I was late arriving at Chicago O'Hare, having left Canada late on an airline that always ended up at the bottom of customer satisfaction surveys. I usually avoided flying this outfit but the fare on the weekend was so cheap that I convinced my company to spend the savings on a hotel for the weekend. This suited me since I always hate rushing to a conference or meeting and I try and get there early anyway. My bags fortunately weren't lost this time. My flight was just 4 hours later than I wanted to be, late at night due to the time difference. I gathered my suitcase and my laptop and headed towards the taxis.
This trip had been on my mind for some time and not just because the conference would be an interesting one. I live in a part of Canada where there's a distinct shortage of black people. True, my city was a good blues and jazz city and we always gave black performers such a good reception that they always wanted to come back and play again for us. Still, I could only count one black man as a friend and the only black woman that existed in my world was a checkout clerk at my grocery. It was safe to say that I was open to socializing with black people but I never had any real opportunity. That was about to change, the inexperience I mean. So, now I was in the city that was famous for its Blues scene.
The other reason I was looking forward to this trip was because my marriage was not going well. I was 48, still married but not happy. To add to my misery, I still got approving looks from young chicks. Obviously, women didn't regard me as on old fart so I didn't need to be trapped in a miserable marriage. It was good to get away from it all, even if it would be for only a week, and hopefully I was going to hear some good music this weekend.
I got to the terminal exit and I heard a black woman's voice say: "What hotel you go to?" That was my first glimpse of her; she was black and she was beautiful. She wasn't the white woman in a black skin that seemed so popular on television. Instead, here I was faced with genuine African beauty. She wore no makeup that I could see. Wholesome woman appealed to me more than high fashion models. She was a few inches shorter than me, which was a slight surprise. I had imagined that most black woman would be like African goddesses, towering over me, sort of like a basketball player in drag.
I came back to reality, gave her the name of my hotel and she said "13 dollars by the van. Is that OK?" I liked how she looked and talked and I wanted a little more conversation so I started asking questions. "How much is the taxi, anything extra for luggage, how long is the trip?" and so on. The others in the van started getting impatient with my chatting up the driver so I gave her $20. Her hand touched mine and slid erotically along my palm as she gave me the change. I wondered if that had any significance or if she was just in a hurry. I was surprised how easily this woman lifted my heavy luggage on top of the pile at the back of the van.
We arrived downtown 30 minutes later and then one by one the passengers were dropped off. It seemed like a roundabout way to go and we passed up and down what looked like the same street again and again. I was the last to be let off and here my hotel was on the street that was now so familiar, having been up and down it so many times. Suddenly the light came on in my head; she wanted me to be last out. She took my luggage out and placed it on the ground and was standing there looking shyly and innocently down. As I said, somehow I appeal to young chicks but I wasn't sure until now if my appeal crossed race barriers. Could she just be looking for a tip or was she actually interested in me? I chose Plan B:
"Are you finished your shift for the day?"
"Yes, I'm taking the van back to the garage."
"Do you have to go home right away or can you join after you leave off the van?"
Her shyness evaporated. She smiled and we agreed to meet in the lobby in an hour. Not only had I lucked out and set a date with a good looking black chick but I lucked out at the hotel check-in. The clerk said that they were renovating but they would upgrade my room. The room must have been the Presidential Suite with a separate bedroom and a view of the skyline and Lake Michigan from the main area.
I called home to say that I had arrived safely and found that my wife could successfully nag me by telephone. I had a shower to get rid of the travel sweat. I took a few minutes to lounge on my newfound luxury sofa and think about what might happen next. Possibly, the barriers of race, age, education and culture would be too high and we would just have a drink and go our separate ways. On the other hand, there was a chance that we might be compatible underneath all the differences and something wonderful could happen between us.
I went to the lobby at the time we agreed to. My African Queen stood near the entrance with a look that betrayed discomfort. She was still in her neat, blue uniform. I walked slowly and deliberately, the same way one would to a frightened animal. I don't know why but I felt that I would intimidate her if I moved too quickly.
"Thanks for coming. Why don't we go inside, have a drink and some conversation. First we should give each other a name; for instance, I'm Steven but you can call me Steve if you want."
She smiled and showed her white even teeth. "I'm Salima but if you shorten that to Sally, I'm out of here."
"I hear you, Salima. I would get angry if anyone called me 'Stevie'."
We sat down, ordered and started to talk. My fears about barriers faded. Salima lacked education and polish but she wasn't stupid and she was articulate. Best of all, she only acted shy. When Salima talked, she wasn't shy at all, something I needed in a woman at that moment. I was in a new situation trying to put the make on a woman I had just met and I was in a foreign country as well.
We talked of our families and how we grew up, poor in both cases. Being black and female, Salima was not so fortunate as her poverty forced her to drop out of high school and work. I was able to go to university on scholarship despite our family's poverty. Our families were much the same and we had the same good and bad relationships with brothers and sisters, had been bullied in school the same way.
Yes, we talked and talked about everything and some might say about nothing. We had sat at a booth and Salima placed herself around the corner from me. As our conversation became more detailed and intimate, exploring more inward things such as our outlook on life and values, we moved closer in the booth. I never noticed the physical closeness pacing the intimacy of the talk. Finally our hands touched and Salima's eyes looked down and it was the same shy expression I had seen when I asked her to meet me.
"I've never met a white guy like you before, Steven. Most white guys never look at a black woman in a way that acknowledges she's a woman, never mind ask her what she might think about anything. I like you. What do you think about me?"