Around the World in 80 Dates

by Jennifer Cox

  The result was Black Rock City (BRC), a well-organized collection of theme camps—arranged in vast concentric circles—that challenged you to experience thoughts and activities ranging from the spiritual or political to the physical, artistic, or just plain silly. Feel underdressed? Walk into that tent and help yourself to a ball gown from the racks. Can’t cope with your dust-encrusted body for another moment? Go to the hair-washing or the feet-washing camp, or just forget the dust altogether and go to the Picasso Painting camp and get your body arted.

  I was here to work at the Costco Soul Mate Trading Outlet, the Playa’s dating camp. As I drove very slowly along the dusty roads between the neighborhoods of tents, temples, and giant structures, trying to avoid the naked cyclists, I searched for the Costco banner to help me locate them.

  “Hey, slow down,” I suddenly heard someone shout. Although I was going only five miles an hour, I braked hard and peered with alarm at the group of Rangers (the volunteer BRC law enforcement) standing by their bikes (the site covers fifteen and a half square miles, so once you’re parked, you cycle everywhere).

  As a teenager growing up in rural Essex and attending a hippie secondary school, I’ve been to a lot of weird festivals, where it was the norm to stand around naked or hang out of trees at 4 a.m. playing the saxophone. But because this was an American festival, it was outside my own festival culture. Self-consciously English, I was scared I’d commit a festival pas and do something embarrassingly uncool.

  “I’m really sorry,” I called out apologetically to the Rangers. I had no idea what I’d done. “Was I going too fast?”

  “No,” one of the group called back, grinning. “But you’re in a car so we’re experiencing some difficulty in checking you out.”

  I rarely blush, but I did now. Deep, deep red.

  They didn’t notice, however, because they were too busy talking among themselves. “Oh, fuck, is she British? Hot and British?” They all nodded wide-eyed at the Ranger who’d spoken to me. “Hey, cute Brit chick…” he called out, handing his bike to another Ranger and walking over to my car.

  Although still blushing, by now I was giggling too. “Where are you camping, sweetie?” he asked, resting his arm on the open window and leaning in, letting me admire his green eyes sparkling mischievously against his tanned skin.

  “Umm, I’m with Costco,” I replied, flustered and self-conscious but unable to stop laughing. “But I’m a bit lost. Do you know where they are?”

  He replied that of course he did, everyone knew Costco, and pointed me toward BRC’s center. “But hey, one more thing…” he said sternly as I started the car.

  “Yes?” I asked, turning anxiously to face him.

  “Just remember this…” he told me, and, leaning into the car, he gave me a long, lingering kiss that gently wiped the desert dust from his face onto mine.

  When he finished, he raised one eyebrow and touched a finger to my cheek. “I’ll be watching out for you, Hot British Chick.” And, rejoining his group, he cycled off around a large group of naked people cartwheeling through the burning sand.

  I watched him go and decided to take a moment to organize my thoughts. I had known Burning Man was going to be crazy—as many of the dates were in their own ways—so I had automatically slipped into my standard whatever traveling state of mind. What I hadn’t expected was there to be so much kissing, but—do you know what?—it was nice. I was okay with this. In fact, I liked it: It was sport kissing, no-agenda fun. Feeling I had taken an emotional litmus test and the results had come back all clear, I started the car up again and drove slowly toward the Costco camp.

  I was soon to discover this was barely the tip of the kissing iceberg: I was captain of the Titanic, powering full steam ahead toward a vast ocean of puckered lips.

  Date #55: Garry—Burning Man Festival, Nevada, U.S.A.

  Dusk settled on the cracked desert floor. The earthy scent of wood smoke mixed with the pulse of music and the sound of hundreds of camps hurrying to assemble their tents, as the long fingers of fading light brushed past them, leaving the Playa suffused in a soft, inky darkness.

  As I loaded up with supplies from the trunk of the car (gallons of water, eggs, tequila) and started walking toward the Costco camp, I felt a deep and growing sense of excitement.

  I’d been in contact with Rico for eight months by now and couldn’t wait to finally meet him. I had a sense of most of the other forty Costco-ers too, from reading their daily email exchanges on The List (the Costco intranet).

