Chapter 7

I thought I’d heard the end of Josh, but then a week later, a text. HEY! HOW WAS YOUR FIRST DAY BACK TO WORK? Really? I’d come to realize that this wasn’t going to be my great 2020 love affair. It was over. I’d go on new dates, I’d persevere, I’d survive, as they say. But now a text. No, two. IT WAS TODAY, RIGHT? :)

Since I knew Josh had his texts on read I waited 12 hours to reply. By now I’d gone through the five stages of death and dying, or more like tinder and ghosting. 

YUP. IT WAS. 

LOOK, I DON’T KNOW IF YOU’RE JUST LOOKING FOR A NETFLIX AND CHILL KINDA SITUATION OR SOMETHING LIKE THAT. I HAVEN’T HEARD FROM YOU SINCE I WASN’T GOING TO COME OVER THAT LAST TIME. I’M NOT LOOKING FOR THAT KINDA THING. 

Boom. I was a modern woman and I wasn’t going to take any shit, especially from some Tinder dude. 

Twelve hours later, he replied. 

He was sorry. That wasn’t his intention. He’d love another chance. Maybe we could grab some margaritas on Sunday night? 

Maybe I was wrong – maybe he could be the one. Everyone deserves a second chance, right? Or was this his third, it was all a blur. Remember when I thought you were just looking for a hookup? Look at us now! Oh how we’d laugh as our children played under the shade of their treehouse on the lush green grass with their new puppy. 

Some people see their glass as half full, others like me, plowing through their first mango margarita on a Sunday night, saw it as half empty and a little low on the tequila. The grass would turn to straw before these children would come to fruition. Our conversation was static, talking about old episodes of How I Met Your Mother and the end of Game of Thrones. We pressed on – a burrito dinner followed by a change in venue to share a bottle of wine. Why was I putting myself through this? I didn’t even really like this guy. Sure he was fine – if you got stuck in an elevator with him – but this? What was this? I began thinking about what I was losing – my time, my energy, my money on this stupid bottle of overpriced cabernet. What was I doing? We shared a quick embrace next to the warmth of patio heaters beside abandoned outside tables of the bar. “Thanks, talk to you later!” We parted. 

I returned to the warmth of my home and my dog, the man who’d loved me the longest. Most likely because I fed him – I had no allusions. Looks like I’d have to try and find love another time. 

January was turning out as usual – cold and barren – but that was ok. Because not only was I open to love in the new year, I’d made a resolution. In 2020 I would travel somewhere new each month – get out and see the world. First up, Mexico City. But before that, a new man. 

Like Josh and so many before him, I went on three dates with Brandon. Once you hit three dates you start to ask yourself if you want to start investing – in them, in the process. Traditionally, if we managed to make it to date number four, things would pan out for a few more months. We’d chug along until the next milestone: four months, where Greg and I crashed and burned. 

For our first date we met at South Philly Tap Room, a bar on the other side of Broad St and a fifteen minute walk away. Life in Philly sometimes felt less like living in a big city and more like settling into micro-villages. Broad Street, slicing through the center of the original cityscape, created a demarcation line for those of us in the South neighborhoods. Philadelphians like being in their small pockets and see very little reason to venture out, unless it's necessary for things like work or school. When the great Anthony Bourdain finally visited our city for The Layover in 2012 he made note of it himself – we like to stay put. Lucky for him, he spent most of his time in South Philly, as one should.  

Of course, hetero first date etiquette dictates that the man should come to the neighborhood of the woman – that’s just how things are done. I, on the other hand, acquiesced to this other side of Broad venue. It was another frigid night – thick wool coats and frozen ankles – but the bar was inviting with red brick walls with twinkling fairy lights hanging from the ceiling. I found Brandon sitting in the back corner wrapped in an old man’s cardigan – olive green with weathered elbow patches – as he scrutinized the chalkboard displaying the craft beers on tap. 

I smiled and gave a little self-conscious wave. Our conversation was rocky at first, in the way only first dates can be. You know next to nothing about the person across from you, gleaning only minimal info from their online presence and texts you may have bounced back and forth through the ether. I knew he was a teacher in a rough neighborhood, liked punk rock, and loved cardigans. This final fact I knew not because of his outfit choice, but because he felt it pertinent to share on his profile. I didn’t think he was the handsomest guy I had ever seen, but I appreciated that his profile sarcastically chided him as impeccable company and a fierce conversationalist. 

After a few beers, some pub grub and decent conversation he commented on how long the date had lasted – well over two hours. We left it at that and decided to say our goodbyes as it was a school night. “We’ll do this again,” he asserted rather than asked. 

Was it the greatest date of my life? Hardly. Though far from “impeccable company” as he touted online, he was nice to talk to. By this point, however, I was weary if a great, or even good, first date could have potential. 

