Month: June 2017

My Dating Life

A friend of mine suggested I write about dating life in a foreign country.  However, I cannot entirely speak to the subject, because 1) I have not dated anyone here, and 2) I haven’t really dated people back home either.

However…., I do have some interesting dating and dating-ish stories I could share.  So, I’ll do that instead.  🙂

We’ll begin with my first date, as it was, indeed, an odd beginning to an odd history of dating.

 

Date #1

My high school boyfriend and I split up the summer before college, out of being reasonable.  How it happened is a story for another time, though, as it is well worth telling, but just not now.  We remain to this day friends, and so were on good terms as the summer neared its end.  One day, when we were in the same place, John (that’s his name, you see) did something adorably wonderful.  He asked me on a date.  No, I do not remember the exact words he used, however, I remember that he did use explicit words quite similar to, “Would you go out on a date with me?”

While we had been a couple, we had often laughed at the fact that we had never been on a single date.  Every time we were arranging something that would have ended up as a date, we found ourselves desperately longing to invite so-and-so to come, because he/she would just LOVE it, or something like that.  It wasn’t that we didn’t want to be alone together.  It was merely that we love our friends and we are generous.  Also, a good amount of the time, my mom would be with us for things.  She often would be planning something really neat, and I would be going with her, and one of us would think of how John might enjoy the activity, too, and then either pick him up or have him meet us somewhere to join in the activity.  A lot of people found it odd that my boyfriend and I (and often my friends, too) did so much with my mom, but it was just way fun for all of us.  That being said, most John’s and my one-on-one time was spent standing outside his house as I was about to drive home at night, and never on actually going out to do anything (i.e. dates).

So, he asked me on a date.  The plan was to go out to dinner at this great vegetarian Indian restaurant near my house, and then to go to see a musical together downtown.  John was driving (and not I for once).  When he came to get me for dinner, it was sprinkling beautifully, and we somehow ended up going swimming (or at least playing in the backyard in the rain) instead, and my mom went and picked up food for us.  The three of us then had dinner at my house together.  At the musical, the two seats that John had purchased (with the help of his father) turned out to be across the wheelchair section from one another, leaving a gap of about a meter between our two seats.  I squat on the ground next to his seat for a bit, and then I think we eventually moved to a couple of other empty seats, so we actually could sit side-by-side.  It was a fabulously tragic date, which we both absolutely loved, because it was so terrible on paper, but so delightful in experience.

And that was date #1.

 

Date #2

A few years ago, I attended something called VIRTUS Training.  It is essentially a seminar for people who will be working at schools, for them to learn about identifying child sexual abuse.  In other words, it was a seminar on child sexual abuse.  It was at this wonderful seminar that I met my second date – or so I believe it was my second date, anyway.  He was sitting near me in the training, and I think wasn’t even in my discussion group.  However, we exchanged various faces at different things throughout the evening, and ended up in conversation afterward.  After probably a good half hour of talking outside afterward, he very beautifully expressed that he had enjoyed talking with me very much, and would I like to continue talking over dinner some time soon?  I agreed, and I gave him my number in order to arrange the dinner at another time.

For the dinner, he told me that he was “old fashioned”, and so was it alright that he pick me up for the date?  I originally agreed happily.  However, my sister told me it was a terrible idea, and got me all nervous, because I didn’t really know this guy, and what if it went horribly?  (It went wonderfully, but still, she got me nervous nonetheless.)  But my worries proved pointless, because, as I had just purchased my new car the day of our date, I had to take it for my family to see (and test drive, of course), which put me behind schedule for our date.  Since that was the case, I just met him at a restaurant midway between where I was in town and where he lived, so he didn’t have to wait so long nor have to drive all the way to my house (which was quite far for him).

I eventually ran into him again while I was still working at Starbucks, but it was quite busy at the time, and so we really didn’t get to chat (though I totally wanted to do so).  I had not saved his number, and so couldn’t call or message him again after that.  (Sometimes, you just don’t plan on getting a new phone before you’ve saved a number, ya know?)

