C. is not for carrot

I like to capture memories. My writing serves as a bridge. So I can secure my way back before they fade completely.

C. is an interesting stranger. I would never have imagined someone from Turkey being so sophisticated and well-spoken (how provincial of me). I would never have imagined talking to someone from Turkey in the first place. But that’s the beauty of coincidental encounters. 

I waited for him in St. Patrick’s church next to the Soho Square. Looking at the impressive display of church flyers, I almost forgot to turn my head at the sound of the false name that he knew me by.* 

C. is tall. And that’s good because I’m tall as well. But C. is way taller than I am. And that is not so good, because it makes me feel small. Which is not the way you want to feel with a stranger. When I first met him, I assumed my inexperience was the cause. I still feel a bit intimidated in his presence, which only leaves me with two options: either C. is as I subjectively perceive - smarter, more mature and confident than I am (very difficult to believe), or - and it’s not easy to admit, I like him more than I usually tend to like strangers. I’m sticking with the second option for now. 

During our hectic walk, as I was trying to avoid falling behind while simultaneously trying to manage my stress levels, it didn't miss my attention how skillfully was C. keeping the conversation going, successfully preventing the notorious awkward silence pause. And at the same time I shamed myself for even letting the threat of that embarrassing situation to arise.

We arrived at a Turkish restaurant, where I soon learned about his origin - by the way, talking Turkish with the restaurant’s staff and guests (composed of gloomy-looking bearded muslims) has never made anyone comfortable, especially not someone like me. Nevertheless, I gave him credit for the effort to impress me.

My life-long ignorance of Turkish cuisine didn't help much either, but C. came up with a great idea to minimize the potential complications, thus ordering a plate for two. Smart decision, there wasn't a slightest chance of me getting more than a few bites down my throat that evening. 

Talking always gets in the way with a proper dining and boy, was I talking. I made the best out of my stories and C. was genuinely impressed. The only distraction I had to overcome, was the dozen dark faces staring at us, extremely eager to please at all times. By the end of our visit, I couldn’t help but feel violated by the kindness of everyone involved in our date experience - including the chef, servers and the outrageously selfless Turk who offered to charge my iPhone before I even got a chance to ask. Being the receiver of so many acts of kindness in one sitting does shake your inner self and you began to question whether it was a sense of pity that motivated everyone to be so affectionate. I personally doubt it, but I worry that there will be a tiny grain of suspicion stuck in my head for quite some time.

Walking towards Charing Cross, I needed to step up my game. I cowardly used the only method of self-presentation that I know always works - acting unpredictable. This strategy creates an illusion of being unique and that is the key to keeping your companion entertained and interested. It is the easy way, but at this point I had already decided that this stranger is simply too valuable to become one of the subjects in my social experiment.

I suggested a walk among the Trafalgar Square’s lion statues that I love so much, but it was very quickly over - due to C.’s persistent complaints about being cold. Not very courteous of him I say. 

I found myself walking into the Café Rouge on the corner of the Little Newport Street, exactly the same place I stopped by a few hours ago to have a cup hot chocolate enhanced with a shot of liquor. I cleverly picked the table at the very end of the room, soft, dim light, with a clear view of the surroundings. This time I went for the hot chocolate without the enhancement and C. joined me. 

While we were waiting, C. kept testing the edge of my willpower by constantly proposing to play those ‘out of the box thinking’ games that guarantee the victory of the challenger. The main purpose of these games has got to be making the victim feel half-baked and in my case, provoking true rage. There is no escape other than abandoning the last fragments of one’s dignity and playing until the end.

If the date was to end at this point, I would have been left in a very bad place. It was getting close to 10, and I really didn’t want to spend the night where I was supposed to.**

Using my rhetorical abilities, I soon got what I wanted. It was so textbook it’s almost laughable. 

“I really don’t want to go back there…” I shake with disgust. 

“You know what?” Deep stare into my eyes. “I have free house, but… I’ll let you decide.” (says he, being cautious, he doesn't want to offend, or be see as the jerk with deplorable intentions)***

“What?" My eyes widen with excitation. "Are you suggesting I could stay the night? Oh, that would be so great! Thank you!”  

I congratulate myself. 

Soon we’re on our way...

*Even after revealing my real name to C., he lets me have the comfort of hiding behind a pseudonym in public. Or maybe he just keeps forgetting? I’m leaving it for a further investigation.
**Will be elaborated on in future posts.

*** As interpreted by me.