Around the World in 80 Dates

by Jennifer Cox

  This was what I had come for. “So that man tidying his stack of chips, does that mean anything?”

  Chester didn’t answer immediately, lost in the game again, but then with distracted impatience snorted: “It all means something. If you’re going to gamble, you’ve got to study your opponent; you can be damned sure they’ll be studying you. Man who tidies his chips? He’s probably a real careful player: thinks things through, don’t take a lot of risks. Man who leaves them loose, he’s aggressive and harder to call. And look how they’re sitting: See the guy who just sat back in his chair? He’s about to fold, knows he’s out of the game….”

  And sure enough, the man laid his cards down and the dealer swept his chips away into the center of the table.

  This was fascinating. I had witnessed similar body language among the speed-daters. The mumbling analyst had leaned right back in his chair, whereas the management consultant/street flosser—presumably more confident of his hand—jutted forward, his face pushed quite intimidatingly into mine.

  After the intense flurry of insights, Chester was silent again, engrossed in the game, acting as if we were two strangers at a bar (which, of course, we were). I took tiny sips of my warm beer, half watching the game, half watching Neville slowly clean the frayed carpet. Chester suddenly let out a big sigh. I turned back to the TV: The game had finished and Chester was slumped slightly, the tension he’d been holding for the duration of the game leaving his body.

  You’d think gambling or comedy would be fun jobs, but so far these were some of the tensest people I’d met. Was this how I’d seemed to people when I was working?

  “The thing about gambling,” Chester explained, turning his stool to face mine for the first time, “is that it’s not a game at all: It’s a job. You’ve got to work at it and take it seriously. You can’t put it down to luck and go in unprepared.”

  He was obviously very serious about it, as were all the people I’d met when it came to their professions. And where did that leave Love? Was I right to approach my Soul Mate quest like a job, or could you be lucky in Love?

  “What about beginner’s luck?” I asked.

  “Just that,” he replied dismissively. “It don’t mean anything and it don’t last.”

  “So what do you need to play well?” I asked him. “What makes a good player?”

  “Well,” he replied, blowing out a little more of the tension before taking a swallow of his whiskey and coke. “A good player has done half his work before he even gets to the table. Are you in the right frame of mind; have you set your limit; who’s the opposition?”

  Although I could see parallels, so far gambling was about winning at any cost. I didn’t want a man at any cost, I wanted the right one. But being able to read my Dates would help me decide if I was on the right track.

  “I know this sounds stupid, but is it always about winning?” Chester looked intrigued by my question, like I’d graduated from basics and made it through to the next—but still basic—level.

  “You gotta think about what you want. I mean, obviously you want to win, but you gotta think about how much you want to win and how much you got to lose. You gotta set your limit and when you reach it, get up and walk away; never throw good money after bad.”

  That made sense: I’d never set a limit with Kelly, I always thought I was in too deep to go back and if I just tried a little harder, gave a little more, we’d be fine.

  “That must take a lot of control,” I said humbly.

  “Playing is all about control,” Chester observed bluntly. “You don’t play angry, you don’t play drunk. It’s not just your cards you’re playing, it’s people. And at the exact same time, they’re playing you. You need a clear head to think through that, then imagine yourself winning.”

  “Imagine yourself winning?” I repeated, perplexed. “Wouldn’t that make you overconfident?”

  “Not at all,” Chester disagreed. “It’s called positive visualization, like being a runner: See yourself making it across the finish line, you pace yourself better, run a better race too. See yourself winning at poker, you make the winning calls. See yourself as a loser, you’ve not got the self-belief or determination to play well, no matter how much money you gamble.”

  I was shocked to hear the words of the Love Professor echoed by Chester: Like yourself and you’ll win; think you’re a loser, and sure enough you’ll end up losing.

  “That’s why none of these weekend gamblers got the first clue,” Chester said, showing emotion for the first time. “Gambling takes patience: Before you even sit down at a table you have to watch, study, and learn. You make all the moves in your head first; you can’t just rush in.”

