by Jennifer Cox
I don’t want to rush you but I much prefer speaking as opposed to typing. Feel free to call me on 877-722-****. Toll-free USA. In Canada or elsewhere 561-178-****. Christopher, Florida
This always put me in a spin. I didn’t really have the time for more than a single conversation with any one person and there was no way they’d just want to talk once; inevitably they’d want to know all about me as well as when I was coming over, how long I was staying, and all the other details of my trip. But I didn’t have answers to these questions yet, and the stress of organizing this mammoth undertaking was taking its toll as I comfort-ate, putting the “ate” in “date” just at the time I really needed to look my best.
I was tentatively working toward a route that would start in the Netherlands, head up through Scandinavia, then down through Mediterranean Europe and central Europe and on to the States. This was just guesswork, though, because—for example—until Henk in Amsterdam got back from his skiing trip, I had no way of knowing if he was free on the 27th? If he was, that would mean I’d be able to make it down to see Frank on the Belgian border, thereby arriving in Barcelona in time to meet Carlos before he set off for his conference in Russia:
…though I am in with my good friends in St. Petersburg and maybe it would be that you like to join us there if you are in a visit to this place?
I just needed everyone to stay still long enough to give me an answer that would allow me to include them in or eliminate them from my itinerary. Then—knowing they were locked in—I could work out who, logically, I should see next. And that was just the dating side of it. My friend Karin, who worked at the Netherlands tourist board, was hugely helpful in trying to work out how I would get between three dates spread over two hundred fifty miles:
I’ve been looking for public transport facilities from Schiphol to the Efteling and from the Efteling to the Keukenhof and I must say it’s not good news…. It will take you two and a half hours to get from Schiphol to the Efteling and three hours to get from the Efteling to the Keukenhof. I knew it would be bad as you have to use both trains and buses, but I didn’t know it would be this lousy. A taxi is not really an alternative, that will be really expensive, but I was thinking you could maybe rent a car for two or three days. Do you have your driver’s license and would it be a good idea? I’ve attached an information sheet with car rental companies at Schiphol and in Amsterdam. If you like the idea, you could phone them and ask for prices. If you do prefer to use public transport I can tell you exactly which trains and buses you have to take, so just let me know.
I felt guilty, as she clearly wanted me to make a decision and all I could do was be vague and noncommittal. The problem was that she was asking about the minutiae of one aspect of three dates while I was in a totally different place, struggling to get the big picture straight on all aspects of all eighty dates. It felt akin to being dragged from a burning building by the emergency services, only to have them demand back an overdue library book.
With so many options and nothing actually nailed down, I started feeling the enormity of what I was attempting. I was getting a tad tense trying to stay focused while having to remain upbeat and chatty corresponding with the avalanche of potential dates. I knew I wouldn’t get much in the way of sympathy (“Help, I am being hounded by an endless supply of eligible, international bachelors, all wanting to date me….”), but even if I’d been foolish enough to ask, I wouldn’t have got anyone’s attention at this point. Brimming with enthusiasm and support, the DWs had gone off on a mission of their own.
I had clearly said I wanted to date my Soul Mate and explained in detail who that person was. But suddenly, girlfriends were less interested in helping me find my ideal man and more interested in helping themselves live out a cherished fantasy. They had found a way to date The One Who Could Have Been.
Could Haves are those intense, poignant relationships that, for some reason, never get acted upon. But despite this, or maybe because of it, these people become imbued with an aura of exquisite perfection that only increases as the years go by. A pocket of my (mostly married) DWs had just realized that I could go on the date they had always longed for. No guilt on their part, plus I would be able to tell them afterward if the date was as blissful as they had always imagined.
Jen, I have always, always had a huge crush on Paul but we were never single at the same time. You lucky girl, he’s free now—I want to know EVERYTHING. Lucinda xxx
P.S. Get him to take you to the Dove—we always used to go there together for drinks after work; it’s really romantic. Sit at the table by the window. The chardonnay’s great. Order the fish.
