Around the World in 80 Dates (7 page)

This was Kelly: Captain Compartmentalize, never wanting me to meet his family or friends.

Interesting stuff, but, looking at my watch, I realized I was running out of time. I was meeting my friend Ann-Charlotte for a drink at 6 p.m. to hear about tomorrow's date with her foxy-sounding friend Anders.

I asked if, after all his measuring and dissecting, the Love Professor believed in the existence of Love.

He answered immediately, with total conviction and heartfelt certainty: “Yes, yes, I think it exists. And there is so much data supporting this. Being touched and caressed by your partner will stimulate the brain to release the chemicals oxytocin and vasopressin—both have been linked to our ability to forge strong and lasting emotional bonds. When you meet someone you're attracted to, within two seconds your heart rate will increase dramatically, your blood pressure goes up, muscle tension increases, and your intestines shut off, giving you that ‘butterflies in stomach' sensation.

“Your brain should interpret this as enjoyable,” he added helpfully.

“But I always get really anxious and start babbling,” I confessed. “I talk far too much and make far too many hand gestures. And in my head I'm going,
Shut up, shut up, you're being weird,
but I find it really hard to stop.” I said all this in a small, pained voice, before asking equally pathetically: “I mean, do guys find that attractive?”

The Love Professor looked at me sympathetically, clearly thinking,
This woman will have died of anxiety-induced exhaustion by the end of eight dates, let alone eighty.
He took a deep breath, paused a moment to find the right words, then said: “I think this is a way of handling a fear of losing control. One way—which is perhaps not the best way—to try and regain control is to talk, talk, talk.”

He said this very gently as I hid my face and squirmed on the park bench. Bemused parents out walking with their kids—memories of the horrors of dating long erased—looked over quizzically. I caught sight of my watch; it really was time to go. I had a lot of information, but did the Love Professor have just one tip for my date tomorrow? Was there one thing above all others that I should do?

He looked at me with the kindly expression of someone who knows no amount of advice will help. “I think you should not plan too much,” he said simply. “Just let it happen. Use all your senses and take in whatever comes. You should not watch too much what kind of message you are sending. Afterward you can analyze, but not at the time. What is attractive to the person you are dating is that you are present in all aspects: mind, body, and soul. That is a very good start.”

We sat and looked at each other for a moment, both a bit drained from the intense conversation, and me from the recognition that I felt far more exposed and unsure about my journey than I had ever realized. I gave him a big hug and thanked him sincerely.

As we walked back through the park to his car, we chatted about “normal” things: family, work, places we had visited. We strolled under the comfortable shade of linden and oak trees; it was a beautiful place and I hoped to come back one day when I was less preoccupied. The Love Professor had given me plenty to think about—not all of it easy to hear—but I'd have the chance to talk about it all tonight with Ann-Charlotte, over a large drink.

 

I knew Ann-Charlotte from when she'd worked for the Swedish tourist board in London. I'd been sad to see her move back to her home city of Gothenburg the year before, but was reaping the benefits now. Not only had she promised to take me to the “only locals know” funky parts of town, she'd also done a great job as local Date Wrangler-in-Chief.

Back at my hotel, getting ready to meet her, I felt happy and relaxed, looking forward to the uncomplicated evening I knew we'd spend together. I'd just started to realize how important it was to intersperse my 80 Dates with some normal socializing, preferably with female friends. Dating was really demanding: There was all the stress of preparation and anticipation. Then there was the date itself, fraught with revealing body-language and full of silent
I can't believe he just said that
moments.

We were obliged under the International Girlfriend Charter to reenact dating highlights for each other's entertainment, but, just as importantly right now, I needed relaxed, no-agenda fun with girlfriends to help offset the pressure of dating and stop me obsessing about the
I can't believe
I
just said that
moments of my own.

Avoiding the Avenue (the main tourist drag), Ann-Charlotte took me to a place in Linnégatan, a cosmopolitan area awash with trendy bars and chichi restaurants. It was next to Slottskogen, another of Gothenburg's big parks, and close to Haga, the old town where tall Brothers Grimm wooden houses lined the twisting cobbled streets.

After we caught up with old news, Ann-Charlotte sat rapt with fascination as I explained the Love Professor's scientific theories on love and compatibility. Wine flowed like wine, as we compared notes on how scarily accurate it all was: exes who had refused to be intimate; girlfriends with ready excuses about why their awful relationships really weren't that awful.

She asked if I was going to test what I had learned from the Love Professor on Anders, the friend of hers I was dating tomorrow. But since Anders had insisted everything about him and the date remain a mystery until the date itself (I was starting to see this as one of the ways Dates felt they could retain a degree of control; maybe it made them feel special and not just “one of eighty”), it was impossible to know how I was going to be with him. But, in theory, “of course,” I told her. I would sniff him, mimic his movements, give him enough but not too much of my history, try not to talk too much, and—most importantly—let it happen. BUT, I stressed to Ann-Charlotte, only if he was cute. The last thing I needed was more flirting flotsam, to attract another guy I wasn't seriously interested in, when I needed to concentrate my efforts on finding Mr. Right.

As we stumbled back to our beds at 4:30 a.m., the streets were full of people; the people were full of alcohol. Ann-Charlotte and I were no exception. It was as bright as the afternoon and there was a friendly party atmosphere, the warm air heavy with possibilities. As the night porter of my hotel opened the taxi door for Ann-Charlotte to climb in, she gave me a big hug and wished me luck for the days ahead.

“I think maybe it is a crazy thing that you are doing, Jennifer,” she said intensely. “But you are brave enough to do what the rest of us can only dream of. Go date the world for every woman,” she declared flamboyantly, collapsing into the back of the taxi and giving me a wobbly salute. I watched the taxi drive off. Just as it rounded the corner, I heard her shriek: “And don't forget—for your date with Anders, you must take a bikini.”