  There’d been a lot from Garry—the Seattle guy Rico had put me in contact with months ago—as he was the camp cook and had to tell The List what supplies to bring. I felt I’d left it too long to get back in contact with him after our initial exchange, but I paid close attention to any emails he posted to The List. They were always funny, affectionate, and full of energy; he sounded like a good guy, a little mysterious as well. I was curious about him, as well as feeling slightly intimidated.

  There was also Annie (Rico’s girlfriend), plus OB, Jennith, Kenzie, Leopard Head, Hank, Brenda and Jefe, Age, Elvis (a lovely woman called Rachel), Vanilla, Shakes, BillnotDave, Reverend Johnny, Cute Steve, Lello, Princess, Angel and Kirby, Abelicious and Boy Toy…and a whole ton of others, all of whom I met the moment I walked into the Costco camp.

  I stepped over a guy rope, into a clearing full of dusty sofas. One of the couples draped across them looked up as I walked in and smiled at me. “Hi,” I said, peering over an armful of water bottles. “I’m Jennifer, I’m camping with you guys.”

  It was like I had triggered some kind of Code Red security alert. As soon as the words were out of my mouth, the couple jumped to their feet, ran into an area behind the sofas where three large tents backed onto each other, and yelled at the top of their lungs: “80 Dates Jen’s here! 80 Dates Jen’s here!”

  I jumped in surprise and struggled not to drop my supplies as people poured from the tents and ran toward me. Their faces were lit up with smiles as they exclaimed, “Oh my God, she actually came. It’s 80 Dates Jen!”

  I had no idea why everyone was so happy to see me (or indeed until this moment that I was called “80 Dates Jen”), but it was one of the nicest welcomes I’d ever received and I burst out laughing. “Yes,” I said, grinning, accepting my title, “80 Dates Jen has arrived.”

  As the group gathered around me, over their heads I noticed a man standing in the tent’s doorway, staring as if sizing me up. I had no idea who he was but—although looking a little harassed—I didn’t mind the attention: He was tall and utterly gorgeous with bleached blond hair, startling aquamarine blue eyes, and a broad smile on his stubbly face. Shaking his head, he walked over. “I’m in the middle of cooking, but I had to come and see this for myself,” he told me. “So you made it, huh? 80 Dates Jen, welcome to Costco. I’m Garry.”

  And he kissed me.

  It wasn’t a long kiss, but it was knowing, playful, and sexy. Pulling away, he grinned. “Okay, gotta get back to the kitchen,” and he walked back toward the tent.

  I didn’t get the chance to react: As soon as he turned and walked away, every single person in the camp stepped up to introduce themselves in the same way. I felt like the U.N. of Kissing as a multitude of mouths descended on mine. About twenty kisses in, a voice shouted: “Hey, has anyone offered 80 Dates a drink?” A man with a sunburned face half-concealed by a dusty mop of curly hair and a pair of black horn-rimmed glasses beamed at me. I knew straight away it was Rico and we gave each other a big hug. “Come on, 80 Dates, let me introduce you to…the bar.” And, putting his arm affectionately around my waist, Rico steered me into a tent.

  Inside the tent, I found myself at the bar, being served cocktails from a blender by Age, the barman. Rico and I sat and chatted, too happy to see each other to be shy. He introduced me to Annie, tiny and beautiful, like a gorgeous, dusty Tinkerbell; Jennith, resplendent in a leopard-print dress, not to be outdone by Leopard Head, who was outfitted head to toe in leopard pri
nt…Costco staff washed in and out as over the next couple of hours I sat in the bar—too excited to eat—and finally met my co-workers at the Costco Soul Mate Trading Outlet.

  As the campsite became engulfed in darkness, Rico made a speech welcoming me to the camp. “Costco staff come from all over the world, and although we shouldn’t be impressed that she’s traveled from England via virtually everywhere else to be here with us, we are. Welcome, 80 Dates Jen.” And everyone cheered and raised their glasses to me.

  “Hey, has she been welcomed officially with Age’s chili vodka?” OB shouted from the back. I raised my eyebrows, having no idea what this welcome entailed. The doubt must have shown on my face, because Age squeezed my arm reassuringly.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “You can nominate someone to drink it for you.”

