by Jennifer Cox
Henk deftly neutralized my QPH. I admitted defeat and agreed to another date with him two days later, knowing I’d be on a plane when the time came. I felt bad but was too cold to come up with a better plan.
Date #2: Frank—Efteling, Holland
Horribly early the next morning, I picked up a rental car from Schiphol airport and drove south toward the Belgian border for Date #2.
I’d heard about a place called Efteling: an amusement theme park and hotel designed around classic national and international fairy tales. I’d arranged to spend the night in the Sleeping Beauty Suite, and my patient friend Karin had set me up to date the guy who played Prince Charming at the park.
I felt a little uneasy about Henk (I should have just said no, rather than copping out and making him think we’d have another date—note to self: Be firmer), but it was a gorgeous spring morning and soon I was enjoying the uncomplicated feeling of being on the road again.
That feeling lasted about ten minutes.
My pastoral appreciation of fields, churches, and cows was soon completely overshadowed by the discovery that the Dutch, mostly a calm, liberal, egalitarian people, evidently treated motorways as the place to exercise their ids and drove like complete maniacs. Cars shot across lanes into tiny spaces between the speeding vehicles without any warning or regard for safety. Convoys of huge trucks randomly (or so it seemed to me) honked their horns, making me increasingly paranoid that either the trunk was open and my luggage was spilling out or I was breaking some vital Dutch driving law. Or were they just being friendly? I had no idea and it was very disconcerting. I arrived at Efteling late, harassed, and somewhat distracted.
As ever, I overcompensated by being very businesslike. I swept into the lobby of the Golden Tulip Hotel and up to the front desk. “My name is Jennifer Cox,” I told the neat-looking receptionist briskly, “I’m here to date Prince Charming.”
I knew how ridiculous it sounded, but it had been a trying morning, and I gave her a look that stated very clearly: “Say ‘Ooooh, aren’t we all’ and I will disembowel you where you stand.”
But she didn’t. Instead she smiled sympathetically and said: “Ah yes, we’ve been expecting you, Ms. Cox. I’m sorry, but I have some bad news: Prince Charming has unexpectedly been taken ill. But please don’t worry, he has arranged for his friend Frank, who runs the local bike shop, to date you instead. He’s waiting for you over there.”
As she pointed somewhere over my shoulder, I sagged against the counter and squinted at her in uncomprehending astonishment. This was not good. Really not good at all. I’m not a hippie, but I do believe in karma: When Prince Charming can’t be bothered to show up and is replaced last minute by the local bike mechanic, romance is not writ large in the stars.
“Be calm,” I told myself evenly and unconvincingly. “Fate is just testing you to make sure you’re serious.” I took a deep breath and turned to Frank, who was sitting patiently waiting to introduce himself. I forced a weak, wobbly smile onto my face as I walked over to meet him. My first impression was that he was nervous (who could blame him?) and a bit thin. He looked good when he stood up, though: about six feet two, with slightly curly, reddish hair and very blue eyes. He looked shy but not wimpy (I hate wimpy) and surprised me by taking my hand and saying firmly: “Come with me, Jennifer, I’m going to date you.”
And that’s exactly what he did.
Efteling theme park dated back to 1952 and was full of your regular fairies and Red Riding Hoods, but also, weird, freakish gargoyles called Laafs, who were a sort of cherished national goblin. The park had the air and appearance of a 1970s Disney Does Brueghel fantasy—rather dated and a bit disturbing—but in a nice way, with lots of bright flowers and excited schoolkids running around.
Frank walked me round the gargoyles and daffodils with a sense of purpose. He had planned where we should go and was quietly in charge (which I liked). But I’d been up for five hours, had eaten nothing all day (the whole pre-date “To eat or not to eat” question again), and was really starting to feel the effects. Noticing I was getting a little vague, Frank took me to a cafeteria by a huge aviary.
