I love Canadians. I love how accepting they are as people and how chilled out they are, generally speaking. Canada has mooses, pretty parliaments, polar bears and maple syrup. I’ve never been there, but I like to interact with Canadians to make up for this minor discrepancy and I always ask them to say “out and about in my awesome car.” It’s so cool. Some of the best people come from Canada.
Enter Date #15. We matched during my hungover Sunday afternoon and because I am extremely lazy and forward, I gave him my number after two Tinder messages which revealed that he was Canadian and relatively okay looking.
Usually it’s a huge warning sign if any one claims to be a foreign traveller on Tinder only here for a ‘few days’. They’re not here to wine and dine, needless to say.
Anyway, like I said, I was holding Canadians in high regard, (possibly due to my Sunday night) and Date#15 texted me on the Monday morning asking how my day was. Naturally, I didn’t reply because I was busy chilling with #14 the Dark Horse. #15 followed up that night with a “Hey still keen for tonight?” I made up some excuse about going home due to illness, but really I was just exhausted from the night before.
I messaged him the next morning and asked if he was free to meet that day. This was awesome; we were only about 5 messages balls-deep and already sorting out a time. My kinda guy. We agreed to meet at 12.30pm on Cuba Street and walk up to Hangar together. He had heard that place was good and I was yet to do a Tinder and or any other kind of date there as of yet.
Before the date I was buying tights from the Haus of G on Cuba (has anyone tried them? They’re so good!) and he was faffing around running late. So he CALLED me. I hadn’t saved his number but he told me he was outside Wisebuys on Dixon Street. When we finally saw each other I was mildly disappointed in myself for giving my number to him without seriously analysing any of his photos. Oops.
Date #15 was average height, of average build with strawberry blonde hair and ginger facial hair. He dressed like a nomadic white supremacist with a massive grey trench coat jacket and Doc Marten like shoes. He wasn’t bad looking. We greeted with an awkward hug and he smelled like homelessness and stale smoke. I wondered if he’d had a shower since arriving in New Zealand a couple of days ago.
… I don’t think he was just using Tinder to ‘meet’ new people.
But he was nice, although he had weak chat and was extremely quiet, which always goes down well with me since I’m so shy. After the short walk up to Hangar, we were seated for a fucking coffee and I realised that instead of getting accompanied back to work via an easy walk with minimal chat, I was in it for the long haul of at least fifteen minutes. Gutted.
I found out Date #15 was a traveller who had very few travel stories. He was either shy or scared of me. I assumed both. He was a carpenter by trade and he was travelling by himself . He acted slightly aloof on the date — not in an endearing way though, in a dumb, your-chat-is-shit kinda way.
Because the conversation was pretty bleak and his facial expressions were minimal, I thought it’d be funny to make the time go quicker by telling him stories about my sex life and my Tinder challenge. I needed something to fill the conversational black hole that he’d plunged us into, and the idea of telling him stories about my life and insecurities was unappealing, so I thought that telling him stories that made me sound like a Hot Mess rather than a Crazy Bitch was the best route to take.
Verbal diarrhoea proceeded. I had ordered a long black to drink quickly and after fifteen minutes of listening to my own voice and hearing appreciative grunts to prove that he was listening, I mentioned that I needed to buy some dry shampoo at one of those heavily-discounted perfume sales. I quickly got up to pay for our drinks because by this stage I was 100% sure that he needed to spend all the money he had on cleanliness.
I could tell that this guy was having a good time and anticipated great things between us, even though I told him that I talk up a huge game when I’m drunk, fall asleep and never put out.
After we walked up to the discounted perfume sale for Batiste bargains, we said goodbye and out-of-the-blue he went in for the kiss. It was so weird, we weren’t exactly the best of friends and this wasn’t a smooth-sailing date that was going to end up in a pash-fest.
Still, Date #15 seemed to obviously think the date went well and he messaged me two hours later to say:
Date #15: “We should smash a bottle of red.”
Date #15: “Tonight.”
Me: “I can’t tonight!!!”
Date #15: “Haha it’s alright.”
The next day, at 11.37am (seriously, why why why was I still on his mind?) he messaged me again:
Date #15: “Hey just curious of something…”
Date #15: “If you are on a 30 dates kinda thing what are you after?”
Me: “I’m not looking for anything but looking for everything.”
Date #15: “Ok that makes sense.”
He messaged me a few more times after that but given my one word replies, I guess he finally got the picture and I assume he’s since left this windy city and forgotten about me.