  For the last fifteen minutes, Garry had been standing a few feet away. He’d smiled at me quite a few times but hadn’t yet come over to talk. I’d been dying to talk to him but had been inundated with people introducing themselves and wanting to chat; plus—if truth be told—I was feeling a little shy, so I’d contented myself with returning his smiles.

  I knew this was my opportunity.

  Without stopping, for fear I’d change my mind, I spun around to Age and said: “I’d like to nominate Garry to drink it for me.”

  Garry, who’d obviously been keeping track of our conversation, gave a groan and rolled his eyes but came straight over. Without a word, he took the brimming shot-glass from Age and, fixing me with a steady look, put the glass to his lips and downed it in one, then pulled me to him and gave me a long, deep kiss, holding me tightly against his chest. As the chili set my mouth on fire, the kiss set my heart racing. I had no idea what was going on but I didn’t want it to stop.

  But it did stop with Jennith, Lello, and Kenzie suddenly tugging at my shoulder and urging, “80 Dates, come with us; we’re going to play on the Playa.”

  I felt dazed as Garry and I pulled apart, but I nodded and told them I’d love to go exploring. Turning back to Garry, I blurted: “Would you like to come too?”

  Garry smiled and said, “Maybe I can organize the grand tour.” He disappeared for a moment and came back with two bikes. Handing one to me, he asked: “Shall we?” and together the pair of us cycled off into the night to explore BRC.

  Cycling around the festival by the light of the moon was the physical equivalent of lying in bed at night tuning a radio. Spells of intense darkness were suddenly interrupted by unconnected voices or music that suggested an incredible story you’d grasp the edge of, before the darkness sucked it away and engulfed you in silence once more.

  Sharing this experience with Garry was intimate and intense since—rattling along the bumpy desert floor in the dark—we could hear but not really see each other. There was the additional danger that if you looked away for a moment, you ran the real risk of running someone down or getting knocked off yourself.

  There was so much to take in, it was almost overwhelming. But this wasn’t the only new experience. From the moment Garry and I had left the Costco bar and cycled off on our own, it was almost as if the chili kissing was forgotten. The focus was off us and on the wild nightlife of the Playa. We set off like wide-eyed truants, stowing away together on the first train to London.

  Paradoxically, as the seething masses stripped, whipped, danced, and paraded around the Playa, Garry and I were on a wonderfully old-fashioned date. We’d get off the bikes in busy areas and people-watch or inspect one of the many intricate pieces of art. Like the one-hundred-foot model of a chandelier that—perfect in every detail—appeared to have crashed from the sky, shattering in pieces across the Playa floor. Or the roller rink full of naked skaters laughing and crashing into each other. Or the Thunderdome, where—as in Mad Max—two fighters suspended from a fifty-foot metal dome by bungee ropes beat each other with padded baseball bats as the crowd roared and screamed for their champion. At the remote Temple of Remembrance, people sat quietly reflecting and remembering lost loved ones.

  Garry and I shared it all.

  I was really attracted to him, but I also loved the way he was always concerned for me: Whenever we rocketed over a bump in the desert or a crowd would crash into us, he would check I was okay. He was gentlemanly without being macho. And he was really good company: He talked just as much as I did and made me laugh a lot. We talked about ourselves, old relationships, family and friends, life in London and Seattle, our plans for the future. As he spoke, I was absorbed in what he was saying; I didn’t feel bogged down in detail the way I had on the other dates.

  We seemed to like and dislike the same things. We spent a long time with the Deities living in the base of the forty-seven-foot pyramid temple on which the thirty-two-foot Burning Man stood. Taking time out from cycling, we curled up together on a sofa and watched a rather uneventful-looking film, which suddenly turned into scary 1960s porn. The man graphically thrust his hand in and out of the woman as if searching for car keys in a glove compartment. We were both frozen to the spot with embarrassment; this was not first-date material, but we were both too self-conscious to laugh it off. Garry managed to break the tension. “Did you want to carry on watching Bad Core or shall we make a move?” he asked with a wry smile. I scrambled gratefully to my feet and we cycled onward.

