September 9, 2010

SAM SHARPE

I am moving to Europe. Not England. Pas France. Non Italia. No Espana. Not anywhere in particular really, just Europe. Why? I’ll tell you why. When I was there the people were friendly. Very friendly. To me. Not in a generic “how-are-you-doing-let-me-help-you-with-that-do-you-know-where-you’re-going-why-don’t-you-let-me-show-you-how-to-get-there?” way. But in an “I really don’t know who the f*** you are but my girlfriends (notice the pluralization) and I think you’re cute do you want to dance with us?” kind of way.

How I'm seen in the T-Dot.

I know what you’re thinking, you’re thinking  “C’mon Sam, Europeans aren’t that friendly, they weren’t that friendly to me when I was there”. Maybe. Maybe not. But here’s what I do know. As a (relatively) young black man in Toronto it is very rare for a stranger to approach me. Even stranger still for a woman to do so. The last time a stranger engaged me in conversation (and I don’t mean to ask for directions or the time) they were dressed in blue, were equipped with a firearm and wanted to know my name, my intended destination and requested a piece of ID.

Anyway, all over the old continent strangers strolled up to me and engaged me in all manner of conversation. Men, women, gay, straight, curious and questioning. Drunk, high, sober, deluded, unemployed. You name it I had it. Thing is, I haven’t figured out why this was the case. My friends often tell me that I usually bear a serious expression, one that does not encourage people to approach. But unless this alleged serious countenance was confiscated at Gatwick airport when my passport was stamped, presumably I wore the same face in Europe that I do when I’m running the streets of Toronto.

How I'm seen in Europe.

So what is it? Did I exude calm and serenity while on vacation? Do Europeans read facial expressions differently? Do they just not give a hoot about boundaries (judging by their colonial histories and tendencies to wage war against each other I guess we know the answer to that one)? Is black back in style? Whatever the reason, I was more popular on Brick Lane than I’ve ever been on Queen Street West.

With that in mind, let me present to you my three favourite encounters with Europeans:

Die Deutsche Kellnerin: Her name was Greta. She worked at a Wagamama in London. She served me Curry Chicken Katsu. Every time she passed my table she would look at me then proceed to bite and lick her lips. She brushed ever so closely against my body whenever she could. She smiled at me from across the room. When I was coming from the bathroom she asked if my “girlfriend and I” (I was sitting beside Elizabeth Rose) wanted more water. When I told her that Elizabeth Rose and I were just friends her face lit up like a Christmas tree. Too bad she was more Volkswagen than Mercedes Benz.

The Drunken Scots: This one probably shouldn’t count because they were drunken Scots. But they were hilarious. A father and son team, they approached me as I stood outside some random shop waiting for Skye to purchase some London kitsch. Drunken Scot Jr. approached first, shook my hand, and then introduced me to his pops. They wanted to know everything about me: where I was from, my reason for being in London, where was I going, where was I coming from. I had their undivided attention until Skye exited the shop. All of a sudden I was a nobody. Once they (dad in particular) realized Skye wasn’t my girlfriend all their attention turned to Skye and her…ahem…assets. Forget money, love or music. Clearly breasts are the universal language.

From Slovakia with love: It’s a Saturday night. We leave one club in Brick Lane and head to another. I make my way to the bar. All of a sudden I hear: “Karol Kokes, Karol Kokes, you look just like Karol Kokes”. Ivan introduces himself to me. Then to his best friend. Then his best friend’s girlfriend. Then his girlfriend. And her friends. They say they are from Slovakia. With each introduction Ivan says “doesn’t he look like Karol Kokes, DJ Karol Kokes?” They all nod in approval. In my head I keep thinking, “Wow, there’s a black guy in Slovakia. And his name is Karol. Strange”.

One extremely attractive girl seems very pleased about my resemblance to this Karol Kokes guy. She buys me a drink. Then Ivan buys me a drink. And on and on it goes. It looked like there were going to be fireworks but alas it wasn’t meant to be. Still, I had a spectacularly good time. It wasn’t until I woke up the next morning that I realized that this Karol guy they were talking about was really DJ Carl Cox. Trust me when I tell you that I look nothing like the man. I guess it goes to show you that white people everywhere think all black people look the same.

So what say you friends? Do you think Europeans are friendlier than North Americans?

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