Trip to IKEA

When the Young Dutchman first arrived to stay at my flat, one of his first acts was to knock over a lamp of mine and smash it. Now, accidents do happen, but I was growing tired living with a bare bulb and jagged shards of glass, so I figured that since I had a free day, it was a perfect opportunity to go make a trip out to IKEA to buy a replacement.

The trip is a pain, because it's an hour on public transport to a not-very-nice area of town. So, upon hearing my plans, when the Young Dutchman offered to come with me if I would wait for him to shower, I was only too eager to have some company for the trip.

He had some articles on his phone written by a doctor who worked at a prison hospital, and so we spent the long journey out there reading over each other's shoulder, discussing the funny and sad parts of each one. I guess it was a good preparation for the place we were visiting, for we eventually arrived into a completely depressed, distressed poor neighbourhood. The Young Dutchman had actually done quite a bit of volunteer work in this particular area of town the first six months of the year, and seemed quite affected by the blight in the area, saying it depressed him. I've never really seen him so troubled, by poverty or anything else.

Of course, part of that might have been that he was hungry. So it was time for IKEA Sweedish meatballs! I was delighted by the "cafeteria for grown-ups", which I've often thought would be genius if it was down the street from my house. We loaded up on salads and desserts, and when we got to the serving station, the Young Dutchman asked if he could have rice instead of chips with his meatballs. The server at first refused him, because rice officially went with another meal, but then the Young Dutchman turned on his charm. It's a fascinating thing to watch, really, as he smiles, engages with people, and totally wins them over, until the server happily slipped him rice with his meatballs. Some days I am in awe of him.

I was so glad to have him along for this expedition, that I happily paid for his lunch (my responsibility I think now that he is about to become a poor student). We found places to sit, and then had a lovely time chatting about everything from berry compote to what the stereotypes would be if we created a television show about Clubland. (I of course labeled myself as the brash American, the accepted interloper due to her humour and forthrightness, but never to the Manor born. The Young Dutchman wanted to be the intellectual Oxford student, but I told him that he wasn't nearly socially awkward enough, and instead was doomed to play the role of the sophisticated European who sleeps with all the girls. He was distressed by this, saying that he felt being "European" was too close to "Euro-trash", but I refused to budge. Nobody gets to be the nice person universally beloved by everyone with no weird tics in a television show).

We then made our way through the market place, picked up a few kitchen essentials, and then made our way to the lamps section. As I was looking at the cheap-o lamp vs the one I actually had, I was completely surprised when suddenly this random voice near me said, "Oh, you've definitely got to go for the KROBY." Who on earth was this random person?

The Young Dutchman looked up however, and exclaimed with delight. Apparently this was a Dutch guy who lived in London that he knew (and I'm somewhat convinced that all Dutch people in London know each other, as he seems to know so many). They chatted a bit in Dutch, and then out of deference to me, switched into English. Turns out this guy was there with his new flatmate, picking up things for the place, and then insisted on getting the Young Dutchman's number so he could later have him over for a flat-warming party. Mostly, I was just amused at how the Young Dutchman is tall, but in the company of two other Dutch guys, they looked positively normal height. (The Dutch are universally acknowledged as the tallest people in the world, and it shows!) But jeez, how many people spend their Sunday afternoons shopping at IKEA?

Finally, we got out of there with all of our purchases, I made the Young Dutchman carry everything (makes him feel manly), and then lest he feel too manly, we had to stop at a carnival set-up on the way out so I could buy him candy floss. I've never seen anybody quite so excited about candy floss!

Overall, it was a lovely day, although as I wrote to Joel later, "I rather wonder if this is what being in a long-term relationship is like. You spend your Sunday afternoon having lunch at IKEA and shopping for lamps and kitchen gear with somebody you get along brilliantly with but whom you're not having sex with."

And that's sort of the thing, as I'd hope that I eventually end up in a relationship where it's rather like this, that there's one person I'd rather hang out with above all others, who makes me laugh, who despite his minor irritations is always worth putting up with. Except I can't imagine just forgoing sex. How on earth do people survive relationships where the sex just dies? I can't imagine it. The Young Dutchman and I have what on almost every other level (intellectual, emotional) would be considered an ideal relationship, where we can argue and communicate with each other while still totally loving each other. We're open, honest, and can talk about nearly anything. And yet, there is no way I could survive a relationship with him without sleeping with him. (And lest you get any ideas into your head, neither of us seems to have any interest in doing that. I see him without his shirt all of the time, and it just doesn't move me).

We made our way back home, set things up (the lamp worked!) and then I cooked dinner while he packed his things. So sad at the end of the evening, we had to hug and say good-bye, as he was heading back up to Oxford. At least I know I shall see him next week, so I didn't cry, but still, it's going to be hard to live without him...