cost/benefit analysis of dating a monk

I developed a theory a few years ago: if a guy is still single in his mid-30s, there is ALWAYS. A. REASON. Date him long enough and you'll find out what it is. Frank, always the chipper devil's advocate, suggested that the specific reason for singledom is more important than the singledom itself-- did he recently pass the bar? become a doctor? get out of prison?

But what if he was a man of the cloth who has decided to enter the secular world? And the debate began: Frank, Marlo and I attempting to decide if dating a former monk would be worth the trouble.

"Plus side: knows how to make delicious beer."
"Downside: only wears robes."
"Plus side: has never seen the female form, thus rendering one goddess-like."
"Downside: sits alone in his room... a LOT."
"Plus side: will be so happy to leave his room that he'll do anything you want."
"Downside: he quit GOD, of all things to quit!"
"Plus side: he can always go back to God and win 3 championships like Jordan."
"Downside: God will always be making passive aggressive comments about how he left."
"Plus side: knows how to survive minimally, thereby making him a cheap date."
"Downside: he knows how to survive minimally, thereby making him a cheap date."
"Plus side: free gruel for life."

The jury's still out.

Committed

He was tall, kind, gentlemanly but not in an overbearing-please-love-me kind of way (just enough to come pick you up but you can open your own car door, this is the 2000s you know). He got my jokes, knew enough about when to just be quiet and look out the window, he was introspective. He had an ex-wife who I had graduated from high school with, a fact that bothered me until he told me the whole story, and then I never thought about it again. I hate secrets. He taught me how to drive a stick in a red 1960s British sports car in the pounding rain. He liked reading, knew how to build a fire in three minutes flat, chopped his own wood, and had the deep baritone of a real grownup.


Our second date was at my favorite Ethiopian restaurant where I gulped glasses of Gouder ('French wine is good, Ethiopian wine is Gouder') as he told me about his marriage (too soon! my brain screamed, losing all inhibition with itself as the wine flowed and my severe attempts to avoid judgment fell by the wayside), his divorce (she's an idiot!-- lips still silent as neurons fired furiously), and the six month hermitage that brought him to the chair in front of me: happy, well-adjusted, having life lessons under the belt and a clean conscience to rest next to him on his pillow every night. He was unbearably attractive.

We moved further west and found ourselves drinking IPA at a tiny British bar in Post Alley, nestled into a leather loveseat as the aproned waiter gently complained about Seattle and I read him poems by Oscar Wilde.

He closed his eyes from first verse to closing, a half-smile resting on his face. This pleased me, and I stole glances in between lines, ostensibly for poetic effect but actually to watch the words had as they filled the air between us and settled themselves into our laps.

He kissed my forehead and I was entranced, my fingers intertwined with his as I twirled through the soft glow of wine in my stomach and Christmas lights clouding my vision.

When I woke up in the morning, I knew that it would never happen again.

What kind of girl do you think I are? No. Really. I should be committed to some kind of asylum.

husband hunting, or the lack thereof

I got my first boyfriend the summer after 5th grade, when my crush Jason called me up and asked me if he could come over and visit me (this came after a long year of teasing from my end on 'when he was going to sneak out and come see me,' undoubtedly inspired by Mariah Carey's 'Always Be My Baby' music video). I said yes, but when he asked how to get to my house, I suddenly panicked and said, "If you really like me you'll figure it out" and promptly hung up on him. We worked through this setback, but that situation set par for the course of the next 12 years of my love life: awkward, at times hilarious, and fairly random.