And that is what came of date #2, when I met a guy at a child sexual abuse seminar.

 

Date #3

My third date, in my opinion, is the best of the three – yes, there have only been three – and also the most uncertain.  It is uncertain, because I simply hadn’t known that it was a date, and I’m still not certain as to whether it was a date.  You may judge for yourself as to whether it was a date or not.  😉

In France, there is a wonderful carpooling website, which helps anyone travel almost anywhere normal in France (and even to nearby destinations in neighboring countries).  I used it constantly for travel while I studied in Toulouse, and therefore used it again when I went to visit a couple summers ago.  It was in this carpooling from Barcelona to Toulouse that I met this party boy.

We didn’t talk much on the drive (I slept mostly, and he talked with the other passengers.), but we did a bit near the end, and he asked for my Facebook.  I felt no aversion to the guy, although I knew that we led very different lifestyles, his being a party boy and my being…. well, just not.  I like dancing and music and all, but not the drinking like crazy part.  He had even offered me a section of his sandwich on the ride.  because, I know you, so, of course, we’d share your sandwich.  😛  I liked the guy, despite our obvious differences.  He was just really open and friendly and honest.

And, as a bonus, quite handsome.  Think tall, dark and fancy hair, tanned skin, and quite fit.  Yes, he could carry me quite easily in his arms.  (I have no idea why that is something I notice about guys – whether they could carry me or not.  I just always notice it.)

Turned out that his apartment was literally the next street over from the AirBnB where I ended up staying.  Via texting, he asked if I wanted to get a bite to eat with him one night.  Yes, of course.  (I’d be eating alone otherwise, and he had been great company already.)  ‘Do you want to meet me somewhere, or should I pick you up on my scooter?’  Scooter, please.  (One of my dreams in life has been to ride a scooter with a cute guy in Europe, thanks to MaryKate and Ashley.)

So, he picked me up on his scooter, and drove me to a cool restaurant in a part of town I’ve always loved.  We sat outside, and it was fabulous.  I had him order for me whatever he thought was best to have.  I’m usually more of the raw vegan diet type, but I roll with the culture these days, so I graciously accepted a delicious and innerly-pink steak.  We chatted and had a great time, and when he went in to pay, I followed a bit behind, and asked what I owed.  He, a bit surprised, said that I owed nothing, as he was paying for everything.  It was my turn to be surprised, but I did not even consider that this was a date – perhaps he’s just really nice to the foreigner girl visiting his hometown.

And so, we went and got some beers from a store, and he showed me around his huge, old-fashioned apartment, which he shared with this rich guy with a really nice car, as he put it (I don’t remember what the car was, but it was legitimately a very expensive car.).  We hung out and talked, and it was totally great.  When I finally reached home, and told him that I was home safely, he sent me a message that had me suddenly see the evening in a slightly – meaning entirely – different light.  It was in a light and friendly way, and even with a wink smiley face, so it was not meant to be nasty or inappropriate.  However, he said that ‘he would have preferred that I had stayed there.’  Oh, my…  At last I came to the sudden idea that this might actually have been a date.  I then got super excited that I was not only on my third date ever (Whoohoo!), but on a date with a gorgeous French guy, and IN French.  How cool is that?!  Way cool.  Seriously.  It was awesome.  Dreams fulfilled that I hadn’t even dreamed up yet.

And that was date #3.  I think, anyway.  😛

 

Those have been my three official-ish dates (I’m still not sure about that third one).  They were each wonderful in their own ways, and I find none of them to be too standard (slash at all standard).  I loved each and every one, and I look forward to raising the bar each time to more ridiculous scenarios surrounding my dating life.  (I need to share about my coffee dates and the likes, too.  Those have been fun, for sure, and very international.)

I’m super tired now, so I’m going to sleep.  However, I plan to continue with the coffee dating and other date-related things that weren’t actually dates.  🙂

 

Post-a-day 2017

 

 

Our Stories

“Share your story here…”. Share your story here.  Share your story here?  What is my story?

