Devoted, chronologically-minded readers will know that last week, I had a dental mishap. I tried hard not to care, I did, but by the fourth day I had to face facts: this level of snaggle-toothery was just too much to handle, even for me and my admittedly questionable sense of aesthetic acceptability. Something had to be done. I needed to find a dentist.

Because I currently have no official purpose here in London, I am not covered by the National Health Services thingie. I searched online for ‘private dentists’ nearby; I live pretty centrally, so I set up an appointment in the West End. I knew full well that it would be pricier than something farther out, but my saintly mother sent me some money to splurge a little for Christmas, and I decided what I really wanted from Santa this year was the absence of a long, tooth-themed trek involving maps and the Tube.

The night before the fated dentist’s appointment, people came over, things got out of hand, and a very special cake was baked. A cake that made us all very very happy, for about six to eight hours. Except for one of us, who passed out at hour four.

I woke up the next morning feeling pretty out of it. I assumed this was due to the cakey festivities. I thought to myself, Hey, You know what might clear this right up? Yes! Exactly! More Cake! That is exactly right. Gee Golly Whiz, I’m sure glad I’m so smart!

And like some sort of stoner Cosby child, I proceeded to have a slice of cake for breakfast.

Two hours later, running late and unable to navigate the buses, I climbed into a taxi. A TAXI. In LONDON. Cabs here are unthinkable under all but the most dire circumstances because of sheer cost, so this should give you an idea of the state I was in. Fifteen minutes of luxurious sitting went by, and then BAM! I found myself wandering, confused, up and down an incredibly… ‘posh’ street (no other word does it justice). I vaguely remembered a street number; I felt in my bones that I should find it. I found it. It didn’t look right. I walked around some more and smoked a cigarette, but failed to come up with a magical new plan. I ended up back at the same spot. It appeared to be a private residence, with no signage whatsoever. Just a single gold-plated doorbell.

I called up my one hardworking, employed friend (the only friend I knew would be awake and near a computer at the ungodly hour of one p.m.) and had her look up the phone number and double check the address. I was apparently in the right place. I called them to confirm.

“Hello,” they said.
“Do you not have any signage?” I demanded.
“Signage?” the polite, clipped, British lady-voice repeated quizzically.
“Signage.” I confirmed, undaunted, not even the tiniest bit embarrassed, confident in the knowledge that this is, indeed, a real word. (It is. I double checked when I got home.)
Silence.
“Some sort of sign to indicate your place of business?” I tried.
“Oh. No, I’m afraid we don’t.”
“Right. So. I’m having some trouble locating you. What do you advise that I do?”
“Well, it’s (this address). You can ring the bell when you get here.”
“The bell,” I said, thoughtfully.
“Yes, the bell,” she repeated.
“The GOLD bell?” I demanded.
“Yes. That would be the one,” she replied, infuriatingly logical and calm.
“Okay.” I said. I rang the bell.

The woman who came to the door I can only describe as a kind of older, more squat Mary Poppins, as reinterpreted by the good people at Yves Saint Laurent. I’m talking about the distinctly scary, no-nonsense, Mr. Banks-intimidating, penquin-taming Dame Poppins, not the rosy cheeks and singing shit. I have never seen a more put together receptionist/doorperson.

After a long, awkward interlude during which I gave an unnecessarily detailed, rambling explanation establishing my right to be there, she ushered me into the waiting room. It was quite possibly THE nicest waiting room on the planet. Wood panelling abounded. There were walls of books with matching leather covers, titles embossed in 24k gold (probably). There were leather, high-backed chairs, and a huge leather couch. Lots of leather, really. And a fire. And, of course, me. Me, stupidly high, in full-on hulking, fro-haired, snaggle-toothed glory, wearing the same jeans I’d been wearing all week and unzipping my ancient, smelly, oversized, visibly torn ‘SeanJohn’ winter jacket (my mother bought it for me; she has never heard of Puff Daddy and I love her, so I wear it with pride).

I felt woozy. I sat down.

The doorbell rang. I heard La Poppins get up and answer it. I heard polite, muted murmurings. An ivory-haired, impeccably dressed old man, probably around seventy-five, turned the corner and came into the waiting room. He was accompanied by a beautiful, dignified, slightly younger woman (in her fifties, I would say) in a gorgeous tweed outfit and pearls. They spoke to each other exclusively in Russian. She lovingly adjusted his tie. They studiously ignored me as I sat, incredibly stoned and starting to feel a bit queasy, watching them intently from the corner. I became convinced that he was a retired Russian oil-baron and she his classy long-term mistress. I decided he’d probably had dealings with the mafia in his time. Perhaps he had had people killed, back in the day. Perhaps he would have me killed, for ruining his mojo with my fro and my SeanJohn. Perhaps I should make a run for it.

