The following is a list of shit that I do by myself:

Go to the movies. Eat at restaurants. Go to my friends’ weddings. Choose a health care plan. Have sex.

Please. Hold your applause.

After years of going to movies, dinners, and weddings by myself, I had determined that I was a pretty good date so why not take it a bit further and really go somewhere alone?

Typically, when I travel, I’m lucky enough to be visiting friends or family. But I figured after a few years of sleeping on air mattresses or couches, of spending my visits trying to see as many as possible in the space of a few days, I deserved a vacation where I could do whatever I wanted to do because I was the only person to consider when it came to planning what to do. No debates over which meals to dine out, no arguing over which train or bus to take, and if I wanted to pay too much money to visit the Doctor Who experience, nobody would scold me for it.

Back in January, I got some extra income from a freelance writing gig right around the time that United Airlines reduced the number of frequent flier miles needed to fly to Europe. A single imaginary light bulb went off over my head.

I spent a few days dithering about the when and where, then finally booked a ticket to London, a city I had not visited in nearly 20 years, and reserved a room called “The Captain’s Cabin” at the Lincoln House Hotel. I acquired a carry-on suitcase, started brushing up on my English (ha ha), and remembered that if I had to shop for pants at any point during my stay I should remember to ask for “trousers” lest I be directed to ladies underwear.

My flight departed Chicago the evening of Valentine’s Day, landing at Heathrow the next morning. The flight itself was uneventful, pleasant, even, as I had a row of seats to myself and when the flight attendant came around with drinks I got the whole can of Coca-Cola.

Truthfully, I hate flying (I even used to fear it terribly) and I remember thinking if the plane crashed into the Atlantic Ocean or into Iceland, would I feel okay about some unknown news outlet, in covering the tragedy, referring to me as “lonely London-bound lady tourist, Jasmine Davila, aged 46″?

Sure, but only if that news outlet was the New York Times.

Once I landed, and got through security, I took the tube from Heathrow to my hotel in Marylebone during rush hours so my suitcase, which I previously thought was so small and handy, tagged me as a tourist and got in the way of commuters as they tried to board the train.

Upon arriving at my hotel at 9:30, I was informed that my room wouldn’t be ready until 1:00, so I spent 3 and a half hours taking the tube all over central London instead of doing something sensible like finding a place to sit down, have a bite to eat, and just chilling. Instead of eating one of those absurdly large English breakfasts people go on about, I found myself tromping up and down the banks of the Thames, avoiding seagulls and German tourists wearing pristine sneakers.

It was probably just as well that I was alone as I can’t imagine that anything I could have said to another person would have made any sense. I’d been up for over 24 hours, my hair was greasy and frizzy at the same time, and my eyeliner was in desperate need of a refresh. If I happened to encounter you during this period, I apologize for freaking you out with my appearance.

Once I was permitted to check into what I discovered was the tiniest hotel room in the world, I took a shower, tuned the television to the UK version of TLC, ate some prawn flavored crisps, and passed out.

The next morning, I took a train to Paris (ooh la la!) to visit the Louvre. The museum was full of Italian and Spanish teenage girls, all sporting Amy Winehouse hairdos and spraytans. There were school groups led by handsome young male teachers who, luckily for me, liked to wear their trousers a bit more snugly than their American counterparts. Maybe the heat was on a bit too strong, or I was getting overheated from all the pants, so I left the museum after a couple of hours and looked for something to eat that wasn’t from a one of the stands selling sausages or watered down hot chocolate.

Exiting the museum, I made my way to the Left Bank, which was lined with expensive restaurants on one side and antique book sellers on the other. I had the faintest notion that I was heading west, towards the Ponts des Arts.

It’s a bridge where lovers go and lock locks onto it, swearing eternal love and devotion (or at least until someone comes along and cuts those locks off). As soon as I caught sight of the bridge, I could feel my face contorting into a grimace. “Fuck that bridge!” I said. “Who needs it? Not me!”

And then I got kinda sad. Here I was, alone, in the city everybody seems to agree is the most romantic city on Earth, bound towards probably its most romantic spot. I thought about turning around, heading towards someplace dark and lonely where I could be sad. Instead, I sped up a bit, humming and then singing this song:

Never mind, I’ll find someone like you

I paused, looked to see if anybody heard me. Nobody except a couple of pigeons. So I kept going, singing as I strolled across the bridge and took pictures of the locks and the lovers who shared the bridge with me.