Food is always a nightmare for me in Europe: There’s either too much dairy (France), too much meat (Germany), or too much lard (pretty much anywhere east of Zurich). There was nothing I really wanted but I’d left it too late to be fussy, so bought us both smoked-salmon open sandwiches. Feeling a little faint, I went to take my first bite and the sandwich slipped out of my hand. Lightning reflexes honed by seven years on the school softball team kicked in as I caught the sandwich in its upward trajectory, snatching it out of the air. The salmon, however, continued to fly pancake-esque upward. It flipped over lazily before plummeting back down and slapping wetly onto the back of my hand, covering it completely like some vile-smelling glove. I stared at it helplessly. You don’t eat food that’s been on the floor, but what’s the protocol for food that’s been worn? Frank, who had stood quietly watching my freakish display, reached over, un-peeled the fish from my hand, and folded it back onto the top of the sandwich.
“Shall we walk as we eat?” he asked politely. I nodded meekly and we set off to explore.
Once I’d eaten, I started to relax and enjoy myself. The park was great: Dream Ride was a fairy kingdom full of scary porn fairies with open mouths; Panda Dream was a highly inventive 3D film, in which Martin Luther King was reincarnated as a panda concerned about the environment. My favorite ride was the “Arabic” boat trip along an indoor river that sailed past scenes from Tales of 1,001 Nights.
We cruised around blind corners scented with apple incense, into market scenes where cheesy shop-window dummies with rolling eyes jerked stiffly on magic carpets. We sailed out of one dark, smoky tunnel between the legs of a huge genie, whose vast jowls hung down over us, disconcerting, like giant testicles.
The ride reduced us to helpless, conspiratorial giggles. Suddenly, I didn’t resent that I’d been stood up by Prince Charming, as Frank was turning out to be the male equivalent of Cinderella: a slow burner full of fun. Earlier in the day he’d touched my shoulder a few times to make a point, and at the time the intimacy had made me feel uncomfortable. Now when he did it, I felt relaxed and fond of him.
Despite the fact that I was having a good time, by 6 p.m. the spring air had grown cold and we were flagging, so Frank suggested we return to the hotel bar for a drink. Finding a table by the window and ordering wine, we were chatting and laughing easily by now. As we sat with our heads close together, Frank said something I didn’t catch. I turned and leaned closer to hear him better. Without warning he took my face in his hands and kissed me full on the mouth. I genuinely wasn’t expecting this at all and I gasped out loud in shock (though not unpleasantly surprised).
“You can’t kiss me in the bar,” I spluttered, pulling away and laughing.
“Where would you like me to kiss you?” Frank replied with a challenging smile.
I know this is going to sound completely naïve, but I hadn’t even thought about what I’d do if someone kissed me. It wasn’t that I didn’t like Frank—I did—but I had another date in twelve hours. I had already started to detach emotionally and was really looking forward to the peace and quiet of my room. I needed some time out to curl up in bed with a beer, chips, and a movie, not talking to anyone at all.
Although I knew I was staying in the Sleeping Beauty Suite (cute and silly, with a spinning wheel in one corner and a life-size snoring knight in another), there hadn’t been time to check in yet. While Frank and I were in Kiss Negotiations, the hotel manager chose this moment to walk over with my stowed luggage and introduce himself.
“Good evening, Ms. Cox,” he said cheerfully. “We hope you are enjoying yourself?” I blushed guiltily as he continued, “I just wanted to let you know, we have moved you from the Sleeping Beauty Suite to the Bridal Suite. We are sure you will enjoy the room.” And, with a smile, he walked away.
The Bridal Suite was the one with the huge rotating be
d and the Jacuzzi in the middle of the room. I didn’t even have a chance to react—Frank was on his feet. “Let’s go,” he urged.
Suddenly it felt as if the date had accelerated past me and I was having trouble keeping up. “Frank, you are NOT coming to my room,” I told him firmly, though feeling extremely flustered.
Frank acted as if he hadn’t heard me. “Come on,” he said. “I want to kiss you.”