But what if I wasn’t fast enough? I’m not particularly nimble. What if he caught me?

Luckily, a nurse came to collect me before I actually worked myself into enough of a frenzy to run away or accuse anyone of plotting to kill me. She was a remarkably cheerful, chatty young woman, pretty and fresh-faced and rosy — in fact, she and the receptionist together would have combined to cover all the nuances of Julie Andrews. She was a temp, she told me. Was it quite cold outside? We would have to go up four flights of stairs, but Oh, weren’t these old buildings beautiful? Wheezing and spaced out, I made a valiant attempt at small talk through all four flights. She led me into a room.

I don’t know if any of you have seen the 1988 Daniel Day-Lewis, Juliette Binoche adaptation of Unbearable Lightness of Being, but the room I walked into was straight out of the Prague hospital where Day-Lewis (or Tomas, for those who have read the book but not seen the movie) worked. It was huge, airy, high-ceilinged, and absolutely bare. It felt like our voices should be echoing. Tucked in one corner was an old fashioned sink and a small, serious looking cabinet. And right smack in the middle of all that empty space, all alone: a single turquoise-upholstered dentist’s chair. Standing at the door, transfixed by the chair, I realized I was shaking the hand of a tall, hunky, aggressively blonde man in a white lab coat. His name was Hans. Hans Lock.

Hans is Danish, and when I told Hans my name, Hans got very very excited and said something to me in very fast Danish, because he thought I might be Danish, because apparently, Maya is a very common name in Denmark. Hans was sad when I was forced to admit no, not Danish, sorry, and I, too, was saddened by the whole affair. I bemoaned my non-Danish roots. Still, we rallied, and over the next half hour, Hans checked and cleaned my teeth, told me my fears of late-stage gingivitis were largely unfounded, and promised to fix my snaggle tooth when he got back from his holiday trip in January. Dazed, I thanked Hans and made my way out of the building.

At no point did anyone yell at me for not getting regular dental check-ups or taking better care of my teeth. At no point did Hans try to make me feel guilty for smoking or berate me for not brushing after lunch as well as breakfast and dinner. I’d just been to the dentist, and no one had tried to scare me with apocalyptic predictions of toothlessness by age thirty unless I changed my thoughtless ways. The only thing Hans had said that wasn’t outright congratulatory was a mild “you could floss more,” and even that had been presented as a kind of friendly offering, take it or leave it, in case I really wanted a little somethinsomethin to spice up my oral hygiene routine.

I was filled with joy. I decided I loved Hans, and I fucking loved Mary Poppins, too, in all her incarnations. The cake in my belly kicked into overdrive. I bid Reception Poppins adieu with a knowing, familiar nod of the head, and stepped out into the street with a light heart: Russian mafia and SeanJohn be damned, it was a beautiful day.

It wasn’t until half a block later that I realized I had no clue where, in fact, I was.

Or how to get home.

Today was Rory’s birthday.

Somehow, all of us managed to pull ourselves together and coordinate our movements enough to converge at the same location at roughly the same time — quite a feat considering that between us, we had to overcome both agoraphobia and chronic lateness. The next six hours saw us getting shitfaced at the Lyceum on the Strand, drunkenly barreling through Covent Garden (“Look at all the fancy people and their bow ties!” “Bastards! Let’s storm the Opera House!!”) and Leicester Square (“That is the WORST possible place you could pee!!” “What, the Burger King? Why??”), all the way to SoHo, where we were refused entry to G-A-Y due to the lateness of the hour and directed to another, slightly harder to find club, also mysteriously called G-A-Y. (Although everyone else in our party happens to be straight, the birthday boy plays for the other team so the rest of us were up for whatever he wanted to do: tonight was his night.)

Although I am saddened to report that I may not be the lesbian-magnet I always secretly hoped I would be (apparently my inherent mannishness does not induce swooning in either sex), I think I can still say that a good time was had by all. A fair amount of energetic “dancing” and soulful lip syncing to Fergie and Paris Hilton went on. Jono attracted a respectable number of Looks, and I will never forget the sight of McFeely in his old man “house cardigan,” breaking it down to some serious ‘Let’s Get the Party Started’ Pink action.

