Two Shirtless Guys and a Buttered Sandwich

It’s midnight and I can’t sleep. Two blokes are shirtless in my living room and I can hear the sound of trucks whizzing by on the street below. Okay, so the double glazed windows are only so glazed. But it’s very manageable, considering an incredibly busy street lies just below, a throbbing hub of transit and a main thoroughfare that connects the city. I am literally fifteen steps from the Finchley Road Tube station and the main road is also congested with traffic, both car and pedestrian. Still, I really like the place and I love my roommates, K and T (I guess I should be protecting people’s anonymity like they do in books). K is Sri Lankan and has a daughter who goes to Uni here. His wife lives in Wales and he goes to see her every weekend. T is an accountant from Nottingham, and though he’s younger than me, he's surprisingly mature. He’s lovely, very distinguished and polite. When I got locked in my own bathroom (don’t ask) and started knocking as if it were a door in rather than out, T laughed quietly and said, “Stefanie,” waiting again for my cue before helping me out. He’s very proper. Already the two are caring for me as I’d always hoped men would. They take care of me without me having to ask. The landlord’s lawyer friend who showed me the place drove me back to my hotel to retrieve my bags, which saved me an ungodly trip on the tube with all the stations steps and cobblestone streets outside. When I arrived, T came down and helped me with my bags. I went out shopping and when I returned, K made me a cup of tea and helped me with my internet connection. He stopped all his work to assist me. Now I’m not saying I want a man who drops everything for me. But it was just that I felt important. They don’t even know me, but they were making me feel safe and secure and very welcome. I’m an independent woman. I can carry my own bags, but sometimes there’s nothing more wonderful than having a man by your side to just take care of things. Carry your heavy groceries, help with your luggage. I crave that sometimes, especially in a big city. It’s really hard on your own. It’s hard enough in St. Louis. Here, sometimes it feels unbearable.

T’s two friends are up from somewhere else in England and the three are going to Munich tomorrow for a week. That’s how there are two shirtless men in my living room. One of them is a bit dour and the other is a lively chap, very smiley. Still, they’re both very kind and they laughed at me as I tried to translate some British colloquialisms like “butty,” which means a buttered sandwich with French fries in the middle. I have to try one of those. Where they’re from it’s also called a “cobb,” but that’s a very local term. I need to go to a fish n’ chips place to figure it all out. We talked a bit about all the fried crap in America (twinkies, snickers bars and pepsi) and they looked all wide eyed and giddy, like children. I even told them of fried pickles and it delighted them to hear of such things. Funny the differences. I think it’s positively revolting. What’s next? Triple fried French fries? I’m not sure you can fry anything else. Anyway, I like meeting new people and learning the ways of the Brits. No one seems to dislike me because of my nationality. That’s refreshing. Although one man at the Farmers Market in Marylebone did say, “You’re an American and you can write? The world’s lookin’ up.”