Being a Blacktress is NSFW!

Oh god, this week is flying by, guys! I’ve been so swamped with work that I almost forgot to tell you the story of the cray-cray married guy who was all up in my George Foreman during the office trip. Let me start from the beginning…

So, from Tuesday, 9/21 through Monday, 9/27, I was in Laguna Beach, California, for work. We were hosting a 4-day art workshop and conference, where members of Caucasia who love pictures of fruit in bowls, sunlit landscapes, and portraits of fair maidens could learn from today’s top artists and network.

You may be thinking, “You got to go to California for a week, Sojourner?! You’re one lucky blacktress!” I thought the same thing when I walked into my swanky hotel room with its king-sized bed, flat-screen tv, and private deck. As I walked the grounds of the hotel and noted the two pools, two Jacuzzis, and spa on site, I thought my reparations had finally arrived!

Alas, I would have very little opportunity to take advantage of these amenities, as wearing my “EDITOR” badge made me a walking information booth to any and all passersby, and I had to cover as many workshops, lectures, and demonstrations as possible in hopes of getting content for future articles. Of course, that’s what they pay me for, so it wasn’t a problem. It was, however, a bit boring, as each artist’s work began to look the same, and after the first day, I’d stretched the limits of polite office-acquaintance conversation.

So, when I met the G---, the AV director who was shooting the weekend’s happenings, I was eager to have a conversation with a human who wasn’t looking to hustle some magazine coverage and who I didn’t sit in a tiny hovel with 40 hours a week. We met Friday afternoon by the pool during a break, and the fact that he was a tall bearded ginger immediately endeared him to me (You know I love me a pasty pale redhead). We mostly chatted about who’s office was more bootleg, and I told him a bit about moonlighting in comedy. He was nice and funny, and his wedding ring, coupled with my Jewboo, made the lines very clear to me. I made him show me pics of his son and asked him about his wife—pregnant with twins! It was very PG.

It reminded me of making a friend at summer camp—you know how you meet someone under specific circumstances, and you become friends in that world? There’s the instant bond and you’re vibing on everything, and you’re just so desperate for human connection that you're willing to overlook the fact that he was googling your name and talking about you to other people because you don’t want it to get awkward?
Yeah, just like camp.

When a coworker came up to me later that night and said, “Someone’s got a crush on you…” I laughed it off--but I was a bit shocked by the news of being Googled (I wondered what that tingling was below my belt earlier). G----- and I had hugged goodnight, with me calling him a “big ginger bear of a man.”
There is nothing sexy about that phraseology whatsoever.

So you can imagine my surprise when, after seeing if he wanted to meet for lunch by the pool the next day, he responded with, “Not sure when I’m done, but you by the pool would be fun.”
Is it just me, or does that read a little sexy-like? I shook it off, but could deny it no longer when I showed up to his room before the evening event and he said, “Stand-up, man… that seems like the hardest job in the world…i think you're...sexy.”
What?! A married 40-year-old man just told me I was sexy in a hotel room. I felt like I was in a scene from Mad Men. I laughed it off, pointing out the neediness inherent in anyone who chooses to make a career out of standing in front of people and asking them to laugh. He complimented me on my red dress (it was a silent auction and closing event—you know I had to bring it for the paparazzi), and I skidaddled. It felt icky, but I didn’t know what to say because nothing was explicit, you know?

Later that night, I left the after party after 5 minutes (With a week of schmoozing, I made it a point to pace myself when it came to the schmoozing), and received a text from G------ shortly thereafter. Any attempts to shake it off were immediately dashed when I read:
“I think you’re sweet. I really dig being around you. Til next time…”

Of course, there’s nothing sketchy about thinking someone’s “sweet” (and it’s the last way I’d describe myself), but for someone I’d known all of 30 hours, simply “being around me” had moved him, and I was squirming in my ridiculously large king-sized bed.
He was leaving the next day—thank goodness!—and I wrote back, “have a safe flight!” and he wrote:

“I’ll see you on gchat, although it’ll pale in comparison to the real thing….”

My god, did I turn him out, y’all?! He’s trippin’ like I’m his first blacktress! Of course, my long-time readers will know this situation is nothing new. But now that I’m Jewboo’ed up, in a REALationship that’s on the up and up, I just feel icky and gross. And I also kind of detest the male gender. You are fucking 40, with a tiny tot and twins on the way, and you’re telling a blacktress she’s sexy??? In the words of Whitney…… I swear, if Jewboo did some shit like that, he’d end up having a second bris!