That he was so confident and focused disoriented me completely. “Frank,” I squeaked, struggling to stay calm and sound like I meant what I said. “There is no way I’m going to sleep with you.”
And I meant it: Frank was cute and he was fun, but he wasn’t The One. But even as I said it, I was aware that Frank was compellingly sexy. God, I really hadn’t thought through the whole attraction thing.
“Why not?” he asked, sensing my confusion and smiling lazily, like a cat not so much with the cream but with the entire cow. At gunpoint.
I breathed hard, gripping the edge of the table to steady myself. “Because I dated a guy yesterday, I’m dating another guy tomorrow, and I’m dating another seventy-seven after that. I can’t sleep with all the Dates; what would that make me?” I beseeched indignantly.
But Frank had no pity. “I’m not asking you to sleep with all the Dates,” he replied reasonably, stroking my hand almost sympathetically, “just this one.”
God, he was good. This was like being back at a school disco with the cute bad boy trying to charm you out of your knickers with the selfish logic of, “Well you’ll be taking them off later anyway…”
I had to act fast. I jumped to my feet, grabbed my suitcase, and ran to the lift. Frank got there first. We were both laughing and flushed now. There was dangerous electricity that crackled between us, growing by the second.
“Frank, you are not getting in the lift with me,” I said firmly as the lift doors opened. Frank and I got in. The doors closed. Frank didn’t say a word; he just turned, pushed his weight against me, and started kissing me with a slow, hard certainty that made my head spin.
As the lift ascended, Frank and I staggered from wall to wall, locked in a deep, wet passion that lasted eight floors.
I fell out the doors as they opened on my floor, face red from Frank’s stubble and eyes wild from the excitement. I was having trouble focusing. I had a teaspoon of self-control left, though, and I knew I had to exert it. “Frank, stay in the lift,” I commanded hoarsely, swallowing hard. He looked at me steadily, his hair messed, his mouth wet, and his foot jammed in the lift door.
Then, coolly maintaining eye contact, Frank stepped out of the lift. The doors closed behind him and he started walking toward me. I was lost; there was no way I was going to be able to keep resisting him. And, if I’m honest, I was starting to wonder why I was even trying.
I was transfixed and helpless as he moved toward me.
But suddenly, the mood was broken by the noisy chatter of a Dutch family rounding the corner, a nice-looking young couple with two kids under ten. They stopped their animated conversation abruptly and looked at us uncertainly. They must have sensed the tension in the air, and hesitated in front of the lift next to us. They asked Frank something in Dutch which could well have been: “Did you just kiss the face clean off that woman?” but was probably just “Are you getting in or out of the lift?”
The lift doors opened, and Frank stepped away from them, taking my arm as the family got in. I knew we were at the point of no return: With my last shred of willpower, I shoved Frank hard, making him stumble back into the lift. As the doors slid shut, Frank and the family all stood staring at me in astonishment. I grabbed my bags, ran to my room, and locked the door behind me.
I sat on the bed panting, then, catching sight of myself in the mirror, burst out laughing: I looked like I was on the school playground, resting in the middle of a game of kiss-chase. And kissing was good. But on a first date, anything more than kissing seemed a bit much. It wasn’t that anything more was completely out of the question, it was more that I imagined it would be tender and romantic and with The One. I was two dates in and both had ended in a tussle, with the Dates wanting to go further and me just wanting to go. Maybe my friends were right to call my journey “Around the World in Eighty Lays.” But it was no big deal: I’d just forgotten what it was like to date; in future I’d be more prepared. Actually, in many ways it was quite reassuring—the world might have changed a lot since I was a teenager, but dating didn’t seem to have changed at all.
The next day, before I left, I checked my emails. There was a lovely one from Frank telling me in broken English how much he had enjoyed our date and how he hoped:
…to meat you again.
I believed him.