Or they’d become distracted by their own idea of what the optimum Soul Mate was like, rather than working to mine: “Oh, you should date a circus performer,” Dea said with great conviction, no explanation, and a faraway look in her eye. “Ohmigod, you could date a tramp,” Jo exploded, then gazed off in a similarly mute manner, lost in her own thoughts.
Clearly, I needed to get them to refocus, and I knew the only way this would happen would be if I made them competitive about coming up with the best Dates. I sent another email to the group:
I am so grateful to you all for coming up with such great contacts, and the current joint favorites for the (Little Black) Booker Prize are Paul Mansfield and Belinda Rhodes. Eleanor Garland pulled away from the pack toward the end of last week, though, and is now gaining fast.
I am now fully dated up for N. America and Australia. Holland is looking good, too. Can anyone help with France, Germany, Spain, and Italy? How about Asia—HK, Thailand, and Singapore?
Thankfully, this led to a fresh deluge of dates, but also to a new phenomenon: Date Wrangler Anxiety. Hector, a journalist friend at China Daily, emailed from Beijing, frustrated that he didn’t seem to be able to come up with any good dates. He felt he was letting me down and not being a good friend. “Write an article about it,” I suggested. “Interview me about why I’m doing it and include my Soul Mate Job Description, and then anyone who thinks they’re ‘it’ can email me at a special email address I’ll create.” Overwhelmed by the greater task in hand and consigning it to the I’ll worry about it when I’m on to Australasia pile, I promptly forgot all about the conversation. Until two weeks later, when Hector sheepishly sent me a link for that day’s paper. On the cover was a huge picture of me, smiling vacantly. Underneath, the caption read: IS THERE A MAN IN CHINA TO SATISFY THIS WOMAN?
Most of the time that I was working on setting up this International Tour of Shame, as I’d affectionately come to think of it, I was too engrossed and in the zone to think about anything else. But occasionally there were stone-cold moments of sober clarity, when it really hit me how it must have looked to other people.
The China Daily cover was one of them. I sat in front of my computer, shocked and rather ashamed, wondering why I had started this crazy adventure in the first place. But then, as the responses to the article started pouring in, I was once again too frantic keeping up with the task at hand to have any more perspective or qualms.
Replies ranged from Tom in Hong Kong:
I am currently seeing someone but we don’t really get on that well and on the off-chance I’ve split up with her by the time you get here, can we please stay in touch?
And Larry, the pilot:
I’ve seen your picture. You’re not that good-looking and you make no effort with your hair; I like that kind of confidence in a woman and I’ll definitely date you. But don’t expect to go to expensive restaurants or be a nosy parker and talk about me to my friends.
To Tan, the businessman:
I look forward to meeting a western woman, so different from Asian women: you with your “fuller” body and more voluptuous breasts. In a country of billions, you will certainly stand out.
Well, my comfort eating was getting out of hand now, and I was putting on so much weight I’d started wondering if I should just cut out the middleman and staple the cookies directly onto my thighs. Despite t
he weight gain, however, I felt sure I lacked the prized voluptuousness that would make me a worthy ambassador for Breast Western. And the idea that a billion people were going to be disappointed with my cleavage was frankly too much pressure to be dealing with right now.
Fortunately, I was saved from dwelling on this thought because a combination of brute force and plaintive begging had finally pulled my European schedule loosely together. There was still a huge amount to be done: I knew who I was meeting and where, but still had no idea where I was staying when I arrived, or, indeed, in most cases how I would arrive at all. I accepted that I would have to work this out along the way.
It was time to start dating.
Chapter Two
The Netherlands
Date #2—The real Prince
Charming in Eftelling, Holland
He ordered for both of them: “Two toast with butter and…d’you want a coffee, Debs?” She nodded without looking up from her handbag-rummaging. “And two coffees: a latte coffee and an ordinary one.”
The North Terminal of Gatwick Airport didn’t exactly smack of romance, but it positively reverberated with relationships and everyday intimacies. It was awash with people who had shared many breakfasts and went on holiday together without giving it a second thought. Booked on the 7:30 a.m. to Amsterdam, I was sitting on my own, ordering my own breakfast and feeling a touch out of sorts. I hadn’t started out on my Dating Odyssey yet, but I couldn’t quite suppress the small voice in my head that whispered: It’s not too late—you don’t have to go through with this.
