Week Two: Electric Boogaloo.

22. January 2010.

It's Friday night, and Matthew Ranger, the student president of New College, the school within Oxford to which I belong, brings us out to the New College bar. The itinerary phrased it as an “induction,” but it is really just a night out. The bar is sparsely peopled: besides our group, there is a smattering of other New College students, playing pool and chatting.

An observation: there is a frustrating amount of good-looking, dashing men here at Oxford. They’re well-dressed, well-educated, and well-spoken. In my head, they sit around discussing Proust or modal logic, drinking expensive red wine and laughing at witty jokes I don’t understand.

In other words, I have low self-esteem.

A man walks into the bar who matches this description exactly, except he has the added bonus of being exotically foreign (he’s from Lisbon, it would turn out). I spot him just as I’m going through that self-deprecating rant in my inner-monologue, and I think, “See, that’s exactly what I’m talking about! In comparison to a guy like that, I’m the most vanilla person you could meet.”

About twenty minutes later, I notice that the man is sitting on couch near the pool table, by himself. As I am similarly alone, I approach him and ask him what brings him to Oxford.

He tells me he was here to give a presentation on climate change and that he’s returning home to Portugal tomorrow afternoon. His name is Louis (with the s pronounced); he’s 31; he’s married; and he works for a company that invents in carbon-based processes. He’s an impressive fellow: he speaks five languages and does things like give presentations at the University of Oxford.

I start telling him how the bright, good-looking men of Oxford are intimidating and discouraging.

He says, “It is not about good-looking. It is about confidence.”

“I know,” I say. “That’s my problem. I lack confidence.”

“You see that girl over there,” he says, nodding in the direction of the bar.

 I do.

“You could get off with her if you wanted.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“You just have to approach her.”

“Well, this isn’t even about sex, so much. It’s also just about meeting people to hang out with. I literally have no friends here and my apartment is starting to get to me.”

“Let’s meet some people, then.”

It’s about ten, and the New College bar is beginning to close. Most of the British students left a while ago.

Louis asks Matthew where those kids were heading, and he tells him he’s not sure. But he says there’s a bar not far from here we could go to.

So, Louis and I head out into the Oxford night.

* * * 

We arrive at a pub called The Half Moon. Pub is a very appropriate word for, not just because that’s the English parlance, but also because of its décor: everything’s wooden and old-timey; there are a bunch of loud Englishmen talking about rugby; and there’s a fireplace and an upright piano in the front.

A man gets up and reads some lousy poetry. He’s a local, and he clearly hangs out at this pub all the time. Probably knows the owners. He reads a poem about his cat shitting all over his house and one about rugby and another in Spanish (which Louis says is terrible).

Then two young guys play some acoustic music, and they’re not half-bad. They covered Joe Dassin’s “Les Champs-Elysées,” a song I love.

Then, another poet reads, except he’s a fucking treat. He orates boisterously and proudly, reciting poems like one entitled, “Mediocre Man,” a poem celebrating the fact that he’s completely mediocre in everyway. He is hilarious.

Louis and I decide that this place, while fun, is not what we’re looking for. We finish our drinks and head out again.

 * * *

As we walk down the streets, Louis convinces me to ask a few different groups of girls about places to go.

“You see, that way, if they are at all interested, they may invite you come along with them.”

I ask two groups and get two completely different replies––one groups says to go back the way we came to find some clubs; the other tells us the center of town is what we want––but both share one thing in common: they were not interested in continuing the conversation beyond politely pointing me where to go.

Undeterred, we press on.

Finally, we find a club. There is a short line out front––a promising sign––so we stand in it. Inside, after checking our coats (1 pound per coat, thank you very much), we get some drinks and find the dance floor. There are about forty or fifty people dancing and probably another forty or fifty standing outside the dance floor staring at the people dancing. After some boasts of confidence (by which I mean shots of whisky), I step onto the dance floor.

Now, I must preface the next development with some comments about my dancing. For those of you who haven’t seen me dance, let me just say that when I was younger, I inadvertently adopted the Michael Jackson-style of dancing. I would not say that I’m particularly good at it; it’s just how I learned to dance. I’ve noticed, over the years, that not that many people dance that way. As a kid, I didn’t realize that. I just liked watching Breakin’ 2: Electric Boogaloo.

So, anyway, I get out there and start dancing. Eventually, people begin noticing my dancing and give supportive nods and gestures to me. Nothing extremely complimentary; just people being nice.

Then, this guy comes up to me and kind of challenges me through dance: he does a few similar moves and nods to me, as if to say, “So? I can do that shit, too.”

Now, I’m drunk. So I take him up on the challenge. As if they understood, people cleared a circle in the dance floor and we go at it. I go first, essentially doing what I was doing before he interrupted me. Then, he goes, doing comparable steps to what I just did. Then, we it comes back to me, I do a few little numbers and then jump into “the worm,” a move I used to do all the time at 7^th grade “Teen Nights.” Then, I get back up and pointedly made come-on gestures at my competitor. At this, the crowd applauds and then turns to my challenger, as if to ask what his response will be. His answer? He bows out.

Applause for the winner!

Next, I go to the bar to get a drink, which literally takes me a half an hour. When I come back to the dance floor, Louis is waiting for me.

“Nice moves,” he says. “But you did not end up with the girl.”

He points to my challenger, who is dancing with a number of attractive women.

“Well, that’s okay,” I say. “I had a blast. That was fucking awesome. I can’t believe I was in a dance-off!”

We start dancing again, and, after a song, I end up dancing next to this beautiful girl in a white dress. I move a little closer, testing the water; she doesn’t push away. After a few more tests, we’re officially dancing together. For about thirty seconds.

Because suddenly, the loser of the dance off pushes me away from the girl and says something in a harsh tone, but I couldn’t hear him.

I start to walk towards him, but Louis grabs me and says, “Let’s go.”

I nod in agreement and we split.

 * * *

We arrive at the corner of George St. and Cornmarket.

Louis says, “I’m going this way,” pointing towards New College.

I say, “I’m going that way,” pointing towards Hythe Bridge.

“Well,” he says, “then must part.”

We shake hands.

“Thanks for taking me under your wing,” I tell him.

“Jonathan,” he says, “You do not need my wing. You did very well for yourself tonight.”

“Thanks, Louis.”

“It’s nothing. Remember: confidence. Now go make some friends. Just try not to dance with their girlfriends.”

We laugh and part ways.

It’s raining now, and I have quite a walk before I’ll be back to my flat. But as I begin the journey, I realize that I couldn’t care less. I am happy.