Around the World in 80 Dates

by Jennifer Cox

  I wished him luck building the cookhouse and for the summer ahead, then walked woodenly back to the warmth of the boat and the challenge of the next seventy-three dates.

  Sailing back, it was so cold and wet I had to sit below deck. There was one spare seat at a coffee table, where two women leaned toward one another, deep in conversation. They invited me to join them and I did, but although busying myself with my book, I found it impossible to ignore their conversation.

  Sarah was in her thirties, from London but working for the EU in Brussels. Katia was in her fifties, living and working in Stockholm. She was a part-time therapist who also made money selling diets over the Internet. They were several hours into a conversation about their love lives.

  Sarah was torn between a relationship with a cute commitment-phobe in Brussels and a safe-bet/dull-as-ditchwater back home in London. The thing she was really struggling with, though, was, as she put it: “We are all born alone and die alone.”

  I could see how that would put a damper on the evening.

  Katia only had the one relationship to contend with, but it was more than enough by the sound of it. She was in love with an ex–Soviet general and was unresolved as to if and how she could accept or change his fierce anti-Semitic views.

  The places, faces, and details changed, but I had had these conversations a million times on the road over the years. Wherever you travel, there will be women struggling to come to terms with the big, emotional issues in their lives. I liked to think I was less desperate and better dressed about it, but I had been that woman over the years, too. Who knew, maybe I was that woman now. As I watched Katia pick up her copy of The Answer Within: Learning to Love Yourself and disembark with Sarah, I knew I would never discover how their dilemmas worked out. But maybe that wasn’t the point. Having the chance to think and talk about your issues was what was important. Perhaps that was where the idea for my Dating Odyssey had come from, except I didn’t want to talk about my past, I wanted to be talked into my future.

  When I got back to the hotel, I called Thomas in Russia. We agreed I would email him my impression of him and he would email me back his response, so, in a way, our date would have taken place in spite of his absence. I got to work immediately:

  Okay, so to my impression of you from your design:

  CARING—You wanted me to be happy.

  CALM—The room, although bright, was very tranquil.

  THOUGHTFUL—The room had “breathing space,” like you were encouraging me to take the time to think about things.

  SMART—You knew how to control the mediums and get the effect you wanted.

  FUN/SENSE OF HUMOR—I loved the larger-than-life bed—it made me think of Goldilocks and the Three Bears!

  SENSITIVE—Feeling for textures and subtle form.

  In short, the sense of you that I got from your room is that you are a kind man and selfless friend. Someone who listens, returns calls no matter how late, and puts others before himself. You are reliable and thoughtful.

  There is a darker side that most don’t see, though (the bathroom has an utterly different mood to the bedroom): You feel the need to keep that out of view and compartmentalized “for yourself.”

  You are also a passionate perfectionist, with a strong, restless vision. You cannot rest until a project has been completed to your high standards.

  Thomas, I do hope I haven’t said anything insensitive or too personal here. You came across as being utterly lovely from your room and I hope that is clear in what I have just written. I’m curious as to how right and wrong I am.

  Take care, Jennifer

  Date #8: William—Nobel Museum, Stockholm, Sweden

  The next morning I walked to Rådmansgatan Station and caught the Tunnelbana metro to Gamla Stan, Stockholm’s medieval center. It was built on an island and was good for lazy sightseers, as the charismatic castle, cathedral, parliament buildings, and museums were all within spitting distance of each other.

  It also meant that it had the highest concentration of tourists, expensive ice creams, and customer-only toilets of anywhere in Sweden. I bypassed all of these and headed straight for the Nobel Museum and my 10:30 with William.

  William was a student here. He was also the brother of my friend Lorna from Australia. I had more than enough Swedish dates already, but Lorna had begged me to meet up with him:

  Think of this as a favor to me, Jen: He doesn’t know a lot of people there as he’s pretty shy so a bit slow making friends. I know he’d love to have the chance to talk to someone. I’ll owe you big-time.