I wish nothing but the best for you
Don’t forget me, I beg
I remember you said,
“Sometimes it lasts in love but sometimes it hurts instead.”

Once I was finished, I was on land again and, finally, completely ravenous for something to eat.

Hey, it’s Asian Adele!

This totally killer poster was designed by Chien-An Yuan.

I’m reading something (that I have yet to write) for Solo in the Second City: Live at Transistor.

I’m pretty sure I’m going to write something about: recent solo trips to the movies, my first solo vacation three months ago, how some grown-ass men on the bus act all delicate when my allegedly gigantic self sits in the vacant seat next to them, and how I think my brother and I may be turning into Matthew and Marilla from Anne of Green Gables.

It’s gonna be swell. There will be readings from Carly, Melinda, and me, and a musical performance by Jon & Carly. Afterwards, maybe we can all go get a hamburger or something.

• Solo In The Second City: Live at Transistor [FB]
• TRANSISTOR [www]
• Solo in the Second City [tmblr]
• Chien-An Yuan (designer who created the gorgeous poster)

Adrienne took this photo of me a few nights ago. We were at an after-party for a screening of The Avenger. The movie and the party were awesome. Adrienne is great company.

I could have probably used a little translucent powder. Otherwise, I think I look fine.

There was a guy at the party that Adrienne thinks was flirting with me, but I’m not so sure as he was wearing a wedding ring. I guess that shouldn’t stop people from flirting with each other but I’m old fashioned about that sort of thing.

Katniss says thank you for your support

I want to start a podcast called “May the Broads Be Ever In Your Favor” where I would talk about The Hunger Games with my grown lady friends who also want to talk about the books, the movie and, most importantly, PEETA.

I finished reading Mockingjay earlier today. As soon as I put it down, I tucked The Hunger Games into my bag to start reading all over again tomorrow.

I saw the movie over the weekend with Robyn and Jacinda, and I really enjoyed it. I cried when (SPOILER) Rue was killed in the movie, just like I cried when she was killed in the book. I told Jacinda about this after the movie, when the three of us were standing in the courtyard of the movie theater, talking about our favorite parts (PEETA) before we went back up to the theater lounge to have a drink. She laughed at me and said that it seems I have more sympathy for fictional characters than my friends in real life.

I thought it was funny that people laughed whenever the movie showed Gale looking mournful after a shot of Katniss and PEETA getting cozy during the Games. The muttations bursting out of the woods to chase them towards the cornucopia was frightening. Also, could the actress who played Rue be any more perfect and heartbreaking? I thought the importance of the symbol of the mockingjay as a symbol of rebellion should have been left in. Woody Harrelson as Haymitch, Elizabeth Banks as Effie, Stanley Tucci as Caesar, and Lenny Kravitz as Cinna were perfectly cast. I could also see Prince playing Cinna but maybe in an alternate universe where Katniss is played by, like, Robyn (the Swedish pop singer, not my friend Robyn). I wanted to hiss whenever President Snow appeared, kinda like how people hiss at Pinkerton when he appears in Madame Butterfly. Nobody in the theater gave the district 12 salute when Katniss did after arranging the flowers around Rue’s body, but I really wanted to. I may start greeting people like that just to mess with them. Also because I am a dweeb.

I didn’t see that anybody dressed up for our showing, though we saw the movie on Saturday night and not Thursday at midnight when the hardcore fan boys and girls would have seen the movie. Maybe I can convince Robyn and Jacinda to dress up when Catching Fire comes out next year. I think we’d look awesome as, say, Katniss, Johanna Mason, and Effie. Now if we could find some nice dudes to dress up as Peeta, Haymitch, and Finnick to join us.

Time to Destination

So. London.

I’ve been back a month and I’ve told some pals my trip was good. That’s true enough, but I still felt weird for, like, the first half of my trip. I was travelling alone so for some reason I thought that meant I shouldn’t talk to people because what if they find out I’m American and alone and start making fun of me or something.

Then I remembered I was a grown-ass woman and started to enjoy myself and then I got incredibly sick on my last full day, which was also the day I spent hanging out with my old friend Drew, which was awesome except for how I felt like I wanted to die.

