Around the World in 80 Dates (4 page)

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.

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:

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:

And Larry, the pilot:

To Tan, the businessman:

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 the 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.