Truth be told, I’m a great first date. In fact, I’ve had very few bad first dates and only one miserable date, filed in the epilogues of Tinder hell. Why am I a great first date? I’m fun, I’m witty, I’m on. An old roommate once griped about having to be on at work – putting her best self out there consistently, to the point of exhaustion.  For me, being on meant offering up the best of me, condensed and compressed into a few short hours. I told all my best jokes and stories. If they wanted to talk, I was ready to listen. I displayed my best skills in patience and understanding as they retold stories of yore – about their cats, friends from college, and mom back in the burbs. 

Of course, when they didn’t talk, I felt the urge to fill the void, which led to the slow sinking of my soul as I had to tell random man after random man the stories of my life. How I lived in Philly for twenty years but grew up outside of Pittsburgh, yet my family lived in Maine. How I had two brothers, a dog and an ex husband.  How I taught at a university but it didn’t pan out. How I had a home, friends, a life. 

Perhaps to my detriment, I’d gladly answer any question put to me. I was an open book. Yet it weighed on me, sharing again and again with men who would, in essence, put me out of their mind as quickly as I came. Now there was another random guy who knew about my admiration of Charles Bukowski or my fear of ladybugs. 

The second point that lended to my great first date status was that I was, apparently, better looking IRL. After hearing the comment more than a few times I began to wonder if it was a compliment or not. I’ve never been particularly photogenic – selfies are a source of dread and only recently have I learned how to smile on cue. I’ve found the key is to smile to the point of absurdity, feeling on the inside like I am in 90s grunge band Soundgarden’s Black Hole Sun music video. 

So there I was – this funny, intelligent, better looking girl than he thought I would be. But by a week later I assumed I wouldn’t be hearing from him. Call it years of jaded cynicism or me trying to save me from myself, I’d put him out of my mind. I probably wasn’t that interested – always pretending to be more involved than I really was. 

He texted as if time had never passed. HI. HOW ARE YOU? WAS HOPING WE COULD SET UP A TIME TO MEET?!? he wrote. How is it that men can ignore you for a week, a month, hell, a year and slide back in like nothing happened?

Ok. He’s still interested. I can be interested, I thought to myself. SURE, I replied, BUT I'LL BE GOING TO MEXICO CITY THIS WEEKEND, IT'LL HAVE TO BE NEXT WEEK.

He said ok. What he did not say was anything about the fact that I was going to MEXICO! Not even a “Have a great trip!” I’d also realized that, perhaps, he didn’t know the true definition of being an impeccable conversationalist, as touted on his profile, as he rarely appeared to be interested in what I had to say, but rather more inclined to listen to his own stories. Nevermind, I’d go to Mexico and he’d get a chance to have dinner with me, win-win. 

In essence, I invited myself to Mexico City. A month earlier, I went out with my shop owner friend, Jenny, for wine and pizza. She was closing up for six weeks while she traveled. Jenny had spent extensive time in Mexico and Nicaragua over the years and was feeling the pull to return. I was immediately jealous. I’d traveled through Europe but I’d never been anywhere south of the border. As the pizza dwindled and the wine flowed, I hatched a plan. I could come down, meet up with her, and we could spend a few days exploring together. She was staying with friends, so it’d be nice to give them a break for a few days. “Perfect, let’s do it!” she cheered. And with a clink of glasses we had a plan. 

A few days later I worried it had all been a chianti-fueled dream. I popped into the shop. Maybe I’d been hasty. I didn’t mean to invite myself on her vacation, but she loved the idea. A few weeks later, there I was, on a plane to Mexico. 

Of course, everyone assumed when I said a long weekend in Mexico, I was heading to a resort in Cancun or Cozumel. But no, this was Mexico City and it was sprawling – buses, trams and trains taking millions from place to place. The city was like nothing I’d experienced before, colorful art deco facades hidden behind wild tropical plants and the sounds of a modern buzzing city were everywhere.  

I traveled around the city, often sitting in the women’s car – marked with pink seats where men were not permitted. I’d spent years studying Spanish, but by this time I was more than a bit rusty, but I did my best. Hola, I would say as I entered a shop, and when they would ask back, in Spanish, if I spoke Spanish, I would beam, “Of course, who doesn’t?” receiving a smile in return. 

Even in January the air was balmy, temperatures easily reaching 80F. Each morning I would stroll through the parks of Roma and La Condesa, watching dog walkers chat while roves of pups lazily sat in the grass under breezy palms. 

Jenny and I would meet in the afternoons to visit museums and try every kind of taco we could find. At night, we sat on our balcony eating late night cakes from the local panaderíathe as the avenue below lit up, club parties spilling out onto the streets.. On my last day, as we ambled through the Zócalo, I was taken by just how many people were there. Old women crossing themselves as they pass the Metropolitan Cathedral, children peering down at the ruins at El Templo Mayor, and families enjoying an agua fresca on a mild winter afternoon. 