But before we get to the weirdness, and the illness, and the bird shit I found on my coat on my fourth day, which means a bird may have shit on me on London or in Paris (where I went on a day trip, just an excuse to take the Eurostar), and the totally mediocre tea at Harrod’s that I paid way too much money for, let’s begin with day 1. Or day 0, which is what I call the evening of February 14, when my flight departed.

I’d packed my belongings into two carry-on bags, a large-ish Jason Wu for Target purse and a wheelie bag I bought from a dude I follow on Tumblr, Billy Poobah. Billy is not his actual name (and neither is Poobah, for that matter), but I got to see his actual house which is lovely, meet his charming wife, and play with his adorable dog. He reminisced about his own trips to London, and how he met Paul McCartney (or was it John Lennon?) in Trafalgar Square as the Beatle fell out of a Rolls Royce.

The suit case tended to wiggle, almost stumble, if I pulled it on two wheels but if I pushed it along on four it was fine. This didn’t do much to enhance my image as an international woman of mystery at the security checkpoint once I got to O’Hare. My outfit didn’t help much, either. I dressed for comfort, putting my hair up in two twists to get it out of my face (as well as coax its natural wave so that it looked less like instant ramen noodles). I wore my favorite black sheath dress, leggings, and black suede boots that looked sort of like sneakers.

In my head, I looked like a vaguely exotic abstract artist. In reality, I looked like an overgrown Goth toddler. There were quite a number of stylish looking gentlemen at the same checkpoint, who all looked like they should have their own personal menswear Tumblr blogs while I may as well have sprung live from a neglected LiveJournal account. I thought maybe these two incredibly hot yet incredibly young dudes were gawking which made me feel indignant. Didn’t they know I was a celebrated blogger who has read her writing, out loud, in front of people, just the night before?

I feel like I should also mention that the day I flew out was also like, day 3 of my period. Dudes, feel free to skip this but ladies, seriously? I have PCOS so when I do get my period it’s usually like three or four times a year for, like, a very long, heavy week and I NO LIKEY. Not to mention that what does come out looks less like liquid and more like, aspic. I know, GROSS, but I’ve been needing to get that out (so to speak – oh period humor!) and I promise I will never write about my period times again. So getting picked to stand in the special X-Ray machine was extra super fun, what with the personal baggage and the bleedage.

Okay, whingeing over.

I take an absurd pleasure in having to slog all the way to the C concourse, where the international flights leave from. Like “Ha ha, assholes who are stuck in B concourse — have fun flying to some place boring like, um, Columbus. This bitch is going to London!” My pleasure disappears when I see the gate area overrun by a family consisting of two parents and five small children under the age of 9. The kids are loud and boisterous and not very attractive (sorry). I chug a Coca-Cola from the pretzel stand and double-check my purse for the following to ensure they are present and accounted for:

• tickets
• money
• passport
• ancient laptop
• copy of Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy
• makeup bag
• “feminine hygiene supplies”

The kids share food and fight over an iPod touch, which the oldest child keeps taking to charge from various outlets scattered around the gate area. When we begin boarding, I’m happy to leave them behind as they try to get themselves sorted. I find my window seat in coach (more happy), which is rather empty (even more happy). The loud family eventually board, and take their seats behind me.

Happiness over.

I’m glad that I’m no longer as terrified as flying as I was for that period from September 2007 through January 2010 when the thought of getting on a plane made me want to scream and flail about. I don’t grip the armrest of my seat as we depart so much as, um, caress it with purpose. And maybe I do plant my feet a bit too firmly on the floor beneath my feet. I just tell myself “Physics is real. Physics is real. Physics is real.” while I watch the light grid of Chicago shrink beneath us.

Dinner is “beef”:

"the beef"

I drink a lot of water and ginger ale and coca-cola while I navigate the “new to 1993″ seatback entertainment system. Actually, I do find this very exciting, as I’ve never had all these personal entertainment options before. I can watch The Three Musketeers in English, German, French, or Spanish! I can listen to the “alternative rock” or just look at the map which showed us as being a mere 7 hours and 59 minutes away from good old London.