Like getting a tattoo, I sensed, once I began this journey there would be no turning back. I would be changed forever. The problem was that I had no idea whether the change was going to be good or bad, and that uncertainty was unnerving.
Debs and “ordinary coffee” husband were on my left. On my right, a guy my age was sitting on his own, reading Q, my favorite music magazine. I glanced at the remains on his plate: It looked like he was a vegetarian too. Did I really need to travel around the world to meet somebody? Wasn’t it just possible that this man right next to me could turn out to be my Soul Mate? I sighed impatiently, disgusted with myself as I pulled on my jacket and signaled the waitress for the bill. I loathed people who relied on palmists or tea-leaf readers to “learn” what was wedged up the sleeve of Fate for them. Yet there I was, divining my future among the smears of ketchup and greasy remains of a vegetarian sausage. Exactly how desperate had I become?
Desperate enough to go around the world in eighty dates, I told myself matter-of-factly as I pushed a tip under the plate, picked up my bags, and started the long walk to flight BA8111 and Date #1.
Date #1: Henk—Amsterdam, Holland
I was staying at Amsterdam House, a comfortably quirky hotel on a quiet part of the Amstel River, in the old diamond district. You could sit in the lounge flicking through piles of magazines, drink great coffee, and watch the world go by. Well, you could, I couldn’t: I was up in my tiny attic room, waiting to get the call from reception that would announce the arrival of Henk, my first date.
I met Henk through Sandrine, a third-generation DW whom I’d initially acquired through Belinda. Henk and I had emailed back and forth a couple of times, but all I really knew about him was that he was balding, sporty, and confident.
I started up my laptop to look at the photo he’d emailed, saved into a regional file along with those of all the others I was dating in that location. He looked quite cute. I wondered why he was single. And if he worried about it; he didn’t look the neurotic type. I also wondered—and I know this sounds terrible—if I could go out with a bald man.
Wondered was about my level of interest and anxiety over what I was shortly to do. I didn’t feel at all nervous, more detached with a sense of curiosity, an eagerness to get on with it, and a wish that I’d had time to go round the shops I’d passed on the way to the hotel.
In short, I was in denial.
Although the knowledge that I had a date with Prince Charming tomorrow, with Willem the next day, and so on, took a lot of pressure off: If the date didn’t go well, there’d be another along soon enough. What I was doing was a form of speed-dating, but more far-reaching: “Today’s Monday and Rome, you must be Date Number 12.”
I had no idea what we were going to do on this date and, security aside—one of the reasons I set up dates through friends and carried a cell phone with me at all times—that was fine by me. I’d served my time planning thoughtful, lovely treats for boyfriends; I was really happy to have someone else in charge—and to learn to be okay with the results.
Thirty minutes had passed and Henk was late. I still wasn’t nervous but I did wish he’d hurry up and get here. It was now 11:50 a.m. and I had perfected my “Henk…it is so great to finally meet you” smile; I was done with all the clothing crises my limited wardrobe allowed. I’d hidden my new duty-free Mac lip gloss in the bottom of my bag; I’d been applying it for over an hour to pass the time. If he tried to kiss me now, his face would skid off mine so fast, he’d get whiplash.
Peering out the window, I saw no sign of anyone who looked like Henk. Time to go to the loo one more time? I was hungry but didn’t know whether to eat or not. This was a drawback of not knowing what we were doing: If I didn’t eat, guaranteed we’d go for a ten-mile hike; if I did, he’d immediately take me for a meal. Mulling it over, I unwrapped yet another gorgeous little spice cookie and found myself hoping we’d go for a beer.
Ummmm, yes, a beer. Suddenly I really wanted a drink. God, if I was like this watching out for all the Dates, I’d be a three-hundred-pound alcoholic by the end of the trip: from Date Watcher to Weight Watchers in eighty easy lessons.
The phone rang. Reception. Henk was here.
I was determined not to get tongue-tied and nervous, so before I had the chance I grabbed my bag and a jacket and, slamming my room door shut, ran down three flights of stairs to the lobby.