“I bet there’s at least a hundred thousand people walking around this plaza,” I said, gazing in wonder. 

Jenny smiled, “I know, it’s amazing isn’t it?” 

Upon my return it appeared that I was upgraded – my second date with Brandon was more upscale. We met up at a tapas bar in the Gayborhood. He almost cancelled due to “family issues,” but in the end he found time on a Wednesday night. 

I rushed to the restaurant – freezing wind in my face, yet sweating under my sweater, running late from my evening French class –  to find him already waiting. He stood and gave me a light hug, pulling out my chair. It felt chivalrous and a bit weird. I couldn’t remember the last time a man had done that for me, if ever. 

Clad in another signature cardigan, this one gray and mangy like a wild, country cat, he updated me on his week. Turns out his “family issue” was related to his 13 year old daughter that lived back in his hometown. Not a red flag, but I was pretty sure this guy wasn’t going to run away with me to Paris. Still, it's better to give him a chance, right? You never know. 

He regaled me with stories of his past life in Portland, Oregon where he struggled as a young teacher in an overburdened school district. I listened, nodded and gave thoughtful comments as necessary. After dinner, he asked me to join him across the street for a nightcap. We talked about his rescue cat, Jello, about city gentrification and the trials and tribulations of the dating world. He never asked how my trip to Mexico City was.

The next morning he texted, HEY, HAD FUN. HOW ABOUT WE MEET UP NEXT THURSDAY? But February was upon us and my next trip was already planned. Some might say visiting Canada in the dead of winter was a bad choice. Not for me! Katy and I planned a long weekend of exploring and spa days. 

Also, what was with this once a week business? Sorry, I told him, I was heading north that day, how about the following Tuesday? 

It was month two of my big 2020 travel plan. First the sun of Mexico City, now a vibrant city, encapsulated in snow and frigid temperatures. Katy and I hopped on the plane to Montreal.   

There was little to our planning, I wanted to see somewhere new and practice my French, Katy just wanted to get away for a few days. We arrived in the afternoon darkness, settling into our AirBnB. Flicking on the TV, Katy turned to me, “Hey, they say it’s gonna snow 45 centimeters, what does that mean?” 

“18 inches.” I laughed. 

“Damn. Ok, we better go get supplies.” She nodded towards the kitchen, “Is there a corkscrew in there?” 

We navigated our way to the closest supermarket and got the essentials: wine, cheese, bread and chocolate. 

The next morning as we rose snow plows were already hard at work clearing streets and sidewalks alike. “Wow, you’d never see that in Philly,” Katy remarked, peeking out the living room sheers. 

We took the below zero temps in our stride, labyrinthing through underground subway tunnels, popping up to do some shopping or find a cute cafe. I was eager to use my French in a real French-speaking city for the first time. “Bonjour!” I would brightly say. We’d speak in French until I turned to Katy, clueless, and replied in English. In a city of bilingual speakers, the minute they heard that one of us didn’t speak the language, it was back to boring old English. So much for that. 

The cold was biting. A stroll in the sunshine of Mile End wasn’t quite the same when it was -20F. For the first time in our twenty year friendship, Katy was happy to go anywhere I wanted to, just wanting to get a bit of warmth back in her. We bounced from shop to shop, checking out vintage finds, used books and stationery, enjoying hot chocolates along the way.

The next day, as a reward for a hard day of glacial shopping, we went to a floating spa on the St. Lawrence. The river shimmered its frozen pathway through the city as we soaked –  our winter caps on – in the steamy baths overlooking the Old Port. “So, how’s the dating going?” Katy asked as she leaned forward, her fingers dancing along the ice on the outside of the tub. I sighed. I knew something had to change. There was more to life than trying to make myself fall for these guys again and again.

Back home, in what I thought to be a very grand gesture on my part, I jumped on the bus and headed to West Philly. 

I met Brandon at what I came to realize was his local bar. The entire staff knew him, with each bartender or server waving their hello as they passed. I was the new girl he was presenting. I wondered, how many new girls like me had been through here? Was everyone sighing, Oh, here’s another one. Or maybe he never brought anyone at all – Check it out, Brandon has a girl with him!  

Over burgers and beers he told me about his busy week – lots of midterms to grade. Eventually our conversation turned to movies.  I mentioned that I’d gone to film school. “Nice,” he said as he took a swig of his artisanal IPA, “I took a few film classes at school. They were the best, you didn’t have to do any work.” It was time for the check. 

Standing on the corner in the blustering cold, I knew it was decision time. Would we make it to date number four? Under the blinding light of a street lamp he looked at me and shrugged, “Would you like to come over to my place?” 

I looked him in the eye and with a gut reflex shook my head,  “No, I don’t wanna do that.” I walked to the bus stop. He never asked me about Montreal either.