Tonight, my story is that I am like Rapunzel, locked on my own in a tower, merely dreaming of what life could be if only I weren’t stuck in this tower.  I want to cuddle up and cry with my despair and loneliness.  The earth just shook long and low beneath me, deepening my unease for a handful of seconds.  I don’t want to turn off the light – there seems to be a certain power in its being illuminated (and I do not mean the electricity), a power to keep me safe and okay and able to handle things.

Tonight, my story is that I am lonely and alone, and, though I am so close to being in a place I could and do call home, I feel as though I am in the point A to point B race where you constantly only go half the distance, thereby making progress toward the desired destination, but never actually arriving there.

Also, that just reminded me of how much I love Patrick Swayze.  I wish I could have been in the film “Dirty Dancing”.

Anyway… I want to cry tonight, and to let it all go, leaving me to wake up refreshed and excited and capable in the morning.
Post-a-day 2017

The power of words

Today, I was told that something I had done was “really scummy”.  The truly unfortunate parts of this statement were the actions it was describing and the fact that they were falsely linked to me.  Put another way, I did not do what the person claimed that I had done (the action that was then, by that same person, declared to be “really scummy”).

As I absorbed the words, I felt a sort of shock and denial.  No, this person couldn’t be thinking straight – this must be coming from a state of panic of some sort.  It makes no sense otherwise.

And yet, here I am, hours and hours later, still with an underlying desire to cry desperately.  I did not do it.  I did not do it.  And I even took extra efforts ahead of time for the situation to go across as the exact opposite – I asked for help from all over to make sure what I would do would be fair and reasonable in every way possible.  I did not behave in a “scummy” fashion, and I did not do what I was declared to have done.

That person’s words affect me nonetheless.  To my dearest insides am I filled with a sense of desperation, sadness, shock, smallness.  I was helping freely, voluntarily in a situation that desperately could use some help from me in particular, and the one being helped spat on me.

I do not know if I will remove the help from the table.  Perhaps.  I merely know that those words hurt and were inaccurate, making them hurt even more, making their effect last.

I already cried on the phone to my mom, which was a somewhat unexpected occurrence.  While that cry was helpful, I still have an uneasy tightness within me, welling up, and dripping on my pillow in the form of salty water droplets.
***Oddly enough, this was in my bedtime reading tonight.  How coincidental, right? 😛
Post-a-day 2017

A match made in France?

In my first year of college, I went on a traveling Janterm, where we spent two weeks studying French in Cannes, and doing tours to the nearby towns and famous spots, and one week in Paris, exploring as we wished.  During the first two weeks, while a group of us were on a city bus, I noticed a French kid about our age.  He was sitting in a seat, on the left side of the bus, somewhat near the front, listening to music with headphones on.  I was curious what music he had playing.  I also thought he was cute.  Therefore, I wanted to talk to him.  The easiest thing for me to say to him was to ask him to what music he was listening.  I fought constantly with the insides of my brain and the fluttering of my stomach, and at last, I believe, he got off the bus.  Or else, we got off the bus.  I really don’t remember. However, I remember making eye contact with him at least once, if not a few times while we were all riding  the bus.

Well, I was incredibly disappointed that I had not spoken with the boy, though not entirely surprised at myself – even today, I have to psych myself up for odd situations like that.  However, I usually succeed in making the interaction nowadays, whereas at the time, I did not.

But this tale does not end sadly.  At least, not yet.

I believe that it was that same night, or perhaps the following – but I really think it was that same night – that a group of us decided to go to a nightclub in the town.  Some of the older guys who were working at the dormitory where we were all studying offered to take us to some cool bar and club.  We all happily agreed.  Well, some of the girls and guys and I agreed, but not everyone.

So, a small band of foreigners temporary living in Cannes so they could study French headed to a nice bar for a while, and then to a dance club later on that night.  On the way, I learned that a Romanian speaker can understand other romance languages rather easily.  (Fun Fact: This was my first interaction with someone being able to understand another language that is similar to his/her own, without necessarily being able to speak that language.  Of course, I can now do that with various languages myself, but it was a fun start to the concept for me.)