What say you, gentle readers? Were his texts all harmless? Should he be ashamed of himself? At the very least, does he need to take a look at his marriage and get Dr. Phil on the horn?

Free Walking Tours - You Get What You Pay For

Yesterday I went on a free walking tour of Melbourne's CBD, sponsored by the city of Melbourne. I was really proud of myself for not only finding something free, but for actually showing up at the visitor's centre and taking part in it. This tends to be the running theme of my travels thus far. I look up activities 24/7, read through my 'Let's Go! Australia- On a Budget' and 'Lonely Planet' guide while taking notes on what's cool, and trying to memorize the city map so I avoid looking like a tourist in public (although my nubian nature gives me away). When I reach a destination listed in my book or recommended to me by a friend, I feel as though I'm super human, as though I was able to bring something from the pages of a book to life, causing it to materialize in front of me exactly where the map says it's going to be.

I arrived at my tour with energy, ready to get the inside-scoop from a Melbourne resident. As I waited for the group to gather, Glenn came out to wait. Glenn was a 60-70-something year old pensioner (retiree, in Australian) who gives tours simply for the love of the game. The other two members of my tour were Anne, a middle-aged Swedish woman, and Tibia, a large German woman.
Both wore sensible walking shoes and had harsh accents.
Glenn asked us our interests so that he could tailor the tour to our needs. I told him I was interested in the arts scene, as well as seeing the tiny sidestreets for which the city is famous.
Anne and Tibia* said they were interested in history.

Ugh, way to start a snooze-fest, guys.

We headed out at 9:30 and started off strong, with views of St. Patrick's Cathedral, the historic Flinders Street station, and the architectural schizophrenia that is Federation Square.
Soon, however, it devolved into what I can only describe as getting what you pay for.
At one point, we walked through a shopping center, into the entrance of a hotel. Without explanation, Glenn took us into the elevator, up to the 35th floor, and we exited onto a floor that held restaurants and a bar.
"Believe it or not, this is the best view you'll get of the entire city," Glenn said. "But, to really see it, you have to go into the bathrooms. [beat] so I'll just wait out here while you ladies duck in and have a look."

I kid you not.

We all went into the bathroom, which had a floor-to-ceiling window through which you could indeed see most of the city. It was quite nice, but....it was in a hotel bathroom. How were we even allowed in here without being guests? Where's the security?

Apparently, we weren't the only ones who knew about the view. After a minute, in walked three elderly women. One of them was tiny and Asian and I wanted to put her in my pocket when she said, "This is the most beautiful bathroom view I have ever seen."
I was dying to know what she was comparing it to.

We then walked through the restaurant, which was just finishing up breakfast, and looked out of the window from there. At one point, to illustrate Melbourne's penchant for "hidden gems," he took us down an alleyway into a small store that sold hats.

Seriously. We just walked in, he showed us the hats, and we left.

Glenn later tried to show us the banquet hall of an old hotel that used to be Melbourne's biggest and best, but there was a conference being held inside. Instead, he just described what it looked like.

At around 12:30, Glenn explained that if we wanted to see more, he just had to pop back in to the visitor's centre and sign out because he was only allotted 3 hours, but "was happy to continue on my own time." I wondered if Glenn was running from something in his sordid past by constantly giving walking tours, but refrained from asking. I politely explained that I had errands to run and thanked him for his time while Anne and Tibia decided to stay on board Glenn's derailed party train. While I think it's totally tender of Glenn to offer his time and loved the idea of getting a free overview of randomness, I couldn't give my whole day over to posing as a hotel guest so that I could admire architecture.

But the city really is awesome. Tiny side streets with hidden bars (it's like having a Bourgie Pig on every corner), delicious foodstuffs, and cool stores. It's all there, and I am feeling the Euro vibe. Tonight I'm seeing a play called "Macbeth Re-Arisen," which touts itself as "Shaun of the Dead meets Shakespeare" (finally! thank god someone is reading my memos!), and tomorrow I'm heading on a wine tour of the Yarra Valley--Melbourne's nearest wine country. Let's hope I'm not surrounded by French Canadians.