If I Were a Boy

I continue to meet and interact with many interesting people here in London. In NW8 and beyond, people seem genuinely interested in connecting with others and having friendly exchanges with perfect strangers. Of course, it may be because I am consciously walking around with my “radio wavelength” broadcasting the Open Heart station. This means that I am open and aware of sending my own distinctive vibe out into the world, while watching to see who responds to it. I will talk to anyone under many circumstances, but they usually have no clue as to what is going on energetically. Of course, if I don't have Women's Club, Stitchery, something at the school, or Hospice volunteering, I can spend the whole day in the flat (in bad weather) without talking to anyone all day. I try to avoid this for my sanity's sake.

"If I Were a Boy..." muses singer Beyonce, she wouldn't have to worry so much about how people see and judge her actions. I was thinking of this in the light of several conversations I had recently with perfect strangers in Starbucks. Would they react differently to the content of our casual conversations if I was not a woman? If I was not a middle-aged woman? I'm just talking to them as fellow humans, but I guess we cannot escape our "meat suits".

Several afternoons a week I can be found at the St. John’s Wood Starbucks, on the corner of Circus Road and St. John’s Wood High Street. My usual perch is on a stool at one of the counters that provides an excellent view of the street.

One day the only open seat was at the other window-view counter. It was raining out, as usual when I am there, and was so damp inside that the windows were almost completely fogged. I sat down and wiped a circle clear with my hand so I could watch the street scene, and went to pick up my order. As I returned to my stool, I noticed a youngish man with a sketchbook and colored pencils. He was executing an interesting swirly design involving a sinuous young woman with something that could have been a serpent’s tail. I was carrying my “mermaid bag” that I created over the summer, and laughed at how similar his design was to my half-clad mermaid at the bottom of the sea. I watched him out of the corner of my eye while sipping my tall vanilla latte. Some 11-year-old (American) boys were sitting nearby having their after-school snacks. They went over to him, looked over his shoulder, and proclaimed “that’s COOL—you’re really good!” He thanked them in an American accent, and told them that he admired the work of a particular artist named Hans something, and that they should look that guy up. The group was then collected by one of their moms and they were herded out into the rain.

Now that I knew he was American, and VERY much younger, I decided it was safe to strike up a conversation. He couldn't possibly think I was hitting on him. “This must be the seating area for the artists who use half-clad-women-as-motif”. He looked a little taken aback, and then laughed and said “yes, I noticed your mermaid”. He didn’t say “I notice your mermaid has bare breasts”. We then covered the weather, the relative merits of the Tate Britain (18th and 19th century British art, such as Wm. Blake, and the Pre-Raphaelites) versus Tate Modern. He asked if I lived in London, and I told him that not only did I live here, but was actually in residence on Abbey Road. He was staying with his cousin, and had been over to the Famous Pedestrian Crossing, but said it had never occurred to him to “re-enact” the crossing as I had just described it.

Next up for discussion was the possibility that I had somehow been subliminally affected by the Starbucks logo, which is a mermaid, in my choice of motif for the felted handbag. He mentioned that he didn’t even know the Starbucks logo IS a mermaid. I said “if you look at her carefully, it looks like she has one half of her tail in one hand and the other half in the other hand, like she actually has legs and has them split and is looking through them." He looked a little shocked at the fact that I was discussing this, but admitted that I was definitely right. Two young women at the nearest table who were listening to this whole exchange were visibly amused by the whole discussion. The conversation moved on to cities where we’d like to live. I managed to work Hubster in to the conversation, at which point the poor guy looked visibly relieved. At last he knew that I really wasn’t trying to hit on him. I left to go make dinner, and hope that he was able to strike up a discussion with the two attractive young things at the next table. I don’t care if they had a good laugh at my expense.

A couple of days later, there I was again, sipping my vanilla latte. A middle-aged stranger who was waiting for his caffeinated beverage managed to drop the beret he had tucked under his arm while ordering and paying. After waiting for a good count of ten for him to realize it was on the floor, I drew his attention to it. “Sir, is that your hat on the floor?” It was indeed. The only empty seat in the whole place was next to the ottoman on which I was perched, so in that very self-effacing British way he asked if he could sit there, adding in a comment about how poor the weather was that afternoon. He then thanked me again for calling his attention to his hat on the floor. I joked that “at first I thought perhaps you were throwing your hat into the ring”. He smiled and wondered where that phrase had originated. “Isn’t it a bull-fighting reference?” I asked. Yes, he thought so, although since his hat was a beret perhaps it needed a more French reference. “Frog-fighting” was all I could come up with. I was about to go on about waving a leaf of cress in front of the enraged Frog, but thought I should quit while I was ahead. I pulled my book out of my handbag, and he perused his paper, and thus endeth that day’s Starbucks Encounter.