Happy Birthday, Stranger (in a Strange and Happy Land) [CAW Entry]

“[America]: Nowhere on Earth was sex so vigorously suppressed—and nowhere was there such deep interest in it.”


-Robert A. Heinlein. “Stranger in a Strange Land.”


The novel “Stranger in a Strange Land” had a big influence on me when I read it as a teenager. (This is not a book you should give to an impressionable teenager.) Particularly the (slightly misquoted) idea that “[Love means] the happiness of the other person is essential to your own.” This shaped my dealings with women for decades.

It was less than a decade after reading the book that I got to America, there were times I felt like “Mike”, the stranger in the strange land. Familiar, but sometimes subtly alien. It all started with an innocent enough question. “How would you like to spend January in Southern California?” It sounded almost perfect, I could get away from the dreary weather in Utrecht at that time of year (that’s in the the Netherlands). The only problems I could think of about that were: I’d be working; and I’d be away for my birthday. I’d be working if I stayed at home, so that wasn’t really much of a problem. The birthday, being away from friends was a bit of a drag, but I thought I could live with it.

The gig was a big installation in one of the high tech companies which had grown up around the University in Santa Barbara, UCSB as the natives referred to it. It was a job that should take about three to four weeks. I went out with Geert, the project lead. For those not familiar with Dutch names, that’s pronounced like you’re clearing your throat followed by ‘hurt’ (something like that anyway). He’d answer to “Gert” or “Hurt”, he was used to people mangling his name. Geert also brought along his wife Rebecca, it wasn’t uncommon to bring a companion with you on long gigs. I was between girlfriends at the time, so I didn’t have anyone to bring with me.

Rebecca and Geert were keeping themselves to themselves and making plans for the weekend, they were going to take the car and drive up the coast. That left me wondering what I could do without a car, when I saw the ad in the local paper for Enterprise Rent A Car, “$9.99 a weekend day”. That sounded like a bargain, so I rang them and found I could pick up a car Friday lunchtime and drop it off Monday lunchtime. They’d even pick me up from the office, sounded great, so I booked that.

Friday lunchtime, I got picked up. The Enterprise office sent out one of their office workers in one of their cars, so that’s how it worked. First I was impressed by the car, a white Thunderbird. That’s not a car you get over in Europe, but was very pretty, though it wasn’t the car I was going to get, I asked the girl that. Next was the girl, wow! she was a stunner. Now I’d got to Santa Barbara, I found the Santa Barbarians, as they called themselves, were quite proud of their university. Some of the less PC comments were about the quality of ‘babe’ you got attending the university. There were certainly a lot of good looking ‘babes’ around the place. Now I was sitting next to one, I wondered if this was her job paying her way through college. The US was very primitive in many ways, paying for college was one of those quaint colonial customs.

In the Enterprise office, there were several other babes, all very friendly as American service workers are wont to be. The girl handling my reservation was cute and bubbly, but she had a bit of difficulty with my British drivers licence, one of the pink folded paper ones, with no picture. When I pointed to my birthday, she said, “But there aren’t thirteen months in a year.”

What? That was a weird comment, I looked: 13/1/1968, my birthday in January. That’s one of those things you get used to traveling in the states, writing the date. “The British write dates with the day first, January thirteenth, it’s my birthday Sunday.”

The babe sitting next to her interrupted her typing to say, “That’s my birthday as well.”

“What a coincidence, it’s mine as well. Congratulations for Sunday.” No one seemed to notice the joke, but they carried on working on their computers. Eventually I had the keys for a ‘Beretta’ whatever that was, I assumed it wasn’t James Bond’s favorite gun. As I mentioned the US has a lot of cars Europe doesn’t. The Beretta turned out to be some stodgy enormous boat, typical of American cars. It wasn’t quite what I was expecting, the ad had said the $9.99 was for a Geo Metro. I was pretty sure that was the same thing as a Suzuki Swift which I’d been considering buying back home, that would have been more my style than the usual enormous thing Americans go for.

Only this car didn’t go. I turned the key and it clicked, nothing else. Dead battery would be my guess. I got out and went back to the office to sort this out. That’s when I noticed a white MX-5 with its top down parked just next to the office. That seemed like the perfect car for Southern California. So when they’d apologised for the dead car and offered me a “Camaro” instead, (whatever that was), I asked about the MX-5. Blank looks. “The little white convertible.”

“Oh, you mean the ‘Miata’?” Seems like Mazda called cars different things in different parts of the world. “That’s fifty one bucks a day.”

I was considering if an extra $41 times three days was worth it, when the other girl, the one who shared my birthday said, “I’m sure we could do the special on that one as well.” And they did, I got the Miata for $9.99 a day, nice birthday present I though. I thanked both girls effusively and wished the one a happy birthday again, and drove off. This car started without hassle.

All that had taken longer than I’d expected, it was now past two in the afternoon, and I hadn’t had lunch. I’d noticed a sign for “Denny’s” just across the road so I headed to that. Before anyone in the audience laughs at that, Denny’s is a novelty for me, we don’t have places like that in Europe. This is eating what the average American will eat, it’s a cultural experience.

—

I’d parked and was just getting out of the Miata, when a girl walked up to me and exclaimed, “Hey George, Nice wheels.”

She looked like she’d stepped out of an eighties music video, comically large shades and big hair, blond of course. It was quite fetching, laying in ringlets over her shoulders. Then I got distracted by the plunging neckline of her eighties costume, a blouse in red and black, and a red skirt to her knees. “Thank you,” I said reflexively, “But I’m not George.”

“Quit with the stupid accent, and take me to lunch already.” I thought I was getting used to Americans and their forward manners, but she was quite out there even for the strange land of America.

“I can assure you I’m not George, I’m a visitor from Britain.” That might have been that, but I thought I’d try this the American way. “I would however be delighted to take you to lunch. I can offer you the exotic delights of Denny’s finest fare.” Then I offered her my elbow. I’m not sure I got the American attitude right, but that’s about as forward as you’ll find for an Englishman. Technically I was wrong there, I was a visitor from The Netherlands/Holland/whatever you called it, but I’d only lived there for a little over a year and still thought of myself as a visitor even at home.

She accepted my elbow and I escorted her into Denny’s. Another hot Santa Barbarian babe showed us to our table, and we looked over the menu while waiting for our waitress. The menu was crawling with Flintstones characters for some reason. I noticed she had a big rock on one of her fingers, engagement ring I presumed. Well that put her off the menu. I always had this fantasy whenever I went abroad that I’d meet a woman and we’d have hot monkey sex before parting, never to be seen again.