  To be told someone will “owe you big-time” means you’re pretty much being told to expect the worst but for noble reasons. It wasn’t the Nobel Date I wanted, but “it’s just coffee,” I told myself firmly as I hiked up the steps outside the Nobel Museum. “It’s one morning out of my life.” Get in, date him, and boom—I could be heading out of the country and on to the next date in under four hours.

  It had just gone 10 a.m. as I walked into the entrance hall. I wanted the chance to have a look around before I met William. The Nobel Museum honored the 743 laureates who had tirelessly devoted themselves to the fields of physics, chemistry, medicine, literature, economics, and, of course, peace.

  The museum was wonderful: As you entered, a huge Orwellian tract ran around the ceiling of the entire building, laminated portraits of the laureates rattling along it on hangers. At various points the track dipped down so you could read the profiles.

  The museum was divided into sections by solid screens of what looked like chicken wire covered in Plexiglas, white fiber-optic lights glowing inside. I bumped into the publicist, Anna, who pointed me in the direction of the electronic museum, where I wanted to surf the online database of the laureates’ acceptance speeches.

  Martin Luther King Jr., Marie Curie, Samuel Beckett, Kofi Annan, Mother Teresa…Reading them, I was struck by how much passion these people had poured into the ideals they championed. Out of curiosity, I entered the word “love” and searched for references to it among the speeches.

  The screen filled and I scrolled down. The laureates’ love of ideas; their love of humanity, freedom, God, science and discovery, home; even their love of cars. It struck me very powerfully that this kind of love was a dedication: a devotional love, abstract, not interpersonal. There was no mention of romantic love; no real celebration of people other than as concepts or ideals.

  Clearly the laureates were accomplished, unique people. But was being accomplished and unique at the expense of something more everyday and vital to our happiness? In short, to be a great idealist, did you need to be pretty self-centered and emotionally unavailable? Were they just a smarter, more noble version of me, choosing a job over a partner? But since they were making the world a better place rather than writing about where to go on holiday, did that make it okay?

  Another thing that really struck me was how few of the laureates were women: only 31 out of a total of 743. What did that say about gender roles and the pursuit of ideals? Were women more interested in people, and men in ideas, or was the judging system just crap?

  But it was time to meet William. As I walked back out to the lobby, I bumped into Anna again. I asked her if she thought it was true the laureates didn’t value romantic or personal love.

  Anna smiled wryly. “You know, when I started working at the Nobel Museum, I was told: ‘Here you are not loved for being witty or beautiful, you are loved for your ideas.’ Most of the people associated with the Nobel Prizes—winners and staff—give up their families and well-paid jobs so that they might explore and prove their ideas. It takes a certain type of selfishness to be so dedicated.”

  So it was as true for Nobel Prize winners as it was for guidebook publicists: Too much work wrecks your love life.

  William and I had arranged to meet at the Kafé Satir. Modeled on Café Museum, the Viennese intellectuals’ hang-out in the early 1900s, it was where the Nobel Museum encouraged you to debate and reflect. I figured if
William didn’t have much to say for himself, at least there’d be enough going on around to distract us. The café was small; I should have no problem spotting William: brown collar-length hair, bookish, and “normal-looking,” according to Lorna.

  There was only one person in the café when I arrived. Sunk low in his chair, huge booted feet propped up on the table, a young man with long, greasy hair slouched with his eyes shut and his mouth open. The serving staff stood tensely behind the counter, watching him with open hostility, outraged at the bad manners, worse attitude, and unforgivable hair.

  This could not be William.

  I don’t know why I even bothered thinking that, because I instantly knew that it was. This heavy-metal dating disaster was “shy,” “normal” William. And from the look and smell of his T-shirt, he hadn’t been home since the Metallica concert the night before.

  Rather than feeling worried or intimidated, I felt like someone’s mum arriving home unexpectedly to find her son blowing off school and reading Dad’s hidden stash of porn.