The bar was fun and interesting, and we didn’t have to check our coats, but we did have to buy drinks to compensate for having not checked our coats, and we had to deal with a huge pile of coats, which we were somewhat hiding in the corner.  However, I need not say much more about the bar.  Rather, anything more.  The club is the important one, you see. 

First off, the club was huge and, really, quite an awesome dance club.  I was amazed at the environment, as well as the clientele.  People danced by themselves or with a friend or with friends, and it didn’t matter which they did.  There were no circles forming awkwardly, or anything like that.  People weren’t doing official or formal dances of any kind, though.  They were just free dancing, having a wonderful time, doing their own things to the music.  I happily joined in in this type of merriment, while being amazed that on one side of me could be a 17-year-old, and on the other side of me could be a 40-year-old – no one cared how old anyone else was.

In short, I loved the club, and I loved dancing in it.

And, while I enjoyed dancing in it, I saw a familiar head.  When he turned and saw me, we looked in each other’s eyes, and there was this sort of understanding.  We both knew that we had seen each other that day.  We both knew that we had not talked to one another.  And it felt as though we both knew that I at least had wanted to talk to him.  This time, however, it seemed quite clear that he wanted to talk to me, as well.  Shortly after seeing one another, he was dancing in front of me, with me.  We held hands as we danced with one another, and we danced without holding hands, too.  

Even though I could manage French rather well at that time, he never got to find out this fact, because he addressed me in English.  It was somewhat iffy English, but adorable, and I loved that he was trying and that he knew we had all been speaking English on the bus.  He had been listening to music, of course, but he clearly had been paying enough attention to us nonetheless.

I don’t remember how long we danced or how we started dancing with one another, but I remember that it was absolutely wonderful.  At some point later in the evening, a couple of the girls who were with me told me I needed to give him a way to contact me.  I didn’t have a phone, of course, but one of the girls had just gotten one that day, because she was staying for the whole semester.  So, we wrote my full name and her phone number on a piece of paper.  In the French conjugation of the verb to want, I couldn’t remember if the you form ended in an x or a t.  So, instead of saying, “If you want,” I wrote, “If one wants,” which, in French, can also be read as, “If we want.”  (Si on veut.)

I handed him the paper and I said goodbye and rushed out with my friends.  I don’t even remember what I said to him, or if I even said anything to him as I gave him the paper.  I just know that I gave it to him.

I spent several hours throughout the following months searching a particular page on Facebook.  It was the page for the club where we had been dancing.  I was scouring the faces and names of all the people who had liked the page, looking for this guy.  I used to know his first name.  I honestly couldn’t tell you what it was now, though.  I do remember his eyes, though… those gray-blue, yet bright eyes.  But I searched long and hard for his Facebook, to no avail.

He never called.

Or, at least, if he did, it was after I had left, and my friend with the phone never told me.

I am reminded of all of this, because today, for the second time in my life, I gave a piece of paper with my name and contact info on it to a guy.  (My full name and LINE ID, to be exact.)  He has already contacted me.

Post-a-day 2017

Trombones

I think I could date a trombone player.  Listening to a performance today, I was almost in love and lust already.  I had never heard such a beautiful sound come from a trombone (at least, not one right in front of me).  Uh, gosh… fantastic was that experience.  I never thought a trombone player would be my style.  However, if he plays with the kind of sound (tone quality) I heard today, then it’s a definite mark in his favor.

I mean, I actually almost want to date a trombone player now.  And I’m a trumpet player.  It was that amazing.

 

Post-a-day 2017

 

School Clubs

I was thinking about school clubs earlier today, a little ruffled underneath about how Japanese schools expect students to be in one club only, and to be in that one club for all of their middle school and high school years.  This is in great contrast to the USA, where we are all about the well-rounded student.  Colleges and universities just might pass up the student who only ever participated in a single club activity, despite having amazing grades, in the USA.