Date #3: Willem—Keukenhof, Holland
Another early start heading northwest to Keukenhof, the famous tulip fields that have graced a thousand postcards. There had been a silly misunderstanding with my Dutch friend Birgit. I’d told her briefly over the phone what I was doing, and she thought I’d said I was looking for my Soil Mate. She knows I love my teeny backyard and just assumed it was a gardening thing and had set me up to date Willem, a gardener at Keukenhof.
Once I got past my eye-rolling about the date and started thinking about what Willem might be like, I was actually pretty excited. I imagined a sun-beaten, Lawrencian antihero: dirt under his nails; shirt pulled back roughly over his strong forearms; and the little eye contact that was made would be both mocking and smoldering.
Still dizzy from nearly being Franked, I happily daydreamed as I drove, cramming sweet almond-studded rolls filled with cinnamon cream into my mouth. I was not going to start this date digestively vulnerable. I was going to be prepared and ready.
It was another beautiful day and—like a plague of locusts off buzzing another field—the crazy drivers and hooting truckers had vanished. Sunny fields of cows and windmills, gorgeous churches with proudly domed roofs, and canals bobbing with pretty barges, all hinted at a life lived less hectically.
I was in a great mood but a bit tired, mainly from the effort of emoting and drawing the Dates out of themselves. And the dates had been long, too, both lasting most of the day and well into the evening. That’s not a date, that’s a DAY.
I had to find a different way to run the dates, I thought: One, limit the amount of time we had together, and, two, not let them talk about their old girlfriends too much. It would end up being exhausting otherwise and not much fun for either of us. Being able to talk through their Relationship Résumés was probably quite therapeutic for the Dates, though. Being a dumpee is the very definition of self-absorption, and here I was, some stranger parachuted in for a day, encouraging them to open up about things their friends were probably sick to death of hearing about.
But it would be a big disappointment if that’s all I did over the eighty dates: got dressed and Mac’d up just to listen to other people’s problems. You know, it’s funny, I’d focused on how much effort it had been setting up the dates, but it was only just dawning on me how much work going around the world in eighty dates could actually turn out to be. I really hoped it was going to be more fun than having eighty trapped in the kitchen at a party conversations. I almost wanted to speed-date all eighty for ten minutes, then just have a proper date with the top ten. But I’d be cheating Fate and shortchanging myself that way: I’d only meet my Soul Mate if I entered fully into the spirit of my Dating Odyssey, no holds barred.
Meanwhile, all this pondering had distracted me from reading the map properly and, as a result, I got lost on the ring road around Rotterdam and arrived in Keukenhof an hour late for meeting Willem.
I screeched to a halt in the parking lot and raced through the front gate, barely taking the time to check my hair and makeup. A sweet old man, unsteady on his walking stick, chatted about the seven million bulbs that had been planted at Keukenhof that spring, as he led me to the walled garden where Willem was waiting for me.
Willem was not what I expected.
He rose formally from the wooden bench as I approached, and stiffly held out his right hand to shake mine. In his left he held a beautiful tulip. Long-stemmed and luxurious, its feathery yellow head pouted engorged lips like clams. I smiled, thinking how beautiful it was, and he caught me admiring it. “This is what we Dutch men traditionally give on blind dates,” he said self-consciously in a voice that was deep and educated. I had no idea if he was serious or not, but noting his discomfort and sympathizing (let’s face it, it was a bizarre situation), I smiled encouragingly and waited for him to give me the flower.
But he didn’t give me the flower. Instead, he sat back down on the bench, smoothing out the creases in his impeccable trousers and straightening his cuffs. Feeling more than a little disconcerted, I followed his lead and sat down next to him. Together we surveyed the rippling rows of nodding tulips stretching up to meet the weak spring sunshine. Row upon row of frilled heads: lilac, black, yellow, white shot with scarlet, some feathery, some furled, puckered tight, some blown and fading, all color and life spent. It was magnificent, and, in a way, an intimate and emotional sight to share.