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.
Brought to you by my spirit animal Jordan Nadler (follow her here @nadleresque)
“Soo… you are my girlfriend now?” asked the 33 year old, man-bunned Basque man sitting next to me in the cab after our third date.
I laughed. I didn’t mean to, but what the hell was he talking about? We had probably spent a total of six hours together.
“No, Gaston (not his real name). I am not your girlfriend.”
He looked confused. Genuinely confused “But I like you!” he exclaimed.
There was a bit of an awkward pause. Our Uber driver glanced at us quickly from the rear view mirror.
Editor’s Note: Today, we reverse the M.O. of this blog by offering you a fresh and fascinating European perspective on dating in the good ol’ US and A. Annabella Hochschild is a young Franco-British expat living in New York City, exploring the land of red plastic cups, Soul Cycle obsession and the frat boy quid pro quo!
I wanted New York. I wanted the energy of the city. I wanted the mania of the yellow cab drivers, the Chinese Laundromats, the Korean delis, the Greek diners and the street ramblers. My wish got granted, and today, I am a skeptical New Yorker. I very much like the number of places where you can get a margarita. I very much dislike this far from temperate climate. When it comes to dating, I still don’t get it. That said, a brief and vague companion on what European women do not expect in the dating game – well, at least I didn’t.
News flash: staying home with bébé can make you lose your mind. But, sometimes, in a good way. My friend Rachel, a new mom who regularly references to Disney characters while consulting me on my love life, has recently taken on writing Dr. Seuss rhymes for her mommy blog for La Yummy Mummy. Since the only poetic style I can attempt emulating is Bukowski’s (how is that for a challenge?!), I begged her to write one for us here on Dbag Dating. Here’s the lyrical surprise I woke up to this morning!