  I know this sounds clichéd, but being with Garry was effortless. It wasn’t awkward or stressful; I didn’t feel like I was trying to behave in a certain way or pushing myself to be more this, less that. And it wasn’t just because we liked the same music and places and food. I was relaxed, like I already knew him.

  Being with Garry felt like coming home.

  I know, I know, it sounds completely pathetic and I don’t blame you for wanting to slap me really hard, but I couldn’t help it: I was smitten. Completely and utterly. And even though I’d suspected from his emails to both The List and me that I would like him, I hadn’t seen this coming. I mean, in theory, Garry wasn’t even a date. I had spent the last eight months cajoling and bullying the Date Wranglers into coming up with an array of the internationally available, and here I was, meeting someone on my own, just like that.

  But I wasn’t thinking about any of this because I was having such a brilliant and funny time. I wasn’t thinking about Soul Mates or about dating or about what number I was up to and how many more I had to go. I was just here, in the desert, with a man who made me want to tell him my secrets and listen quietly as he told me his.

  It had been a long day for both of us. As dawn transformed the Playa from a peekaboo playground of the twisted and the inspired into a parched wasteland of all-night revelers, we both felt the need to get some sleep.

  Cycling back to the Costco camp, as we stacked our bikes against the others, Garry asked, “Did you get a chance to pitch your tent earlier?”

  “Oh, I don’t have a tent,” I told him nonchalantly. “I’m going to sleep in my car.”

  Garry looked appalled and stared at me with real concern. “Jen, you can’t sleep in your car. That’s crazy.”

  I asked him why. “I’ve got some hotel towels to sleep under and it’s pretty quiet where I parked. I’ll be fine.”

  My whatever traveling attitude was so firmly in place, sleeping in the car genuinely didn’t bother me at all. Garry, however, seemed to feel strongly to the contrary. He bit his lip in exasperation as if trying not to say what he was thinking, then ran his hand through his dusty blond hair. “Look,” he said awkwardly, “I really don’t want to tell you what to do, but I won’t be able to relax knowing you are out there somewhere sleeping in your car.” He frowned deeply and took my hand in his. “Jen,” he said, “please sleep in my trailer.”

  I raised my eyebrows, but he ignored the look and continued, “You can have the bed, I’ll sleep on the floor. There’s plenty of space and I’m not trying to…” He trailed off, shrugging uncomfortably, but with a look that suggested he was going to keep insisting until I said yes.

  I thought ab
out it. I really didn’t mind sleeping in the car—it was no big deal—but, for me at least, that wasn’t what this was really about. I remembered Hettie’s words in Vegas: “…when the moment comes, you have to be prepared to take that leap of faith.”

  I wasn’t going to overthink this: I liked and trusted Garry. I felt safe with him, cared for rather than hit on. The idea of sleeping in his trailer—although a little scary—felt right. I knew it was time to take that leap.

  “Thank you,” I said quietly. “I appreciate the offer.”

  I thought I could sleep on the floor and he could have the bed. But when we got back to his trailer, it felt the most natural and wonderful thing in the world to climb out of our dusty clothes and slip under the covers together.

  We were woken a couple of hours later by the sounds of the Costco crew breakfasting in the communal area outside. I felt a sudden pang of anxiety: Would they all think me a total hussy for jumping straight into bed with Garry?

  Propped up on one arm, I confided my fears: “I haven’t even come close to sleeping with anyone else on the trip”—I sort of glossed over Frank—“what if they think I sleep with all my Dates?”

  Pulling me back down into the bed, Garry kissed me, then shook his head reassuringly. “They’re not like that,” he said. “Everyone will just be pleased for us. Why wouldn’t they be?”

  And sure enough, as we dragged ourselves out of bed and stood in the doorway of the trailer, squinting into the ferocious morning sun, the Costco-ers sitting around the breakfast tables spotted us and started clapping and cheering. Garry and I smiled at each other sheepishly. The crowd laughed and cheered even harder. By now we were laughing too and—pausing at the top of the steps to take a bow—holding hands, we joined our friends for breakfast.