But never has it been under such scrutiny as it has the past eight months. My marital status has been the topic du jour for women over 70 since the day I landed in Belfast. Rare is the week when Olive, Sylvia, Mae, or some other woman who apparently has a vested interest in my getting married forgets to pester me, “AWK LOVE. Have you found yourself a man here yet?” And then I have to explain the American concept of dating (no comprende is the general response. Either you have a boyfriend or you don’t, missy) and my intense fear of marriage before 30. They just don't care if I'm dating sporadically, if I met someone travelling, or if I want to become a nun. They won’t rest until I settle down, before their very eyes, with a nice Belfast boy, whether or not I want to be in Belfast, and whether or not I want to settle down. It’s pretty funny, because no one in my own family really gives a flying rat’s ass if I have a boyfriend or not. My grandparents always talked about the careers they thought I should go into rather than where I should locate Mr. Right, and I love them for it. But having a gaggle of old women who couldn’t be more concerned about my marital status is pretty cute for the time being.

Then Marlo landed and set the rumor mill alight. Apparently, the concept of dating is as foreign as the concept of roommates in North Belfast: if you're living together, you're TOGETHER.

This is the exact conversation we had last week with our neighbour Mark:

Mark: My friend here wants to know if you’re lesbians.
Me: Exqueeze me?
Friend: No I didn’t. I’m not even getting embarrassed because I never said that.
Mark: He wants to know if you’re lesbians.
Marlo: (gasping for air)
Mark: So are you?
Me: Sorry to disappoint. We’re not.
This entire exchange was, horrifyingly, conducted in front of his four kids. The next day, Luke, the five year old, asked me if Marlo was going to see my boobs after I went to work. Genius! Discuss grownup issues in front of your kids who have minds like sponges!

Then the husband hunt really kicked into full throttle on Saturday. The story needs a proper setup, so here's what happened:
We were wandering around Botanic Gardens in south Belfast when suddenly we heard rap blaring from behind some bushes. Naturally, we gravitated toward it, being white girls who wish they were black. We ran smack into one of the most extensive African weddings mankind has ever seen. It was a sight for sore eyes (sore eyes being ones that have only seen skinny ghetto white guys for the last 8 months). There were three cornrowed guys standing by a Benz with The Game blasting out of it (we think it was The Game, anyway) drinking what looked like Miller Lite and daaaancing. With rhythm. We had no choice but to pop a squat on a park bench and turned our attention to the wedding pictures that were being taken a few yards away. I don't want to be too graphic when describing the pictures, nor do I want to be catty, but I will say the following:
Bridesmaids: Pantylines O'Plenty, socks with strappy heels, and tiaras.
The park bench right across from us: old ladies speaking a mix of Dirty South (weird, since they weren't American) and some native Nigerian dialect. Legit.
The guys in the wedding: HOT.
Everyone seemed really happy, so we were happy too.
So this is where the story kicks into gear: standing near the wedding limo was a middle aged dude who was all too happy to pose for cheesy pictures involving thumbs-up and car hoods. He also decided he wanted to come over and make best friends with us. Or, as good of friends as you can possibly make when your intro line is:
"It's your time soon." After getting our instinctive laughter under control, we politely told him that "our time" was a bit further in the distance than "soon," thank God. He proceeded to introduce himself as the pastor of a church in Scotland who came to Belfast frequently to do weddings. And without any provocation or encouragement on our part, he boldly announced that he was going to "pray for husbands for us." He also invited us to come and visit him in Scotland and come to his church, where "the boys won't leave you. They'll marry you." Quote of the year. Finally, they all drove away after the pictures were over, rap blaring, horns honking, and our hearts on the windshield. It was the most amazing day ever.

Moral of this common thread is that apparently, being single isn't an option in Belfast. You're either meant to be 'going steady' with some crazy lady's nephew, shacking up with another chick, or engaged to an African prince.

Missteps

The other day, my wonderful little sister and I were reviewing the past few years of our lives via Skype when the topic of boys naturally came up (what girly conversation doesn't?) And after a brief rundown of our respective romantic histories, Amy told me she thought I had made a mistake letting one go.
I don't think she thought much about the comment, but I was forced to do some mental acrobatics to determine if she was right or not. Then I realized that, by merely using mental efforts rather than efforts from the heart, I was proving my own point: nope, he had to go. That was not a mistake.
Love is tricky. But it's not so scary that taking the easy road-- and settling for something that, deep down, I knew was good, but not earth-shatteringly wonderful-- was ever an option.
Sometimes getting out of status quo and forcing yourself to turn down "good" in anticipation for "great" is one of the hardest things to do. But I remain convinced that it is also one of the most important.