  Walking over to where William sat oblivious to my stern judgment, I gave the staff an I’ll deal with this look. Putting my bag and coat on the table next to William’s feet, I sharply rapped on the sole of one of his boots. His eyelids flickered, his brow creased, but he continued to sleep, the studs on his jacket rising and falling gently with each deep breath.

  “William,” I said crisply. This time his eyes snapped open and he looked around in alarm, completely disoriented, clearly not recognizing where he was. “William,” I repeated, this time a little more gently but still with a wait till I get you home, young man tone to my voice. He blinked twice and blankly focused his gaze in my direction. Like being behind a student driver waiting and waiting to pull out on a busy roundabout, sometimes you have to give them a nudge or you’ll be there forever. “William!” I shouted, knocking him hard on the shoulder.

  Pausing as if manually connecting brain with body, William shambled into life. Crashing his legs off the table onto the floor, he stumbled to his feet. As the chair toppled over noisily behind him, the counter staff flinched collectively. The smell of cigarettes and alcohol was overwhelming. William looked at me uncertainly: He knew he was expected to speak but was obviously having difficulty knowing exactly where he was and what he was meant to say.

  I revved my engine and shunted him into the oncoming traffic.

  “William, I am Jennifer,” I said briskly, Mary Poppins suddenly my default personality.

  “Yes?” he asked dully. Something about this sounded familiar; he just needed more time to work out what.

  “I am a friend of your sister Lorna’s. She arranged for us to meet.”

  William was suddenly completely in the moment, totally lucid, and very much awake. “Hey,” he said slowly, looking at me attentively as if seeing me for the first time. “You’re that chick going round the world banging all those guys,” he reported matter-of-factly. I sensed all movement behind the counter come to an abrupt halt; the kitchen staff stopped watching William and—like spectators at Wimbledon—collectively turned their attention to me, their faces alight with frank incredulity and wonder.

  Although the café was designed to foster the lively exchange of ideas, I doubted very much that this was what they had in mind.

  “William,” I said witheringly, summoning all the dignity I could manage, “I am not—as you say—‘banging guys around the world.’ I am on a quest, traveling the world in search of my Soul Mate.” I snorted at the ridiculousness of his statement, as much to convince the staff in the kitchen as William.

  “But you bang some of the guys, right?” he asked hopefully.

  I rolled my eyes. I didn’t have the time or energy to explain the niceties of my Odyssey to some teenage boy optimistically and inappropriately awash with hormones. With a dignified sniff, I picked up my bag and coat. Casting a disdainful eye in the direction of the counter staff, who by now had given up all pretense of rearranging the chocolate cookies and were openly following our conversation, I thanked William for meeting me.

  “I’ll tell Lorna you looked, ummm…” I struggled for a suitable description. “…well.”

  William just stared at me, his unwashed face puckering into folds of exasperation as he realized I was going, and he was not coming with me. “Maaan,” he groaned in frustration, “I only came here because I thought I was going to get laid. I’m telling you, there is no way I am ever doing my sister a favor again.”

  Doing my sister a favor?

  Whatever did he mean? I was the one on the mission of mercy here. Had Lorna given him the impression I was the one who needed help? Her desperate friend destined to end up Internationally Single, but if he could help make up the numbers, at least there’d be a shag in it for him? Could she really have said that?

  I never got the chance to ask, because William, like a child who’s been told “No more Robot Wars until your room’s tidy,” had already stomped out of the café and up the street, without so much as a backward glance.

  I raised my eyebrows and let out a long, steadying breath. That, I said to myself, was what happened when you dated a Viking. Giving the kitchen staff an at least wait until I am out of earshot look, I left the museum for my hotel, where I packed and left for Denmark.

  The man sitting in front of me on the plane to Copenhagen was easily the most nervous flyer I’ve ever seen in my life. He puffed and panted through gritted teeth like he was flying Air Lamaze. At one point I was woken by him shrieking, “Oh, my God!” involuntarily, before returning to his steady panting.