I counted that time in cups of water I drank, the number of times I watched Puss in Boots, and the number of times I had to use the lav to either pee or attend to my lady business. Which was real fun when I saw that I’d run out of my own supplies and started using the stuff United had stashed away for passenger lady times. Actually, it wasn’t so bad. I had my pick of the lavs, as there weren’t many passengers and what passengers there were all slept (lucky bastards) while I remained awake, jittery, menstrual, and excited as we glided over the Atlantic towards a new English day.

mama J: And you will be happy to know little H will be relieved you’re home. I told her you were on vacation, and she’s been telling everyone her “aunt jasmine is far away for a long time.” awwww… Sad!

me: Awwww! My heart is breaking!

mama J: It’s not like she sees you SO often… I think she just likes knowing you’re around.

Admit it, you’re crying too, aren’t you?

London trip report coming soon.

Quite a bit, as it turns out. My piece (as written, though not exactly as delivered) is below. Happy reading, and happy Valentine’s Day.

When Four Weddings and a Funeral came out in 1994, I saw it three times.

Unlike other 18 year olds in New York City in 1994 who were doing more exciting things like sneaking into the Tunnel and smoking pot behind the Metropolitan Museum of Art, I spent my time and my allowance watching that flopping, stuttering hairdo of a man, Hugh Grant, make a fool of himself over the lovely (if somewhat leaden) Andie MacDowell.

I thought Hugh was adorable (that hair!), funny (that timing!), and a total nerd (who still managed to bang Andie MacDowell). To me, he was my ideal man. In fact, he was the only man.

You see, I attended an all-girls school from grades seven through twelve, and I didn’t see many boys on a daily basis.

Okay, that’s not exactly true. I’d see boys from Regis High School on the subway on the way to school. Or peer at Collegiate boys at dances where they talked to my more sophisticated classmates, my classmates who looked good in black Lycra mini-skirts and smoked Marlboro Lights and who had previously made these boys’ acquaintance at a far away, magical place for rich people called “tennis camp”.

And it didn’t help that at this time my older sister was something of a party girl, something that brought my parents no end of worry.

While I was sitting in the dark, making this gesture [MAKE “NOW KISS” GESTURE] while Hugh and Andie got to know each other [MAKE SEX GESTURE WITH FINGER AND PALM] all over the English countryside, she was bouncing through some of the city’s more notorious clubs, sometimes wearing nothing more than a corduroy mini skirt, rainbow platform Converse sneakers, and two star shaped stickers over her nipples in lieu of a top.

So, um, yeah, she wasn’t hanging out with me (which is fine because my nipples don’t quite look right with stars – more of a hearts girl).

And my classmates with the boys whose names all seemed to end in a number like “the third” weren’t willing to cede any social ground to a chubby girl from Queens who did this [MAKE “NOW KISS” GESTURE] and this [MAKE SEX GESTURE WITH FINGER AND PALM] every time she saw a Hugh Grant movie. New York was no place for Jasmine, which was good — me and New York, we were through.

When I came to Chicago for college, I thought “Oh boy. OH! BOYS!”

There would be parties and mixers and study breaks and sock hops and furtive necking in library stacks! Boys and girls and boys and girls together! After six years of single sex education, I was fully prepared to spend college putting the “ho ed” in “co ed”.

Sorry.

ANYWAY.

To prepare for college I watched “Revenge of The Nerds” and “Dead Poets Society”. I bought a hot pot, and packed my rice cooker, because, you know, [GESTURES AT FACE], I’m Asian.

I packed only my most sophisticated “This bitch is from NYC” clothes, which in the fall of 1994 included:

• red rubber gardening clogs
• a green silk pajama top
• black platform sandals I bought off a homeless man’s blanket in Chinatown
• green canvas overalls
• purple canvas overalls

The male population of the University of Chicago was never going to know what hit ‘em!

I never had a chance.

I couldn’t compete with Nobel laureate professors who promised hours of unpaid lab work. I couldn’t compete with the girl physics concentrators (because we don’t major at the U of C we CONCENTRATE) with frizzy hair and thick glasses who didn’t wear bras under their shapeless turtlenecks. I listened to too much Madonna for the dudes who played in bands, and gossiped too much for the serious guys who wrote for the school paper. I wasn’t brave enough or even smart enough to try to date any professors.

The dudes I thought I maybe had half a shot with were gay.

(Or if they weren’t gay when they met me, they certainly were after.)

I had no role models for dating, I didn’t think. It felt like my friends hooked up in secret (if they hooked up at all) because they didn’t admit they were not total studying machines. Or they ended up with the first person whose genitals they got to touch during O-Week and stayed with that person through college, grad school, and then married them.

