"Let's go out," my friend said to me, her voice tinged with excitement.
I accepted the invitation. A part of me hesitated with the thought of going out in the freezing, damp weather. And I had questions: What kind of music would they play? Would there be any other black people or any other people of color for that matter? Would I even get approached by anyone?
Sighing, I had to put my reservations aside, and the thoughts of an ideal night out in my memory box. We were young, American, and in a new city. We did what any young traveler would do in Budapest: christened it with that sweet, oh too sweet Hungarian wine, helping us to forget that we were out in the cold. We were warmed by the sweetness and the cold, which was the type that stung the inside of your nose. It went away with a blanket of drunken laughter, scattered like melodious notes amidst a hard, techno beat of that Hungarian nightclub.
I was ready. I threw on my silver, metallic shoes that I had purchased earlier from Zara. Thickened my eyes with that black kohl eyeliner, resembling a sort of desert nomad, protecting his eyes with that black, from the rays. My gold shimmery halter top enhanced the tones of my skin. I wanted it enhanced. I was different, compared to my two friends' milky tones that could found nestled among green rolling hills in a small Irish village. I was excited by my difference, by my exoticness. It felt good.
We exited, or rather stumbled out of the small elevator of our hotel. The young man at reception asked us if we were going out. We giggled that giggle that American girls do, replying yes. He proceeded to take out a map, circling the "good" places. I thought to myself, "Good places?" I had to forget that I would not be seeing my neo-soul/rocker brothas, the Commons, the Maxwells, the Lenny Kravitzs, or even the caramel-colored Parisians with those Maghreb roots I swooned over. Or, even the tall, dark and handsome European, skin the hue of olives, whose language created butterflies in my mind. It's funny how we all had our types at one point.
The young man gave us the map, winked, and followed our behinds with his eyes on our way out. It was cold, but we didn't feel any of it, thanks to that sweetness purchased two doors up. We hailed a taxi. We had to ride in style. No bus tonight. Told the driver to take us to this trendy restaurant in Pest for some grub and more drink. We rocked and swirled all over the place, as the driver cut through traffic over cobble stoned streets. We arrived in front of the restaurant a little disheveled, but we were too Saturday night to be bothered. We entered the restaurant. Automatically my eyes searched for a familiar face, like we do when we enter any crowded room, only to land on my own. That thought was quickly gone in a flash, as the stylish, very attractive waiter came up to greet us. He was smiling, holding his gaze at me. A little surprised, I smiled back. He brought us to our table. We quickly starting the process of removing our coats, ten sweaters, scarves and gloves. I was at my last button when the waiter smoothly lifted my jacket away from my body. My two friends stared as they struggled to get off their coats. I blushed. No one has ever taken off my coat before. The waiter returned with the menus, excused himself, realizing that he hadn't taken either of my friends' coats. He quickly shuffled the coats in his arms and returned to tell us the specials.
It was funny how he automatically spoke English to us. I guess he scented our "foreignness." All the better, I had no idea how to even begin with the language, decorated with an accent on every letter. I was having issues with "hello." I finally nailed it on my third day. However, as soon as we left to return to Paris, I must have left all my phrases that I learned in that hotel room in Buda.
The waiter returned with our entrees. I couldn't even remember what I had ordered. My blood was like wine literally. "He's totally flirting with you," my friend said, nudging my arm.
"No he isn't," I said blushing, knowingly.
We cleaned our plates, for we were starved. We all agreed to order dessert. I ordered my all time favorite, Crème brûlée.
It was delicious: the smooth consistency of the vanilla custard felt like silk pillows against you palette, contrasted against a thin glazed wall of caramelized sugar. It was better than sex. I could have a serious affair with this French dessert. I always appreciate good food and that night my dreams were fulfilled.
The waiter stared from across the room the whole night. I thought because I was making a pig of myself surrounded by all this scrumptious food. My friend was a little peeved with his distracted service and signaled for him to bring us the check. She was a woman with a strict itinerary and no flirty waiter was going to get in the way with her and party time at 11:15pm. The waiter brought us the check with another round of wine. Good thing the food soaked up some of the alcohol. I wouldn't have known my ass from my elbow. My friend peered at the check, told us what we each owed including tip.
"I think we should leave him a nice tip. He was really nice!" I said, extremely tipsy, to my friend.
"Right, you indeed got star quality service," she said laughing.
I blushed.
We left our money on the table. The waiter put my jacket on and took my hand. He slipped a small piece of paper with his cell phone number written on it. He asked us where we were going and that he was getting off in a couple of hours. I said in my most flirtatious voice that I wasn't exactly sure. I smiled and my friend yanked my other arm because she saw a taxi approaching.
"We have to go," she said exhausted at even entertaining this whole scene. I made the universal telephone signal, mouthing I'll call you. I felt like such a player! This Brown Girl has fallen head over heels for this city called Budapest.
The waiter didn't charge us for either dessert or all those rounds of wine.
I never called him.
