Date 15- From Russia with Love

Dimitri showed up in quiet Park Slope with an enormous Porsche SUV; one would have been forgiven for expecting a bejeweled and bechained rapper to step down from behind the wheel. He chose a corner bar that Marcello frequents as he lives only a half a block away; my coworkers mused that it would be the sweetest justice for Marcello to see me on a date with a nice big handsome Russian. What a laugh that would be! Unfortunately Dimitri was a rather small fellow, the top of his head barely reaching the top of my shoulder (I really must examine these Tinder photos more carefully to save all parties from the awkward moment of realizing that I am 6 inches taller than the man). But most importantly, he wasn't a personable or thoughtful fellow; I couldn't tell if he was disinterested or terrible at communication, but I fully expected (and would have been quite fine) to never speak to him again. He looked like he would have rather been trimming nose hairs than having drinks with a dull bird like me.

This brings me to an interesting point: if a man is delightful and the life of the party, a few physical undesirables don't matter. A former boyfriend of mine was a slightly nutty Ukrainian (much like the small Russian- a Jewish entrepreneur with hustle in his veins), and in the beginning I didn't find him terribly attractive. He wasn't conventionally handsome, with rather European teeth and a cromagnon hairline. But he had personality in spades- he could make me laugh from my toes, and was thoughtful, passionate and smart. I ignored that he cried too frequently and went a bit looney in the denouement of our relationship- for a time he was terribly fun to date and possibly the best passport a girl could have to the 5 boroughs.

Anyhow, Porsche-driving Dimitri and I had the requisite Tinder two drinks, plodding through tedious conversation about travel and apartments, and headed our separate ways. He doesn't offer me a ride home in his ostentatious SUV so I strut home 20 blocks, thankful that Marcello didn't walk through the door of the bar.

DATE FIFTEEN- Just like Dr. Zhivago...if you completely forgot how the story goes.

APERTIF DU JOUR- Brighton Beach Bummer.

WARNING LABEL- Beware of horseradish vodka.

Life Before the Tinder- Roman Holiday

July 2008

We hadn't been dating for more than three months when we went to Istanbul together; waiters asked us how long we had been married, and we said, "We finally left the kids at home with their grandparents". They smiled and nodded; other than wedding rings, we looked from the outside world as a happy unit, such was our affection and ease with each other. In Istanbul we were equals, both lost in the language and trying to navigate maps and heat. To work as a team was one of the most exhilarating experiences, and we both enjoyed the challenge of traveling in an unknown culture. After Istanbul, we went to Rome for a few days, a last hurrah before we would be separated for 6 months, by visa regulations too strict to breech.

I first went to Rome as a 17 year old girl, fresh from high school and inexperienced in nearly every way of the world. I threw my coins in the Fontana di Trevi, and returned 8 years later, this time with my Italian love. He was always at a disadvantage in the United States; he barely spoke the language, and the customs were not his own, made worse by his shyness. He preferred for me to negotiate taxis and order food. But Rome was his oyster, his language, his history, his people. He pranced around in his tight jeans and designer sunglasses and looked as Italian as Michelangelo's Davide; in my eyes, he was even more beautiful. It was my first experience traveling with a boyfriend; although the girlfriends I had traveled with in the past were troopers, this was entirely different. This was a strong hand catching me before I stumbled over cobblestones, a tourist who charmed his countrymen into taking pictures of him with his American girl, a lover telling me we could be happy living in a little sun-filled apartment in Trastevere. We walked across the Tiber at midnight, holding hands and breathing in the heat. For the first time in my life, I understood why poets write sonnets and musicians write love songs; this was such bliss, and I had never loved a man who embraced me so fully and loved me so purely, for every oddity and quirk.

The night before he left, he made me promise to wake him up if he fell asleep; we didn't want to miss a moment together. I walked him to the train station at dawn, boarded the train with him, and kissed with force until we felt the engines rumbling as it prepared for departure. This man who always seemed so cold before our romance, stood between train cars as it pulled away, blowing me kisses with tears in his eyes. As the train pulled away, I put on the beautiful sunglasses he had bought me to match his own, and I wept. When finally the train was out of view, I walked back to a cafe and bought a cappucino to take to my hotel, but couldn't drink it. I couldn't watch RAI on tv, and I had no desire to try and speak Italian. I finally summoned my strength and wandered about the city, but saw nothing. For me, Italy was over. When would I see him again? What is the purpose of finding a love so exhilarating, but so impossible? For the first time I realized I didn't want to be alone; I knew how to take care of myself, but unexpectedly, truly when I was looking the other direction, I found a man who wanted to take care of me.

We stayed together for two years, and shortly before we broke up he had to go back to Italy again for his visa. I was tormented, nearly destroyed by being separated once more. The night before he left, like that night 2 years before, he asked me to wake him up if he fell asleep. He held me tightly and said,"I'll be back soon, and then we will be happy, won't we? Then we will be happy." The desperation in his voice haunted me, because I knew what he wanted, and worse, I knew what he deserved. He should have had a girl who squeezed him back and said, "Don't worry! Nothing will hurt us! We can make it!" His terrible girlfriend could do nothing but weep; I knew our end was near, and couldn't bear the grief.