It’s early in the morning now, and I have three stragglers passed out in various corners of my room. Because they are (mostly)normal human beings who go to SLEEP after being ridiculous all night. I, on the other hand, choose to sit, creepily lit only by the light of my computer, Madonna classics still ringing in my ears, wide awake and typing away.

I really like these people. Even though some of them (just be glad I don’t name names) snore.

A couple weeks ago, two of my closest friends here in London moved into my neighborhood. Their new place is just a ten minute stroll down the road. Happily, both Jonathan and David are excellent young men. More to the point, they are also both nocturnally inclined (though not quite as extremely so as myself).

Last Thursday, seizing the opportunity to emerge from my cigarette ash and empty soda can-ridden lair, I made the trek over to their Murray Street residence. Over the course of about four hours we put away a bottle of Smirnoff and three bottles of wine, all to the
soothing tones of CocoRosie and David’s ceaseless ranting. A good time was had by all.

For a fuller understanding of what happened next, it’s important to note here that I am an unusually genial drunk. When I drink to excess, I invariably reach a stage where I truly feel that all is well with the world. I laugh too much at very little. I befriend strangers. I wonder loudly why we can’t All Just Get Along. I become very very difficult to offend.

So, it’s been a good night and I am Happy Drunk. Four a.m. rolls around, and although I’m still good to go, the boys have actually been awake for most of the day and need to get some rest. After giving David a final poke or two, I take my leave. I may be happy, but I feel a little too drunk to walk the epic distance home, so I weave my way over to the 24 hour bus stop across the street. I sit. Two Beck songs and a couple of cars go by.

Camden is generally quite lively at all hours, but Murray Street and Agar Grove are relatively residential so there’s very little traffic. It’s mildly sketchy, but not much more than anywhere in London at four a.m. I notice a red car come into view down the road. It drives up and slows down; without really thinking anything of it, I pop a headphone out of an ear and lean forward. Maybe they want directions. The driver rolls down his car window and, in a tone I can only describe as politely inquisitive, asks:

“You want some business?”

Without skipping a beat, I hear myself go, “No, no thanks!”

He nods cheerfully and drives off.

I serenely stick the headphone back in my ear.

Slowly, the meaning of the exchange starts to pierce my Drunk Happy haze: That was random. Business? Wait. Have I just been solicited for prostitution? No, no, that can’t be right. Why would? What? Have I? I have! HAHAHA! I have, haven’t I? I have! And I thanked him! HAHAHAHA! I CAN’T BELIEVE I THANKED HIM. What? No. Nonono. Maybe he was just trying to sell me drugs. But then wouldn’t he have just said…? No. Nooo, he said “business.” As if I’d set up shop at the goddamn bus stop. Ha. Yep. Yeeeeeeep, that man definitely just offered to pay me for sex. HAHAHA! WEIRD. What a strange strange man. He must’ve been having a rough night. This is the. weirdest. thing. ever.

The frantic inner monologue continues through the next song on my playlist. Then, suddenly, I realize that the car is COMING BACK. The man drove off for about a minute and a half, U-TURNED, and came BACK. Genuinely curious and on a kind of stunned automatic pilot, I take the headphone out of my ear. He’s on my side of the street now, much closer than before. The window is down. He smiles, friendly:

“You SURE you don’t want some business?”

And again, I hear myself happily reply, “Yeeep, I’m preeetty sure! Thanks, though!”

He nods matter of factly and drives off, back in the direction he originally came from.

The headphone goes back into the ear.

…PRETTY SURE? I’m PRETTY SURE? So what, I wasn’t completely sure?? What was I doing, waiting for a better offer?? WHAT!? And I THANKED him AGAIN! I can’t believe he came back.
I can not BELIEVE he came back. You know what that means? That means my first answer was casual enough that it didn’t occur to him that he’d made a mistake, that maybe, despite my fatness and scintillating SWEATSHIRT and JEANS, I might NOT be a HOOKER. Did he think I was just not in the mood? That I might give a different answer the second time around!? WHAT? WHAT? WHAT IS going ON!

* * *

Clearly, going to bed in the afternoon and waking up at midnight to start your ‘day’ is a lifestyle that doesn’t lend itself to a lot of normal social interaction. I’m just saying.