I wear this to test your English!

"NEVER talk to the Ciao Bellas!" In Spain, they're the Hola Guapas, and I hated them more than anything, but somehow the Italian Ciao Bellas seemed more harmless. Maybe because I was too intrigued with everything else to really notice them. I just got back from a loooong vacation in Florence and Rome, visiting Shauna, Megan and Taniko, and I loved every second. I don't think I could fit a decent description of the bizarre characters I met so I will revert to the classic bullet point of events and people I thought were interesting:

• The first day I somehow found myself on the banks of the Arno, drinking white wine out of Dixie cups with a couple Italian-Tunisians. Learned some Arabic, finally went to Thanksgiving dinner at the girls' culinary-school neighbors'. At midnight. With a massive headache.



• We were having dinner at a little trattoria by the girls' apartment when we met an older guy who turned out to be a Prada exec in Florence on business. We kicked it for a while, he told us some jokes, and left. We sat there thinking, Did we just make friends with a Prada exec? I think so!



• Megan turned 22. A night for the record books including: an excess of free shots, a Montanan wearing a cowboy hat and a disgusting t-shirt, and of course, Giacomo, an Italian who spoke Spanish, inspiring the girls to overuse the word "Spaniard."



• Saw Michaelangelo's David (17 feet of amazingness). A few days later, I was at the Palazzo Pitti when I saw an old guy in a UW hat so I started talking to him, only to hear a rousing critique of Michaelangelo's sculpting ability (who does that?!), topped off by a graphic and disdainful description of David's manhood. He even went so far as to bust out his guidebook and point out how poorly depicted David's pubes were. This is a true story, unfortunately.



• The four of us watched the world's most beautiful sunset from the Boboli Gardens on the city wall. This is an instance in which a picture is worth a thousand words, but the sun setting over the Tuscan hills was a moment I will never ever forget!



• Was standing in the SMN train station when a middle-aged guy came up and started talking to me, ignoring the fact that I don't speak Italian, and proceeded to carry my bags for me and sit next to me on the train. After two hours of hilarious conversation (we knew NONE of the same words), he got off, and I thought, 'I could not possibly meet another randomer on this trip. My quota is definitely met.' But I was wrong, enter:



• Angelo. The most attractive Italian man I had seen my entire time there sat in the compartment next to mine. I took a nap so as not to stare. But he eventually moved over and started talking to me, in ENGLISH, so I was forced to look at him (life's rough sometimes). Angelo, as it turns out, is an Italian TV star. Angelo also owns a Vespa and was willing to carry my bags. Long story short, I saw a bit of the Eternal City on the back of his bike, and all I can say about Rome is SHOCK AND AWE. I can't wait to get back next summer. Angelo turned out to be less than awesome, but the point is... well, there really isn't a point to this story, actually.



• For various reasons, I found myself on the opposite end of the city than I'd intended the day I left, and I was trying to get the metro back to Termini. I checked out of my hotel and the manager tried to tell me something... but unfortunately, all I know in Italian is 'Non capisco,' 'Molto grazie,' and 'Me dice dov'e devo scendere per Castello Medici?' and that wasn't getting me anywhere. All I have to say is THANK GOD FOR THE PERUVIAN MAID, who translated the manager's bad news into Spanish: "No hay Metro por razon de la huelga!" Huelga...huelga... STRIKE. Yes, my only means of making my flight was closed due to strike, and since all the taxis were full, my only option was a 50 euro private car to the airport. Do they have any idea what an intern's budget is? Eventually I got a taxi and made it to my plane at the last minute, but the last morning in Rome was NOT a fun one. On the plus side, the taxi driver was funny, and despite the fact that I kept trying to pass Spanish off as Italian, we had a good time on the way to Ciampino.