  Although I thought Chester was right about being prepared, I also thought he was being overly harsh. Weekend tourists weren’t professional gamblers, they were people enjoying themselves. And surely that was okay? Like all of us obsessed with our careers, Chester was assuming that everyone took gambling as seriously as he did.

  “But surely most people coming to Vegas just gamble for fun,” I countered.

  “Yes, ma’am, they do,” Chester agreed. “And there ain’t nothing wrong with fun.” And with that, he leaned over and kissed me.

  I was absolutely not expecting this. I mean, not remotely. Not like when Frank in Holland kissed me and I wasn’t expecting it, because Frank and I had spent the whole day chatting and had got on really well. Chester had hardly even spoken to me, let alone established any kind of rapport.

  Horribly afraid that Neville was watching, I grabbed the edge of the bar to stop myself toppling backward off my stool and slid sideways, away from Chester’s kiss. He smiled good-naturedly. “Sometimes you just gotta take a chance,” he said.

  In a fluster, I got up and thanked him for his time. I didn’t say what I really wanted, which was: “Oh, so suddenly now you believe in luck?” It seemed when it came to romance, even professionals forgot the theory and followed their hearts (well, one of their organs, anyway).

  The next day I thought about what Chester had said. The body-language tips had been useful; so had the one about setting limits (though I had learned this in Paris). What I found completely invaluable were his comments about positive visualization. This was one step on from the Love Professor’s like yourself philosophy: It implied that once you liked yourself, you should then imagine what the lovely new you wanted and deserved.

  I booted up my laptop and reread my Soul Mate Job Description:

  …old-fashioned enough to want to feel “ladylike”…someone who makes me smile, lets me read them bits out of the newspaper…tells me interesting things I didn’t know…you’ll believe that life is short and you should make the most of it…sense of fun and adventure essential.

  God, whoever he was, he sounded lovely. I concentrated on the job description and imagined us together: making each other laugh; arguing about politics; getting lost in exotic countries; curling up in front of the TV. I smiled, a little sadly, wondering if I would ever meet him, then remembered I liked myself and was meant to be positively visualizing him. He was out there and I would meet him. I would.

  And suddenly I realized I actually believed it. Not because I was meant to, but because, in my heart, I truly felt it.

  The next morning I came downstairs as a couple of other Days Inn-ers—Earl and Rhea—were heading off in a bus with their friends to renew their wedding vows. They were going to the famous Little White Wedding Chapel and, seeing that cute Briddish gal, asked if I wanted to come along. They’d been married fifty years and clearly relished each other’s company (in a teasing, mock eye-rolling way). Rhea looked lovely in a peach-colored silk suit, Earl resplendent in an “If it’s got tits or tires it’s gonna git you into trouble” T-shirt.

  Known as the Wedding Queen of the West, over the last forty years Little White Wedding Chapel owner and marriage aficionado Charolette Richards had married everyone from Judy Garland, Frank Sinatra, and Joan Collins to Britney Spears and, umm, Blue Oy
ster Cult. Staff included ex–chorus girls and a vast array of impersonators from Sammy Davis Jr. to Dean Martin. And, of course, Elvis. I got separated from the party after they decided to hire a stretch limo and do the wedding as a drive-through. Trying to stay out of the heat, I got chatting with Roseanne, Charolette’s second in command, instead.

  We retreated to the cool of the staff room, and a piece of wedding cake was pushed into my hand as Roseanne told me that 25 percent of all the ceremonies were renewals. I found this, and everything else about the place, really uplifting. The room had the atmosphere of a feel-good musical: Sammy Davis Jr. laughed and spun as he showed another Sammy Davis Jr. how to do a complicated move. Flower arrangers danced around the huge fridges that kept the blooms chilled, as Elvis teased and serenaded, begging them “Don’t Be Cruel.”

  “Is he practicing?” I asked Roseanne.

