Editor’s Note: This modern-day horror tale is brought to you by Julia Reiss, a Los Angeles-bred writer and humorist with Parisian tendencies, based in New York City. When she’s not writing or overcome with ennui, you can find her flexing her credit limit at any of the city’s retail establishments. For updates in short form, follow her on Twitter and Instagram. And for all other things Julia, stay up to date at www.iamjuliareiss.com.
The way I see it, online dating has a deceivingly bad rap. Sure, I had my initial trepidations. But that’s only because, as a child of the 80s, I was taught that the only people you could meet online were the those who weren’t allowed to be within 100 feet of a playground.
Editor’s Note: Nope, we are not reporting back from the early 2000s. It appears that speed dating – the very same dating format that once inspired SATC’s Miranda to pretend to be a stewardess for the sake of male seduction – is still a real thing, taking place on the island of Manhattan. While no allure of “blog research” could convince me to embark upon this terrifying venture, a friend of mine, lovingly known as The Log, recently had the courage to sign up for a speed dating event that granted her the opportunity of meeting 15 eligible bachelors over the course of 2.5 hours. “That’s more dates than I have been on in the past 10 years! Why the hell not?” she told me when confronted by my bewildered stare. I promised her not to judge, as long as she agreed to report back with a story. Which you can now enjoy for yourself.
This modern-day fairy-tale is brought to you by Jordan Nadler, whom you should probably follow on Twitter.
There we were, two windswept lovers wrapped in an embrace on Avenue Lowendal at 4:30AM, kissing like the world was going to end. “You are so beautiful,” he whispered, “Jesus Christ.” Little droplets of rain trailed down our skin as he traced over every crevice of my body.
I put my hand around his as it began to gravitate towards The Place of No Return. “I think this might be a government building,” I laughed, looking next to us. “There is definitely a camera here somewhere.” (I’m all for a good makeout sesh but would love for Jean-Pierre the security guard to not be a part of it.)
“I don’t care.” he said as he ran his fingers through my hair, tightened his grip and pulled me in closer to him. “Let’s go upstairs.”
They say New York is a place where you can meet the love of your life walking down the street. “They” are not lying. If you look at the “Missed Connections” section of Craigslist, multitudes of couples appear to emerge as a result of the L train commute. A friend of mine met her husband rollerblading by the Thompson street deli. I myself once met a guy while standing in line at Jamba Juice: he bought me a wheat grass shot and I thought he was my future husband – that is, until we went on a few dates and I discovered that he was a Persian Jew who couldn’t eat shellfish, let alone marry a shiksa.
One friend of mine, whom we will call Kate (think Kate Beckinsale in Serendipity) had never had a romance blossom from a chance encounter. Despite having spent twelve years in New York City, no handsome stranger had ever swept her off her feet in the midst of a mundane Tuesday, a fact that she would bitterly mention while manifesting her disdain for the modern dating culture. “I’ve never even had my Katherine Heigl romcom moment, and now I have to use an application to date?” It was clear that she was pining for a serendipitous twist of fate, which made it even more exciting when she called me a few weeks ago to inform me that she had met a cute guy at her local supermarket.
Editors Note: This post is brought to you by Kristina Ezhova, a 22-year-old Russian expat currently residing in Paris (previous locations: Montreal and Toronto). Favorite things in life include: poutine (the food, not the president), War and Peace, pointless Facebook debates, Italian coffee. “One day, Leo will win an Oscar, and I will win Leo’s heart.” Follow Kristina on IG here!
It has always been quite an experience telling people about myself. ‘Hi. Yes, I’m Russian. No, I don’t have a pet bear. Yeah, it does get really cold in the winter. I actually hate vodka..” Once we are through with all the small talk around cultural stereotypes, I’m usually faced with the following question: “So, how are the guys in Russia?” And, man, do I get perplexed every single time…
This story is brought to you by Flora Alexandra, the London-based founder of Arteviste.com.
This is not a love story, but the sorry tale of l’eboueur (a fancy French word for “bin man”), who arrived on the scene during one fine Parisian summer a couple of years ago. Over my summers of living in the 10th Arrondissement, I had the pleasure of dating a broad spectrum of Parisian hipsters, many of whom were well-acquainted with the popular national concept of ‘les pieux mensonges’ – little white lies. And yet, none proved to be as amusing as J, the bearded bachelor who emerged from the darkness of Nüba, an uncharacteristically bobo haunt on the Left Bank.