But the most surprising thing that came out of my trip? So I met a guy Chris on the airport bus when I first landed in Rome. We got along really well, he's just a nice little Belfast boy, but we parted ways in Rome and I was just glad I didn't have to talk to a weirdo for that half hour... I didn't really think more about it, but I was so surprised when he walked into my office today with a note and a card... filled with W.B. Yeats and his phone number! I was so floored to see him that I forgot to ask questions... later Desi told me that apparently he'd gone to the Drennan's house to try to find me before heading to the church! I forgot I even told him where I worked... and getting surprise poetry was definitely a first. Deborah freaked out and said my life was too much like a movie... and based on the past week I'm inclined to agree! It is so good to be back in Belfast right now, though, even if I did have to trade sunny days for wind and rain :) But wandering the streets of Firenze, enjoying the art and architecture and FOOD and people and my friends, was unbelievable! I'm so lucky!

No Me Comas, Te Amo! : Alicante, Nov. 2005

So it's been another month and I will sum up what's been going on:
Nights are usually pretty interesting, but one of my favorites was when we went out for my friend Brent’s birthday and somehow ended up at a botellon with half of Latin America. Botellons are Spaniards’ favorite tradition, after bullfighting that is, and are basically a bunch of people drinking together somewhere in public. In Alicante they are usually near the beach or on the side of the mountain, where hundreds of high schoolers through 30-year-olds get together and basically demolish this entire street. Overall it is a really accepted part of Spanish culture and as long as you aren’t playing music extremely loudly in residential areas past 4am, the Policia don’t care. We were minding our own business in the Barrio and all of a sudden there I was, salsa dancing with some Ecuadorian in a back alley. The night could only topped by the Halloween party my roommates and I had a couple weeks later, which could accurately be described as a mini-meeting of the UN, minus all the serious discussion.
The botellon night also included the discovery of the Spanish boyfriend Carlos, a little gem of a boy who doesn’t smoke, drink, or really have any vices whatsoever. I was pretty excited when I survived my first date conducted entirely in Spanish (even managing to get in a discussion on Spanish vs. US immigration policy… in the words of Shauna Sperry, ‘not to toot my own horn but TOOT TOOT!’); however, Carlos thinks it appropriate to send me texts that include poetic references to stopping time, keeping memories in his heart forever, etc. The first time this happened, I used my most polite Spanish vocab to explain that a Shakespearean sonnet was better suited to a Golden Anniversary than a coffee date. Now he has toned them down to saying things like, “the time change is tonight, that means we have one more hour to be together.” I am chalking this up to cultural differences and getting excited to come back to the States wherethe guys act like they don’t care.
But the Spaniard who brings the most joy to my heart is my intercambio partner Vicente (described my roommates as having “an endearing rabid-dog quality about him”). Vicente likes to go on adventures so a few weeks ago we went to this park across the street from the university because they have giant ducks that are UA legends. Apparently the rumor is that the ducks eat meat, because there has to be some reason they are so freaking big. I was like, ok ok, I'm sure they're decent sized ducks. Well, we went over to the lake and I almost crapped myself... these ducks are literally the size of a golden retriever. Vicente was like, hey, go ahead and show them your hand, it's fine! I was like, get me the hell away from those ducks!! Is there a nuclear plant around here somewhere? So I am trying to muster up the courage to go back and take pictures to prove the freakiness of it all. Another highlight of the last month was getting compared to the pig face that I got tricked into eating by a 60 year old man at the market. Luckily he meant itin a complimentary way (the word for beautiful and the word for delicious are the same, but I tell you… getting compared to a hairy snout is kind of iffy).
Well I love you all and I hope that this included enough use of the word“Spaniard” for those of you who requested to hear it more often. You guys are the gems in the crown of life. I just blacked out and tried to make up a profound statement, but you get the idea. Os echo de menos, nos vemos pronto!
Besos,
Laura