There are a lot of foreigners on JDate, Israelis especially. I always wonder how they get wind of these things, maybe the embassy has a special package? Buy one get one gratis? If you get your entire Kibbutz to sign up you get 15% off and a free t-shirt?
Instead of an Israeli, I found myself a Chilean on JDate. He's only here for a month (how did he know to go on JDate? Did he think this was like the American Jew thing to do when you're a tourist? Should I have done this in Argentina?) and I thought it'd be fun to show him what a date with a real American blogger was like. What a quintessential gringo experience!
I was trying to decide if we should go somewhere very "American" and slam this poor guy immediately with an infestation of "bros" or ease him into our binge-drinking, Montana Fishburne-porn-career-loving culture slowly. It was, after all, his first trip to America!
This was a lot of pressure. I chose Tryst, because it was definitely a word he didn't understand, but kind of an inside joke for myself. (When he pronounces Tryst it sounds like "triste," which means sad. Hee.)
What I wore -- Black sandal flats. (I know, I know. This is what I get for buying shoes that I cannot afford that are six inches high and could impale any creature that crosses their path. I may need physical therapy. All my ankles want are to run away to a safe haven where they can reside in someone who likes Birkenstocks and orthodics. I guess someone who also wears hiking shorts. Woof. Sorry guys, you're stuck with me.) For the body portion of the Chilean-American Peace Conference, I wore an army green 3/4 length-sleeve dress from Urban Outfitters that may or may not be a tunic/shirt. Oops. Again, just trying to represent our culture.
I forgot from when I was living in South America how effing hard it is to date in a second language. Remembering how to get through every day life abroad is difficult enough, but flirting in a language that isn't yours is damn near impossible. And of course, I mean flirting well. It is an art, or a skill, like being good at hair-wraps or really awesome at balancing a spoon on the tip of your nose while burping the alphabet. It's frustrating.
At one point in our Triste he started talking about his dog who passed away recently, and I felt extra bad because I hadn't practiced my condolences vocabulary in a while. So all I could say was "sorry" over and over again.
After we finished our drinks I took him to Jumbo Slice, where he was promptly disgusted with America.
And with a wave of my hand, and a slice of pizza the size of my face, I rode off into the night, never to see the Chilean again. It was then that I finally remembered how to say "all dogs go to heaven."
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