Day 37 - The Married Woman

May 15th, 2015

Gym, online work for the temp agency, then met up with Australian Kirah at the little bird cafe. I’m trying to hit up most of the cafes around town to see what they’ve got going for them, and what I can take. Still a lot to hit up, but I’ve got some time still. We grab lunch at Flipsides, which is the supposedly “healthy” burger place. I'd recommend it, though I think we’re lying to ourselves if we start considering burgers to be healthy.

We say goodbye, and I head back to my place for a nap, as I still hadn’t caught up on any Z’s. It’s always confusing to fall asleep during daylight and wake up with the sun down. I contemplate going back to bed, but decide I should get up and get moving if I want to get myself in the mood for some wild horses. I attempt the curry again, this time with the proper spice package, and it’s leaps ahead. So damn good, though I put too much water in the rice. Who cares, any food is great when you're starving!

Our Back "Yard"
I coordinate a bit with the people who said they would be down, but the Canadiens cancel (possibility of selling the van in the morning), Berti said he had to work in the morning, but Brit Lawrence, German Inga and Katrin were still down. It shaped up that I would have to meet them at the bar. I usually hate this situation because you often end up hanging around the bar alone for a while, depending on how bad they are at tracking time while drinking.

As it turns out, that’s exactly what happens. I arrive alone and get real strong eye contact from some woman as I walk through to the washroom. It’s nice to feel wanted, especially when you have no one with you. Upon returning to the bar area, I stand by a wall and survey the for my friends. This woman makes her way around a couple tables and approaches me. She was incredibly flirty, kept touching me, and was generally good for chatting. She then tells me about her husband: Canadian, 6’5”, white. Ah. She has a type.

No one has arrived, still, so we go dance. I’m shit at dancing with a partner because I rarely do it. I’m used to doing my thing (read: stupid moves). My self-described style is “Extreme White Guy” where I do stupid moves, whatever comes to mind, and it’s slowly getting better as time goes on. Girls have gone so far as to actively tell me not to dance like that, which then makes me do even more exaggerated moves on purpose.

I find French Pierre and Xavier on the dance floor, and they give me some space assuming I’m trying to pursue this woman. I’m having a good time, dancing, singing, when things take an interesting turn: she kisses me. There had been many openings, which I actively avoided because that’s not my jam, man. I create a bit of space, but don’t disengage entirely until I find a fairly drunk Lawrence. He buys me a drink and seems to be having some luck with the ladies himself, so I disengage and talk to some random people. I don’t know if it was “middle aged” night or something, but that’s what a lot of the crowd was. I met a landlord who answered the question “how are you?” with a resounding “Salubrious!” He gave me the word, which means “good health; not worn down,” and told me to use it from then on. Sure, why not?

I maintained a more controlled level of alcohol, with the married woman’s married friend buying a couple rounds. I largely babysit the one who kissed me because she was messy drunk. I’m talking glossy eyes, and bumping into people to the point that the guys were getting mad at ME. I have fun dancing with her, dodging kisses, and helping her find her friend. Funny enough, the reason she was out with her friend was because she was celebrating the end of an era.

She had been working in the Perth diving industry for 10 years and now it was time to call it quits and move to Sydney with her husband, who had just landed a job there. She was upset and definitely not handling it the best way. I relate to her, telling her about my experience leaving Canada and coming here, and how I can empathize what she’s going through. At 2, I tell her that I’m going home, give her a long hug, tell her it’ll work out, and head home.

On my way home, I see a hulking Australian man actively, full-bodied throwing up in a garbage can. He was taking a break from the fun when I passed by, and I asked if he needed any help. Nope, he’s good where he is, he said. Cool. I walk the rest of the way home, cross paths by a passed out couple in Russell Square, and make it the rest of the way home without mishap.

I then ate a ham and white cheddar sandwich on a bun that French Stephen, who works at a bakery, had given me earlier in the day. Yum!