  “Oh no,” she replied cheerfully. “He just loves to sing. Once he starts, he don’t stop.” With newly married couples popping in, bursting with happy tears and heartfelt thanks, it was an emotional and joyful atmosphere. Before long I had told them about my quest and we were swapping stories and advice about love and marriage.

  It was a wonderful day. Everyone hugged and kissed me good-bye, as Dean Martin prepared to drive me in a stretch limo to the Bellagio. The wardrobe mistress—a tiny Italian woman, choreographer to Michael Crawford in Barnum, with the unquestionable authority of a Sicilian Godmother—walked me to the car. “You wanna know the secret to a successful marriage?” she asked, poking her finger sternly into my chest. She hand-tailored fairy-tale wedding dresses and had herself been married fifty-three years, so I said yes without hesitation. “Meet the family,” she said in a tone that brooked no argument. “Because when the sex is all gone, the family will still be there.”

  When I got back to my room, Frank had emailed from Holland:

  i was wondering where on earth you are at this moment, wich number of date you are dealing with, and…how many guys you have been kissing untill now. am i still the one and only lucky lips?

  Although I had had a few kisses since Frank, he’d been the most fun, and I emailed him straight back, reassuring him that he was still the #1 Kisser.

  For now.

  I loved Vegas. Everything about it: my iffy hotel; the crushing heat; the incessant tackiness; the relentless beep of the slot machines. It should have been repellent, but it was the opposite. Apart from the chopper gangs, everyone was really friendly, and the tack was so well done, wandering around the imaginative air-conditioned interiors of the hotels and casinos was a real pleasure.

  Over the next couple of days, I dated Elvis (Date #52) (real name Dean Z.), who had mesmerizing turquoise eyes and a pompadour as high and solid as a well-baked loaf. Sadly, he was too young, at just twenty years old, but he was gorgeous, clever, and extremely interesting. He’d been Elvis since he was three; his grandfather had been a drummer in the fifties with a big-name British performer.

  Rob (Date #53) was nearly as good-looking as Anders without being as scary. He was determined to prove I could have gone around the world without leaving Vegas. So he took me for drinks in Venice, dinner in Paris, a stroll around the pyramids and the side streets of New York, shark-watching on the Mandalay Reef, and finally drinks again, this time in Morocco. Rob couldn’t sit still for two minutes, and long-term I would have found that too distracting. But we laughed and teased each other, and at the end of the night, he stole Frank’s title.

  Betty’s Outrageous Adventures was a funky, lesbian social club in Vegas. I’d found them on the Internet a while back and had been in regular email contact with their president, Nanc, ever since. She seemed lovely and I was looking forward to meeting her and the other Bettys (Date #54) at one of their regular picnics out of town:

  We tend to sit around and chat, and often run off to hike because the area is so beautiful and less hot than Vegas. Feel welcome to come along. I would love to hear about your travel adventures.

  Nanc picked me up from the Days Inn late the following morning, with another Betty called Elizabeth. We set off in her four-wheel-drive for the mountains, forty minutes outside of Vegas.

  In her mid-thirties, Nanc was pretty, blond, and petite but also incredibly gentle and kindly. We all felt a little awkward and Nanc was at pains to make me welcome. Elizabeth, on the other hand—late thirties, slim, and very fit-looking—was a nonstop acerbic wit from the moment she opened her mouth. She was a tough and successful journalist and grilled me relentlessly as we drove through increasingly heavy rain to the mountains.

  It was a brilliant drive. Not just because we were all single, so the subject of my journey was close to our hearts, but also because Nanc and Elizabeth—naturally—responded to everything from a lesbian perspective. It was a completely fresh angle for me to consider my position from.

  “How do you know if they’re your Soul Mate if you only have one date with them?” Elizabeth demanded.

  “Oh come on,” I retorted, really enjoying sparring with her. “Where’s your sense of romance? Have you never just looked at someone and known they’re The One?” She grudgingly admitted she had; I confessed in return that it made me uncomfortable and perplexed when men expected me to sleep with them on the first date.

  “But they’re men,” Elizabeth snorted, “that’s why they’re dating you. And they only have one date, what else do you expect them to do?”