However, it occurred to me, as I wondered how on Earth this benefitted these kids, only learning one skill, doing only one club, that it is absolutely preparing them for their futures.  When Japanese kids graduate college, and are interviewing with companies, they – now, this is traditionally, you see – are hiring for life.  Those kids are expected to remain loyal, and to stay within the company that first hires them after college.  So, doing the same one thing every day for years in their single club absolutely prepares them to go to the same single job at the same company for the rest of their lives.  It’s just nothing like the USA, making it so bizarre (and rather depressing) to me, someone who was in upward of 15 clubs in high school alone.
Post-a-day 2017

a little bit of imagining

A bluebird once flew up onto a treehouse and sang.  It was absolutely marvelous.  No people were around to hear the bird’s song.  Perhaps that made the song even sweeter.  But not like cake and cookies sweet; like fresh strawberries sweet – the good and refreshing kind.  Yes, that kind of sweet is the right kind of sweet.  It was wonderfully sweet and quite marvelous, indeed.  The world is grateful for your lovely song, dearest bluebird, whom no person saw no heard on that lovely day of song atop the treehouse.
Post-a-day 2017

You’ve got mail

During the credits of the film “You’ve Got Mail”, there’s a song that comes on where a guy is singing about how he is going to sit right down and write himself a love letter, ‘and pretend it’s from you.’  I’ve been thinking about it since then, and I’m going to do just that for myself.  I don’t know who you are, exactly, but I believe you are out there somewhere, and, if we were together – meaning a pair, duo – now, you might send me this email/letter.

-—————————–

Hey, hon.

Just sending you a quick message.

First off, I love you.
Secondly, I miss you (Duh, of course I do.).  And, though we are almost literally worlds apart, I am okay, because you love me and care about me and are with me.
Thirdly, I love you.  Just so we’re clear.  😉  You have developed and changed so much these past few months, and I can hardly wait to get to know and to love all the new parts there are to you.  (I’m being somewhat sappy, I know, but I get to do that every so often, right? Right.)

(Now to the body paragraph(s).)

I hope you had a great day today.  We’re just getting started over here, and it’s a beautiful day.  How is your breathing?  Short, hot, and firey today, I presume, since it was a Monday.  Hopefully, you’ve stretched them out to long, slow, and deep by bedtime – I want you resting well while you are able to sleep, you know?  You’ve got to take care of yourself… keep your balance, now that you’re back standing again.

By the way, I think five minutes a day dedicated to your abdomen would get you the comfort you’re wanting for your beach-going.  You could do two and a half minutes just before sleeping, and another two and a half just after you wake up in the mornings.  That would give you a full five, and a significant improvement for that slightly-tubbier-than-usual belly of yours.  (We’ll be a rockin’ bods pair when you’re back here and we head beachside.)

Loving you with the sun and moon, babe,

~~~~

A short story

I realized as I was walking through a parking lot this evening, that, while I don’t write short stories, I would like to write short stories.  And so it was there in the parking lot that this short story (or this something like a short story) began.

Cecila

Cecilia wasn’t sure of herself.  Every time she went, she felt like a total and complete fool.  However, she persisted.  Every week, on Tuesday afternoon, she’d pick out her clothes and socks and shoes, grab a quick snack, and head out the door.  Every time, she looked stunning, even irresistible, yet knew it would have little effect on how she felt about herself for the next couple hours.

It’s true that she was a natural – she had merely only seen the best, and so felt herself awkward and clumsy in comparison, almost to the point of hopelessness.  And yet she never gave up.  One time, a long time before the writing of this story, someone said something to her – well, not so much to her as about her and within earshot – on one of those Tuesday afternoons, and she never forgot it.

“I wish I could do it like her,” was this overheard and utterly impactful comment.   If she could be the desired outcome of another, then she must be worthy of being there, no matter how she felt with her own judgements about herself.

She wasn’t ever sure if that person knew she had heard, and she never discussed it with anyone.   But she remembered it, and it inspired her to persevere every week.
Post-a-day 2017