Henk was waiting for me, looking a little nervous himself. “Don’t think about it, don’t think about it,” I was chanting in my head as, ignoring the amused look on the receptionist’s face, I walked over to shake Henk’s outstretched hand and thereby officially commit to my dating fate.
Henk was about six foot three, with an athletic build, blond hair, blue eyes, and a nice smile. My very first thought was: not as bald as I imagined, nice-looking, tall and rangy, a bit preppy, sensitive. “I have a boat with me,” he said, smiling shyly. Beaming appreciatively in response, I was groaning inwardly: Even looking at a boat makes me want to throw up. As Henk helped me onto the thirty-five-foot barge, he added: “I thought I’d take you on a bit of a spin around the canals and we’d have something to eat along the way.”
Out of the hamper by his feet, he pulled sashimi, strawberries, and champagne. The date had begun.
I was touched. He had obviously put a lot of effort into making the date as romantic as possible. Unfortunately—and I didn’t say this to him—it was more someone else’s idea of romantic. I’ve always wanted to be one of those women sophisticated enough to function on a diet of protein and alcohol, but as a lactose-intolerant, lapsed Catholic vegetarian, I’m sadly more of a potato-and-bread girl, with a limited capacity for raw fish. But that was the old me. So, sailing up Prinsengraacht, I settled back in the sunshine and smiled at Henk as he passed me a glass of champagne as chilled as the music on the boat’s MP3 player. We toasted each other’s health and I silently toasted the elegant new me: Watery Hepburn.
Floating past the flower market full of roses and sunflowers, the queues outside Anne Frank’s house, the red-light district packed with drunk British men (T-shirts declaring they were on “Steve’s Stag Weekend”), I asked Henk about his relationship history. People on bridges smiled down indulgently, thinking us the perfect couple, while Henk described how he had been happy with his first long relationship at university but wasn’t ready to settle down. His next relationship was a bit of a disaster: The girl had been intense and spiritual
and it hadn’t worked out, but he’d stayed in touch with her. His next girlfriend had treated him badly but he was crazy about her. (“She was very passionate,” he said helplessly, then added rather alarmingly, “You remind me of her a lot.”)
As Henk expertly navigated the waterways, I thought of the last time I’d been to Amsterdam. It had been with Kelly: We’d argued fiercely about who knows what and I’d stormed off in the pouring rain. Why had Kelly never done anything like this? And, having to ask that, why then did I still miss him?
Meanwhile Henk sailed on, turning us into endless canals, reliving endless romances. It was cold and dark now; we’d been on the water for about seven hours. Although I hadn’t felt quite as sick as I’d first anticipated, an unhappy blend of sashimi and champagne swirled ominously in the pit of my stomach as I listened with a growing sense of impatience while Henk talked. It dawned on me that other people’s love lives are like other people’s dreams: only interesting if you’re in them, and then only if they’re good. I started feeling a bit disheartened: Another seventy-nine of these conversations to go…
I didn’t want to be mean. I had actually really enjoyed being on the water with Henk. But I didn’t fancy him, it was getting cold, and I had to be up early to drive to Date #2 tomorrow morning. Fortunately, at this point Henk told me he’d booked a sofa at the Supper Club, which gave me the excuse to say, “I’ve had a great time, but I have to say good night.” I could tell he was disappointed, but he was a good guy and turned the boat around obediently to start sailing back to the hotel.
We got back just before 9 p.m. and Henk helped me (as I shook uncontrollably from the cold) onto the towpath. Thanking him—with an effusion born of guilt—for a wonderful day, I suddenly realized we had entered the Long Good-bye, that awkward time at the end of a date when he wants to kiss you, but you don’t want to kiss him. I have always been completely hopeless at getting this right and, as someone about to date eighty men, I needed to fast-track this skill. I’d always opted for the Quick Peck and Hug (QPH) maneuver, the one where you say, “Okay, thanks for a lovely evening,” give him a quick kiss on the cheek, then dodge into a hug before he can lock his mouth onto yours. This was an utterly rubbish technique that could go on for days, as the man let you hug him but then kept talking to you, so you had to endlessly start over.