HIM

I’d never been on a blind date. The concept was foreign, something out of a creepy low-budget film. The magazine sent us on three of them, one set up by our families, one by our friends and one by a professional agency (no, seriously, it exists) in Saifi Village.

DATE ONE

This was easy; I turned to my meddling aunt for the family date. ‘I have just the girl for you,’ she informed me as my cheeks were molded into new and exciting shapes. But the Druze are known for our setups, aren’t we? Souad was a traditional girl, a relic from a time when parents visited with an elegantly framed photograph to discuss the details of your first date with their precious (here meaning expensive) daughter, and how many heads of lamb would have to roll for the wedding. The girl was smart and stunning, and a black hole. We went to Pasta di Casa, and as she slowly ate her salad (minding her carbs, no doubt) I realized that while my chattering did register with her, I was getting absolutely no feedback. I tried explaining what a black hole was, in an attempt to break the ice and make her laugh at the absurdity of our situation. And as the inner geek steered the monologue from black holes to white dwarfs, I inevitably came upon Stephen Hawing; how remarkable it was that he gave so much to the world, and even raised children that will carry his name. Here my date spoke her first full, unprompted sentence of the evening: ‘I love children; how many do you want to have?’

The fettuccine ran cold, and Alfredo snickered.

DATE TWO

This one was a talker, and my friends had given her my shortlist of likes. ‘Talk to him about video games, talk about writing and religion, knives and Martian fungus; and whatever you do, don’t agree with him. You need to be a challenge.’  If she was anything, she was a challenge; she fit so much information (about herself) between the first two drinks that I fully expected her wine to have aged. I love talkers, but there has to be room for maneuvering, and for lack of interaction I found myself mostly staring at all she nearly wore, and planning my dream bathroom. She didn’t figure out my last name until I had walked her to the car much, much later that night. That’s where she asked the first sincere question of the evening: ‘What does Baz mean, exactly?’

‘It’s like a falcon,’ I began to explain, but my mouth became suddenly occupied. The smashing teeth and tequila breath prompted a moment of, well, Zen I believe. I’d read about this, a guy called Tuesday Lobsang Rampa had me sold on the idea of transcendental meditation when I was 14; it’s when your soul leaves your body to observe the world you see, as a result of great concentration, shock or trauma.

My soul sat atop her Fiat and fiddled with my silver lining, occasionally glanced down my date’s blouse and waited for the life to drain from my limbs; it jumped in just as my knees buckled. ‘We’ll save the rest for later,’ she said with what must have been a wink. I decided on black shower curtains, and floated back to the pub.

DATE THREE

The only way I could get matchmaker Solange to set me up was to lie about being a journalist; and for that I apologize.

The interview at Pom d’Amour went smoothly. Solange was tactful and sensitive, and very concerned about privacy. She’d taken a look at my online profile, and had a bunch of questions prepared. She explained that her agency’s database had a five-to-one ratio of women to men, and young male professionals were always a quick setup.

She wasn’t kidding. Two days later I had a daunting list of potentials, and after a significant elimination algorithms finally settled on one whose name made a naughty anagram (sorry, can’t tell.) This was my third and last date; I was fearless.

I had two whiskeys and two shots of vodka before she showed up. She was just as nervous, and a whiskey enthusiast. A few drinks into the evening I’d forgotten all about the article, the agency and my transcendental experience, and was happily chatting away with a girl I’d never date.

She was a finance student, athletic (here meaning hawt) and had a brilliant smile; certainly not the type that would need a matchmaker.

‘I have absolutely no time to go through the whole song and dance anymore. You could easily waste half your life trying to figure out whether a man is right for you, while wasting even more opportunities. The two of us have had a great night for instance, and it’ll just get better; but we’re obviously incompatible. If we were dating it would take us months to get out of each other’s hair.’

The night got much better, and we didn’t even exchange numbers. Three cheers for decisive women.

HER

When Karl approached me with the blind date article I thought it would be fun; I was wrong. If only one could summon sudden illness or geological miracles.

DATE ONE

He was the professional setup, but the agency had sent me a man that didn’t meet my requirements. They called ahead and said ‘we have a guy here that you might like, but he’s older; is that OK?’

Maybe I should’ve asked how much older.

It was a bit of a surprise to see a forty-something man in a designer coat walk into de Prague. This guy belonged in a classical portrait, leaning on an expensive armchair inhabited by an old gentlewoman with an opium pipe. He noticed the panic and smiled – I wish I could say warmly – and lead the conversation to a comfortable and friendly zone.

He was rich, he explained: a house here, a villa there, a nanny for the dog and a wallet that could pay for everyone’s dinner. He was nice, but impatient, and it somehow suited his character. I’d always held that age differences were overrated, but I tell you the man came from a different world. My concerns were noted by Solange and the agency set me up with another date that very same day. This one was in my age range, but apparently not single. Excuse me?

I don’t know about you, but a guy who kept a girl around even as he looked for another didn’t seem like a solid choice. Back to the drawing board.

DATE TWO

My dear, dear friend Karl was behind this one, I realized. This guy was schooled, made to memorize line after line that my sneaky friends knew I’d bite into. Somewhere in the middle of the evening he said one of those signature words used only in your inner circle and his cover was blown to hell, along with my hopes for the evening. Facades aside, the guy turned out to be pretty decent, but I understood why my so-called friends had fed him all these lines: he was eye-candy, and nothing more.

But Eye-candy was a gentleman, and did all the right things: he pulled up my chair, listened politely, made sure I was comfortable and so on. By the end of the evening I could almost ignore the fact that he had nothing to share; but not quite. A few hours of this could be interesting, but a relationship? Nah, we’d have to talk at some point.

As we walked to the parking lot he asked the question I’d been ducking all night: ‘No pressure Nayla, but will I see you again?’

‘Not soon,’ I replied. ‘I’m only here on vacation and have to travel back for school.’ It wasn’t a lie, but I knew he felt otherwise. What did I expect anyway? If my friends are any indication of what Lebanese men have become, I’ll be single for a long, long time.

DATE THREE

My third and final date was an incident waiting to happen. The family friend who set me has wanted me to meet this guy for years. Yippee ki-yay. She said that the only men worth seeing were quiet, mild-mannered and ready for marriage; the fact that he wore an oversized baseball cap that was fifteen years out of date was no one’s concern.

This was the boy next door, the polar opposite of the girl next door stereotype. He was creepy, quiet and beady eyed, and didn’t ask questions so much as interrogate me.

This was an interview. He considered me like a farmer considers livestock, and I knew that as he ran his eyes over my body he wasn’t just admiring my appearance, he was assessing me for breeding.

I pressed the panic button: speed dial, Karl: escape plan beta.

Moments later I was bombarded with phone calls, and during that cellular storm I explained to my date in quick sentences how my friend’s cousin’s sister’s boyfriend had left her, and as I was wasting time here (great time, mind) sipping on a cappuccino the poor girl was on a ledge somewhere preparing to throw herself off; or something just as plausible. He nodded with a blank gaze and scribbled his number in Dubai.

‘Call me if you’re in the area,’ he said, ‘this was very pleasant.’

I don’t think I’ve ever lost a number quite as fast.

Hooray, no Valentine’s assassinations this year