  Lesbians have different priorities than straight couples, Nanc observed gently. As she spoke she kept her eyes firmly on the road, by now bouncing with huge hailstones and illuminated by the piercing forks of lightning flickering ahead. “First and foremost, we want friendship,” she continued. “If that works out, the next priority is a long-term partner. Some, but very few, lesbians feel sex is their most important priority; it’s way down the list.”

  As Elizabeth and Nanc fell into a conversation about one of the Bettys for whom sex was a priority and the mess she was in at the moment, I considered Nanc’s statement. Those weren’t just lesbian priorities: I was sure they were most women’s. They were certainly mine. I knew I wasn’t gay, so where did that leave me and my search? Trying to meet my Soul Mate in a situation where our priorities were polarized.

  But now wasn’t the time to be introspective. We had arrived at the spot for the Bettys’ hike and picnic. On the side of a steep hill, staked by huge, shaggy pine trees, twenty-three lesbians sheltered in a five-woman tent as hail and rain thundered all around. Grabbing our potluck contributions, Nanc, Elizabeth, and I splashed through the mud and sprinted toward the tent.

  It had been erected around one of those outdoor wooden picnic benches, and any surface not taken with huge bowls of tuna salad, white wine, or chocolate cookies had a drenched Betty sitting on it. Nudging our way into the shelter was like squeezing into a lesbian elevator: There was not one spare inch of room.

  Under these circumstances, it was incredibly easy to make friends, and—as at the Wedding Chapel yesterday—we joined in the laughing and storytelling that were already well under way. Hearing the reason for my journey, Hettie and June, a couple in their sixties, wished me luck in my search. They were Soul Mates, June told me. Not that I needed to be told: As the Love Professor had predicted, they mirrored each other’s body language and unself-consciously finished each other’s sentences.

  There was nothing cringy or schmaltzy about them; sitting huddled in the pouring rain in their soaked hiking jackets, they looked like they were made for each other.

  “We’ve only been together three years,” June confided. “But our entire lives were leading to our time together,” Hettie added with conviction.

  June smiled and squeezed Hettie’s hand.

  I smiled too and told them both about Chester’s positive-visualization theory. “Yes.” Hettie nodded thoughtfully. “You’ve got to believe it will happen, but just as importantly, when the moment comes, you have to be prepared to take that leap of faith.”

  I hugged them b
oth, touched by their story and acknowledging the truth in Hettie’s advice.

  Chapter Nine

  U.S.A.—Black Rock City, Nevada

  Date #55—A hot kiss

  at the Burning Man Festival,

  Nevada, USA

  The woman motioned for me to kill the engine as she stepped from the checkpoint and swaggered through the searing desert heat toward me. Eyes protected from the harsh elements by diamanté-studded goggles, she was naked but for a pair of large graying men’s briefs and a golden sheriff star painted onto each of her nipples.

  Walking up to my side of the car, without saying a word, the greeter stuck her head through the open window and kissed me long and hard on the mouth.

  Straightening up, she then stared at me calculatingly. Without breaking eye contact, I reached behind me into the cooler on the backseat and pulled out a six-pack of beer. In silence I handed it to her. She smiled for the first time, then, rolling the icy cans across her bare stomach, threw her head back and let out a shriek of pure joy. “You’re my kind of girl,” she laughed, pulling her goggles back and beaming at me. “It’s a pleasure to have you in Black Rock City. Welcome to Burning Man.”

  At the end of every summer, the Burning Man Festival set up camp on the Playa, a blistering, barren section of the Nevada desert, two hours’ drive northeast of Reno.

  Started in San Francisco in 1986 by Larry Harvey and relocated to the desert in 1992, it was less a festival and more a radical exercise in personal expression and communal interdependence. Nothing grew on the Playa, there was no shelter, and you couldn’t buy or sell anything (with the exception of ice and coffee). Life on the Playa was about bringing everything you needed for a week, then sharing it with a community of up to thirty thousand people.