When I woke at 11 a.m. that morning, I was immediately confronted by two facts: Firstly, I had the kind of hangover that made my eyes look like a hamster's cheeks stuffed with peanuts, and secondly, in six hours I had to wear a bikini.

I'd brought one with me. Before I'd left London, Ann-Charlotte had repeatedly impressed upon me that it would be needed, but I'd managed to block it out until she'd reminded me last night that I was actually going to have to wear it.

All she'd told me about tonight was that her friend Anders would pick me up from my hotel at 5 p.m.; I should pack a bikini and be ready for a boat trip.

As I have already explained, I will never be ready for a boat trip.

My crushing hangover made it impossible to focus on anything, but—as much as I was capable—I was worried. People who don't suffer from seasickness refuse to accept that the condition is genuine. Instead, they see it as a kind of laziness that can be cured with a little effort and a better attitude. I was forever being told by sailing friends:
“Oh, if you sit up on deck
/
eat a cookie
/
keep your eye on the horizon…you'll be fine.”
Did they not think I had tried all these things? I mean, it wasn't like I was some kind of aquatic bulimic and wanted to be sick.

Mariah and Whitney don't do stairs; I'd told everyone who had anything to do with my journey, I don't do boats. My Dates seemed to think they knew better, though, stubbornly championing the inherent romance of
man woos woman on the open seas.
Well, fair enough, maybe they'd see the inherent romance in
man watches woman throw up on the open seas.

However, my concerns about being sick were nothing compared to my feelings about wearing a bikini in front of a complete stranger. I had great thighs, and I don't mean that in a good way.

When I first heard about the whole bikini nightmare, I went straight to the gym and asked my Swedish trainer, Emma, for a high-impact, fast-result program. As I sweated and shook through a series of lunges and lifts, I explained the reason for the emergency. Emma immediately wrinkled her perfect nose, pursed her pink, cupid-bow lips, and declared, “Oh, but Swedish men are so boring.”

“Really?” I gasped, turning to look at her, my lunge wobbling off to the side. “I thought they were all tall and utterly gorgeous.”

“Exactly,” she replied with the judgment of Solomon. “They have never needed to develop a personality. You should try Australians,” she added helpfully.

Could this be true? Had the Swedish gene pool developed a race so beautiful, evolution had deemed personalities as superfluous as the male nipple? Or did we all just have a “familiarity breeds contempt” attitude toward our homeboys?

Pushing all futile thoughts to one side, I booted up my laptop: I had work to do. I needed at least three hours a day, every day, to keep on top of the practicalities and logistics of my trip, as well as taking care of the minutiae of “normal life.” Although I had started my traveling and dating, there was still so much to be done.

Logging on, I found the usual deluge of dating detail emails. Italy was demanding decisions. I was meeting Umberto, a guy who ran a “traffic dating” website. (Stuck in a traffic jam and fancy the driver two lanes over? Note down their license plate, search for it on Umberto's website, and send them an email suggesting a date.) Umberto wanted to know, were we meeting in Siena or Rome?

I was going to Verona to do the balcony scene with Romeo. The people who looked after Juliet's house wanted to know my medieval dress size.

Meanwhile, over in Paris, I was going on a Skate Date and the guy I was to skate with wanted to know my foot size.

There was also a two-day-old email from Anders:

Hmmmmm.

I worked my way through the emails. I also surfed the Net trying to work out if it was feasible to get from Paris to Berlin by train, and if not and I needed to fly, could I go direct or did I need to backtrack via London? I'd forgotten to pay my credit-card bill and had left my online password in my Palm Pilot at home (in a misguided attempt to travel light), so I needed to call the bank and sort that out. I also checked my answering machine in London. My sister Toz had called: What day was I arriving at her house for the bank holiday weekend? Gareth had rung from Wales to make sure I was still on for the hike over the bank holiday weekend. On my cell, Cath had texted to see if we were still on for Norfolk over the bank holiday weekend. Obviously, while I meticulously cross-checked my dating schedule, I'd forgotten to pay the same attention to my home life and had now triple-booked myself. I couldn't face hearing all those irritated voices now, so made a mental note to call them later.

I looked at my watch: 4 p.m. No time to catch a nap, I had to get ready. An hour later, hoping I didn't look as hungover and sleep-deprived as I felt, I grabbed my bag (including the dreaded bikini) and made my way down to reception.

I had no idea what Anders looked like, but felt sure I'd know when I saw him. As I looked discreetly around the lobby, the door crashed open and a large woman in a tailored black jacket stormed in. She pointed at me. “You are Jennifer?” she boomed, as if daring me to disagree.

I nodded, hesitating in my confusion. Where was Anders?

“Then you come with me,” she commanded, turning on her heel and striding back outside without a backward glance.

It wasn't quite what I had expected. Unsure of exactly what was happening, I walked slowly out the open front door after her. Scanning the street, I spotted her waiting in the driver's seat of a taxi, engine running. She motioned impatiently for me to get in. I knew Ann-Charlotte was in on this, plus I had done crazier things making travel programs (on one national radio show, listeners were invited to show me, unaccompanied, around their home cities. As I climbed into a strange man's car in Istanbul, I remember wondering if we had really thought through the personal security implications of the program and if I'd ever be seen alive again).

We drove south out of town through the busy port area. The shipyard was hard at work, huge cruise liners moored alongside fleets of fishing boats, proving that Gothenburg was wise or fortunate enough to have more than one industry paying the bills. The industrial warehouses looked successful enough, for now, to resist the yuppie developments claiming more vulnerable waterfronts around the world, from Auckland and Sydney to Vancouver and London.