Where was the romance (or at least just the sex?) I’d been expecting? Whenever I saw people huddled together on campus I’d get excited because I thought they were necking but then I realized they were just standing together to keep warm.

I started writing a fake advice column where I’d give romantic advice to letters I’d written to myself. Nobody knew the column was fake except me and my editor, a tall man with shaggy hair and matching beard that caused everybody to call him “The Wookiee” behind his back.

In this column, I like to think I counseled lovelorn University of Chicago students that were not me. Even if they didn’t write the letters, who wouldn’t be able to relate to these imaginary letter writers who were endlessly wondering how to get a date, how to find love, how to give love, and how to recognize it.

I wrote a lot of columns over those years, asking and answering questions both serious and silly. I have those old columns saved on a Zip disk (hey, 1997, what’s up?!), and I’d like to see what they say exactly, and whether any any of the wisdom I dispelled from the wise old ages of 19 to 22 still holds true.

I’m at that age where a lot of my friends are married or hooked up, with babies and mortgages and proper jobs.

I like to think that the ones from college are where they are because they read those dumb columns I wrote all those years ago, and maybe somewhere between the bad jokes about sex and cafeteria food, there was something there, something they learned from my mistakes and my inaction, that drove them to make risks, to take chances, to fall in love and get married and have all these goddamn adorable babies that I’m going broke buying presents for.

I mean, I don’t know that for sure. I mean, I’m self-centered, but I’m not a complete asshole.

The Oscar nominations were announced this morning. Alas, your name was not among those listed for the category “Actor In a Leading Role”.

I’m sure you’re probably feeling okay — let’s face it, I think any nomination for Shame from the Academy was a long shot — but if you find you need to be consoled (read: make out a little bit), let me know.

Your friend,
Jasmine

Okay!

There is a lady on this bus who, when she opens her mouth ever so slightly, looks like a human Muppet. #eep #FB—
Jasmine D (@jasmined) January 11, 2012

I joined Leah, Dena, and Maria for dinner at Agami (cheap sushi! half-price martinis!) on Tuesday night. As you might be able to tell from the tweet above, I took the Broadway bus. The Broadway bus is probably my favorite long-running show in Chicago. The Muppet-ish girl wasn’t even especially weird or weird-looking, but when she’d open her mouth every so slightly and kind of smile, I would get so freaked out.

@carlyo Yes. Unless the Wendy's is still open after the movie…—
Jasmine D (@jasmined) January 11, 2012

I saw the Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol movie with Carly on Wednesday night. The movie was fun. Jeremy Renner and Tom Cruise wore ALL THE TIGHT PANTS and I am grateful. After the movie, we went to Wendy’s, which is kind of a thing we have. While we ate our burgers, we had a good talk about relationship stuff.

Carly and her friend Melinda have invited me to read something at a reading they have scheduled in a few weeks. I have to write about being single in Chicago. It took me until, like, last night, to figure out what to write about. I have some ideas and some jokes and maybe even some tears to share. Right now my working title is “Are you there, Katherine Heigl? It’s me, Jasmine” and I hope that’s funny enough that you might want to hear what I have to say.

This is something I saw on Tumblr and it’s fucking hilarious:

source: youreyesyourlies.tumblr.com

And finally: my friend Jacqui tweeted that she wants to write a book called “Cooking with Lard” with her friend Cesar. When a quick search of Amazon.com verified the existence of a book with that title, I offered some suggestions.

@ejacqui @urraca So call it something else like Lard Almighty. Praise The Lard. My Sweet Lard. A Lard Day's Night. Lard Times. Die Lard.—
Jasmine D (@jasmined) January 12, 2012

I think “Praise The Lard” is my favorite.

Okay, it's official. See you next month, London. #ticketsmoneypassport #FB—
Jasmine D (@jasmined) January 12, 2012

So London it is. I am very excited. I haven’t been to the UK since, um, 1993.

To prepare, I’ll be watching lots of movies like this little gem starring Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen called, um, Winning London.

Also, I am reading Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy, re-watching episodes of “Absolutely Fabulous”, and listening to The Clash, The  Jam, and Pulp. Putting malt vinegar on my fries, and sticking extra U’s in words that don’t seem to need them.