  No one watched the film; we all watched him.

  I shouldn’t have taken this as a bad omen, but I did. I was in an ugly mood. I still felt irritated, less by how William had been and more by what Lorna might have said. Although I only had two dates in Copenhagen, I’m afraid to say I didn’t feel in the mood for either of them.

  Date #9: Lars—The Free State of Christiania, Copenhagen, Denmark

  My mood was not improved by getting soaked on the way to Christiania. It was dead in the water by the time I’d finished dating Lars.

  Christiania was on the site of an abandoned military barracks on the edge of Copenhagen city center. Taken over by squatters in 1971 and declared a “free state,” it was now home to around eight hundred people, with another seven hundred–odd who worked within the community.

  Christiania was a self-governing, car-free society that functioned as a collective. It ran its own school, recycling programs, and small businesses that catered to both residents and the tourists who flocked here (mainly to buy the pot openly sold on “Pusher Street”).

  Its very existence was a challenging expression of civil liberties. I had loved the sense of community I got from living in a housing co-op in Leeds when I was a student. Could my Soul Mate be found in this community?

  My date Lars had just split up with his girlfriend. His friend Vessie, who was a friend of my friend Kirk, thought it would cheer Lars up to meet me. I have no idea if it cheered Lars up, but it depressed the hell out of me. “I’m only here so I don’t have to be on my own at home,” he told me bluntly the second we met.

  Our date consisted of three hours walking along Christiania’s muddy paths in the pouring rain, as Lars poured his heart out. His girlfriend had left him for someone else; he was a good guy who couldn’t catch a break; she’d never appreciated him, he was too good for her; what was so great about macho guys anyway…?

  Regardless of the fact that Lars had just been dumped, to me he seemed one of those people who had a horrible, negative attitude anyway. When we parted company, I felt like asking for his ex-girlfriend’s phone number just so we could go out for a drink together and bad mouth him.

  Date #10: Paul—Tivoli Gardens, Copenhagen, Denmark

  I slept badly after my date with Lars. His negativity weighed on me and made me feel despondent about my own chances of success—not because he had been unlucky in love but because I feared I might be unluc
ky enough to have another seventy-one dates just like him.

  But my next date was with Paul, a chef who worked in one of the “It” restaurants in Copenhagen. We’d both been too busy to talk or email, but my friend Georgia had arranged for us to meet on the Kissing Bench at Tivoli Gardens, the Victorian amusement park full of old-fashioned rides, street orchestras, and beautiful flower gardens. It was one of my favorite places and I knew it would cheer me up.

  But four hours later, as I sat solo on the Kissing Bench in the pouring rain, I realized that rather than being cheered up, I was being stood up. Paul was a no-show. I shouldn’t have been as upset about it as I was, but I took it really badly and very personally: Not only did he not want to see me, he couldn’t even be bothered to let me know he wasn’t coming. Too embarrassed to get in contact with Georgia and too wretched to do anything else, I went back to the hotel, ran a hot bath, and cried.

  Chapter Five

  France

  Date #12—The Gallic Date

  in Paris, France

  I love Scandinavia: Like the Netherlands, its people seem liberal and smart without making a big deal about it. In complete contrast, the French national identity has an air of disdainful elegance, like old money at Ascot. But the back-to-back dating disaster in Copenhagen, preceded by William in Stockholm, made me sincerely glad I was heading for the complicated cosmopolitanism of Paris. I needed a complete change of scene and atmosphere.

  The last time I had come to Paris was Kelly’s and my four-year anniversary. After extensive nagging, he’d agreed to go to the Buddha Bar. Apparently, the beer was too expensive, the staff too fashionable; it hadn’t been a great success.

  If I hadn’t been traveling for the purpose of dating, I think I might have resented that so many cities around the world seemed to contain little Kelly booby traps—painful or irritating memories that exploded out of nowhere. But I was determined not to be one of those people who stayed involved with the bitterness longer than they’d been with the person who’d actually caused it.