Back in the day in London,

I preached from a soapbox, slamdanced with punks, and had sex in a fancy restaurant.

Life became one big fantastic blur when I started seeing Charles, and just a few weeks after hooking up in Vegas, I found myself anxiously awaiting his arrival in an elegant London hotel room.

I still couldn't believe it myself - that a guy like him was with a regular girl like me, (not an heiress or supermodel, which his friend Todd kept reminding me was his usual type) but even so, as my eyes adjusted to The Dukes dark wooden walls and velvety smooth interior, I couldn't stop smiling. 

Charles would be landing at Stansted Airport soon, after stopping overnight in Iceland with Rob and Todd, while the rest of us had flown commercially from various places around the world. 

The initial group included:

·       Frank - sugary-sweet Southern boy, Charles' childhood friend, and now his personal assistant,

·       Rob - laid-back California guy, Charles' business partner, as well director/cameramen for a series on eco-tourism they were producing,

·       Suzanne - super-fit and chill, (Rob the director's girlfriend) in charge of microphones and other sound recording equipment 

·       Joe - Charles' loud, obnoxious, and disgruntled older brother, who lived mostly at Charles’ home in South Africa

·       Diane - Joe's snooty South African girlfriend, polished, posh, and privileged, usually flipping her hair or scowling

·       Todd – flashy, white-suit broker type, Charles' business associate from Miami, and a blunt tagalong to most events

·       Charles - the man himself, super-hot, super-cool, super-smart; funding the entire trip for everyone, and also calling himself my new boyfriend (What!?)

·       Myself - clueless college girl from Boulder, trying not to fall too hard for Charles, grateful for the experience, enjoying every moment.

Our first night in London, Todd couldn't handle being the only single guy in the group besides Frank, and so he quickly rang up a model he had on speed dial. When his date Emma showed up an hour later, she struck a gorgeous pose and stood a good leggy foot taller than Todd.

We made our way to the historic Majesty’s Theatre for an incredible performance of The Phantom of the Opera, but Diane and Joe left early since she had already seen it and was bored. Afterwards, the rest of us walked around Picadilly Circus and Trafalgar Square, and as we passed in front of one of the big bronze lions I told Charles to,

"Kiss me for Africa"

He bent me back low over his arm as if he were the Phantom, dramatically kissing my neck and lips to pay respect to Africa. (It was awesome.)

Our group easily fit in with the crowd of beautiful people at an after-hours place called 'Criterion', drinking fancy pineapple and rum drinks lit with glowing pink ice.

The next day everyone rushed to get ready, hurrying to meet Charles and Joe's glamorous mother, Alaria, who just happened to be in London visiting friends.

I was super-nervous being introduced to his mom, and as we toured the lush English gardens of Hyde Park, I hung back with Frank, self-conscious in the presence of such an elegant, sophisticated woman.

Along pathways lined with roses, peonies, poppies, hosta, foxglove, astilbe, iris, bleeding hearts, and cranesbill (to name just a few) we walked through interlocking screens of fragrance and color, and stacked layers of cascading shrubs and flowering trees beautifully framed the marble statuary.

Being that it was Sunday, the legendary Speaker's Corner was in full effect, and along one side of a wide concrete promenade, small groups of people gathered around everyday preachers and conspiracy theorists, perched atop crates and makeshift soapboxes, loudly spewing political and religious ideology to whoever wanted to stop and listen.

People have gathered in Hyde Park on Sundays for over a century, free to espouse their most pressing beliefs or concerns, but for some reason on that particular day, a guy on a crate decided his biggest issue was to call out our group.

“Oh look! Here come the lovely rich Americans!" Come to grace us with your presence 'ave you?”  He yelled with a heavy cockney accent.  “What’s wrong, can’t the b’utiful Americans find nutin' to buy?"  

He threw his head back and spoke extra slow, apparently trying to mimic an American accent.  

“I'm Ahhhhmeeeehhhricaaaaaan! I can do whatever I waaaant!”

We crossed to the other side of the walkway, trying to avoid his verbal attack, but he continued yelling louder and more aggressively, making a scene for his gathered crowd. I really couldn't understand why this random guy had chosen to single us out, just minding our own business strolling through the park.

But then he sardonically added, 

“What’s this? What's wrong? The b’utiful Americans 'ave nutin’ to say, I thought you blokes always had to stand for sumpin'?  Okay lovelies, move along, go find a’nutter shop! That’s all you pretty pretty Americans are good for anyway!

Without thinking I stopped dead in my tracks, and impulsively hollered back.

“What’s wrong with you dude?  We’re just out minding our own business, enjoying a lovely spring day. I take it you don’t like Americans?”

He looked surprised and then angry, pausing for a quick second before yelling back, 

“You can’t talk! You can’t talk if you’re not on a box!  That’s the rule of Speaker’s Corner. No one talks if they’re not on a box!” 

