BU Abroad: Glass Slippers Make It Hard to Dance

After two years at BU, Boston was beginning to feel very small, both geographically and in terms of the pool of potential romantic partners. I was ready for a change, and decided to spend a semester in London. After all, there is still royalty in England, so why not a Prince Charming for me?
            The first weekend here, my friends and I donned our dresses and heels and headed down to a club in Piccadilly Circus. After showing the guard our IDs (and being allowed in!), we were set loose in what seemed to be a dreamland. Young, attractive British men filled the room, and over the pulsing music, the sound of their delicious accents was clear. As we made our way to the bar, one of them caught my eye. He was attractive, with a voice like Colin Firth and the boyish charm of Hugh Grant. A smile was all it took to initiate a conversation that led to a drink, a dance, and an evening spent together.
            He asked for my number before I left, and, knowing better than to get my hopes up, I gave it to him without any expectation of hearing from him again. Much to my surprise, a text arrived as I had breakfast the next morning (ending with “xx,” or “kisses”). I was so pleased–after all, a guy that texts well is certainly one to hold on to. “This is not real life!” I kept declaring to my friends. Clearly all my trouble finding a nice boy had been purely tied to location.
           
We met for drinks a few nights later, and had a lovely time. He seemed interested in my life, asked me questions and laughed at my jokes. We talked for hours, shared a sampler of bar food, and parted with the promise to see each other again soon. I couldn’t stop smiling on the tube ride home.
            True to form, he contacted me within a few days to make plans to meet again. When the day arrived, I texted him in the afternoon to confirm. As I did my make-up, I obsessively checked my phone, but it remained textless. “I’m sure he’s just at work,” my roommate assured me. “He’ll probably text you back when you’re on your way.” Though I was less than sure, I took her advice and went anyways.
            Emerging from the tube stop at Covant Garden, my phone refused to inform me of any new texts and, though I was ten minutes late, he was not waiting outside. I gave him a few minutes, then left. I wasn’t devastated–after all, I barely knew the guy–but I was disappointed. It wasn’t so much the lack of an evening with him that hurt, but the fact that I was losing my fairy-tale vision of life here.
            Refusing to go back home, I wandered the small cobblestone streets and ended up at the theater playing the musical “Les Miserables.” On a whim, I purchased a 15 pound ticket and lost myself in the lush score and tragic story line. When the show ended, I dried my eyes, fixed my mascara, and headed downtown to meet two friends at a club. I was embarrassed to tell them what had happened, but their hugs and reassurances quickly made me feel better. We spent the next few hours dancing and laughing, just enjoying each other’s company.
            As I rode the night bus home, sleepily resting my head on one of their shoulders, I thought back over my evening. Exploring a fabulous city, enjoying world-class but cheap theater, and dancing the night away with amazing friends? Something tells me Cinderella wouldn’t have minded ditching her prince for a night like that.
            And what ever happened to the guy? He later apologized and claimed that he’d had a “work thing,” and, while I’m sure that’s true, I’m not exactly dying to give him the chance to make it up to me that he keeps asking for. After all, there’s plenty of other fish in the clubs.