it was, because I was one of them, two years ago.

I first came to London on a lark. It was a dare, really, a wager that I thought I would lose. My friend Stephanie said I would never fly anywhere, and she was certainly right back then, not that I wanted to admit it. I have always been deathly afraid of heights, so a ride in a vehicle with wings seemed practically suicidal to me. But my boyfriend of five years, Steve, had just broken up with me for a cliche of all cliches, a younger girl (not even going to call her a woman) who was born when I was turning 18. Sometimes when I think back to that time period, I still can’t believe I let him determine my happiness like that. I mean, it was obvious after year three that we weren’t going to be going the distance, but I could never give up on anything. I’m the type who will read a book all the way through, even though from page one it has been horrendous.

So I put Steph in her place and said I was going to do it. Of course it took me nearly a month to get up the nerve to actually do it, though. It was a month of hyperventilating and meditating, trying to psych myself into being all “Eat Pray Love,” and it eventually worked. Well, that and all the drugs I took before boarding. Shhh. Don’t tell anybody. Anyway, when I finally boarded, on Christmas day in 2010, I swore I was going to get Steph back for making me prove her wrong. As I looked down at my ticket and I saw again the words “London Heathrow Airport,” I knew I was biting off more than I could chew, but I stayed in my seat and somehow survived all the way across the Atlantic (thank god for barf bags — sorry, dude who was sitting next to me). When I stumbled off that plane, I vowed never to fly in another one (which would of course make it pretty hard to get back home), and that’s why I’m still here two years later. But it hasn’t been a bad time. At all.

No, it hasn’t been like a romantic comedy where the sweet but shy Canadian girl comes to London, meet a beatnik poet type with a scruffy goatee, falls madly in love, whelps six kids for him, and still somehow they live happily ever after. It’s two years later and I haven’t sniffed so much as a second date from any guy. I guess it doesn’t help that I have this insane tendency to sleep with guys on the first date. Something about getting milk for free or something, I guess (there goes that sweet but shy label). Maybe I need to go back to therapy or something, but I’m not dissatisfied with my life. Far from it. I have a solid group of mates, which is strange to say but it’s true. I mean, I’m not the life of the party, but I’m definitely a good member of a posse. Much respect. So, I haven’t lacked for entertainment, and Steph comes to visit every few months. I think she’s still shocked I did it, and her hair has finally gone back to its original color so she doesn’t mind being seen in public anymore. I tell her we should do another dare sometime, but not if it involves flying again. Done with that.

So, I’m standing here on London Bridge, crowded up against the railing because the traffic is relatively heavy, trying to remember which direction I came from to get here. I mean usually on a Thursday afternoon I’m heading downtown for my yoga class, but that was cancelled this week because the instructor went into labor yesterday (I know, inconvenient, right?) so where was I going? I look south toward the Eye, that amazing ferris wheel that is so much larger and more complex than any I have seen before. The first time I saw it, it took my breath away, something Big Ben and Buckingham Palace failed to do. But it’s so expensive to ride, and I saw this movie where it got destroyed while people were on it. Not to mention my fear of heights. Yet, for some odd reason I can’t help wishing I was there, and before I know it my feet are taking me of their own accord, heading south. My cell goes off, the sounds of Katy Perry’s “ET” drowning out the street noise, but only momentarily. Yet, it is enough to break me from my reverie, and I get in the queue for the number 10 bus. Heading downtown. I glance at my phone’s screen. It’s Gary. He wants a second date.

Sam