“Then I guess you better let me on the box.”

I honestly don't know what compelled me to cross that promenade, make my way through the tightly spaced crowd, and step onto an upside-down milk crate next to his, but when I turned around my heart was beating out of my chest, and I blankly wondered what the fuck I thought I was doing.  

Thirty or so people took a step closer and as I glanced over to Charles, his mother, and the others, I could see he looked worried and confused.  

“I’m really not sure why I’m up here. I guess it kinda' seemed like I needed to defend myself or something - and my friends - and my country. We were just out enjoying the beautiful spring day like the rest of you, but for some reason this guy wants to yell mean things, and judge us because of the way we look? Or I guess because of where he thinks we’re from? A few of those people over there are actually British citizens but so what right? He seriously hates us because we’re too beautiful? Isn’t that the same thing as hating on someone because they’re too ugly? Or because of the color of their skin, or hair, or eyes? It’s all superficial. He doesn’t know a damn thing about us, but somehow feels he has the right to yell at us because of how rich he thinks we are? What if we were on our way to try and stop poaching in Africa, or something really great like that? But of course he wouldn’t know. He’s decided to hate us without cause, and I guess he's trying to make the rest of you hate us too? To me that’s just not right. People should be judged by how nice they are, not for a bunch of superficial reasons – on either end of the spectrum. So, if you ask me, this guy is nothing but a bully. But he's right about one thing. I AM American, and in America, we’re taught to never to sit quiet to bullies. So yeah, I guess that’s really all I have to say.”

The crowd broke into loud spontaneous applause and someone yelled, “Hooray for the blonde, hooray for the American!”

“Hooray for the girl, the American's left him speechless!” someone else taunted.

When I looked back over to Charles, he was standing tall, beaming with pride, and people in the crowd parted a path, clapping me on the back as I returned to my group.

“Oh my god I can’t believe you just did that!” Suzanne said, shaking her head in disbelief, grinning from ear-to-ear. 

"That was amazing!” Rob agreed. "Did you really just come up with that on the spot? God, I wish I had brought the camera!”

Charles squeezed my hand and whispered in my ear, “That was awesome peanut.”          

Even Joe and Diane seemed mildly impressed, and the glamorous Alaria and her English friends kept quoting parts of my impromptu speech, saying in all their years of visiting Hyde Park and Speaker’s Corner, they’d never seen anyone get up and challenge another person’s box like that. I was just relieved I’d pulled it off without completely embarrassing myself or Charles, and over a lovely lunch at a place called Maxfield’s, my patriotic oratory was the main topic of conversation.  

Drinking champagne cocktails, noshing on toasted bread and warm pear salad, seated at the center of the universe among such intelligent, well-traveled people was one of the greatest moments of my life, only slightly surpassed by the naughty escapade at dinner that night.  

When everyone broke off in different directions, Charles and I wandered around Covent Gardens, perusing antique stalls to sift through dusty books and WWII medals, before eventually heading back to the hotel. 

Suddenly a raucous noise disturbed the peace, as spiked-mohawked, black-leather punks, cranked an amp to bust out a cover of Pretty Vacant by the Sex Pistols. When I jumped into the small mosh circle, pushing, shoving, laughing, and screaming every word, Charles and even the punks seemed legitimately surprised. 

(Shout out to Kenny, Pat, Sonny and Danny, my punk rock boys from high school who taught me right.)

"You're so pretty, oh so pretty-ahhhhhhh, VACANT!"

That night dinner reservations were at the hottest place in town, a restaurant called Quaglino’s, which was a hip honeycomb of multi-tiered platforms in an orange-lit cavern, buzzing with tittering laughter and clinking glassware. 

Completely smitten, Charles and I were focused only on each other, and I lost count of how many bottles of Cristal had been emptied when I took a quick trip to the ladies’ room. I was surprised to find him waiting in the hallway when I came back out, and right away he pulled me into an empty handicap bathroom off the kitchen and began kissing my neck. 

“But what if we get in trouble? I asked.

He rolled his eyes, turned me around, and hiked up my skirt, “Oh you’re in trouble alright.” 

I had never had sex in a public place like that but it was super hot, and afterwards we took turns slipping back through the hive to the table. By the time I returned, Charles was lighting fire to his usual after-dinner snifter of Sambuca, (garnished with three floating coffee beans) and when he stood to pull out my chair, our smug smiles and guilty dispositions basically gave it away. Everyone except for Diane began teasing us for doing something naughty while we were away, but she just scowled and flipped her hair more violently than usual. 

"You two are absolutely disgusting." She snorted.

We laughed it off and toasted another drink, while in my head Sid Vicious and Johnny Rotten chanted what I thought about Diane, 

"Problem - Problem - The problem is you - What you gonna do, problem?"

Seriously good times.