- Posted by:
- anjci
- Under:
- Relationships
We met on the Madrid – London flight two years ago.
I was returning from a two-week backpacking tour of Morocco; he had just finished another routine business trip to Spain. I was running massively late for the plane and had to resort to a middle seat; walked over to one and asked a gentleman next to the window if the middle seat was free, in the best Spanish I could produce. It was. I collapsed into the seat immediately and went into a kind of a coma.
My subsequent post-coma behaviour was admittedly rather small-talk inducing. After clicking through some 800 Moroccan pictures on my small-handbag-unfriendly camera, I unearthed a 30Gb-worth ipod collection of Greek songs. My every action was followed closely by that mysterious window-seated gentleman. As long as I didn’t have to talk, I had no problem with being found fascinating. It goes without saying that, having just spent a fortnight killing myself with a tense dawn-to-dusk Moroccan survival camp – and, on top of it all, flying bottom-rock Economy – I was largely uninterested in small talk, especially with a complete stranger.
Unfortunately, my neighbour was. In a rather predictable fashion, he waited until captain’s weather announcement (the only bit of the heavily Spanish-accented speech I could vaguely understand) and said something like “oh, London, rain again”. A classic. When someone bothers to address you directly, it is kind of impolite to continue playing with your ipod and ignore the person. I therefore had to interrupt my musical journey through Greece and act at least marginally interested in what my neighbour was saying. He turned out not boring at all. Let’s call him Rui; he was Portuguese and a Vice President at a leading Telecommunications consultancy. My first thought (I bet yours, too) was what the heck a Vice President of a leading Telecoms consultancy was doing next to a scruffy backpacker on an Economy Iberia flight. I was thick enough to put my thoughts into words (to give me credit, phrased in a most politically correct way). Rui laughed. His company had the policy of flying Economy class on short-haul flights and Business class across the Atlantic. I was notably impressed. At my then employer, UBS, analysts routinely flew Business on all possible flights, including London to Manchester, Amen. Here I was facing a Vice President, grinning as he clutched his uncool Economy ticket. Respect, I thought. Here’s my man. He wasn’t particularly good-looking, but that didn’t matter too much.
The small talk went on. To my utter surprise, the gentleman did not seem put-off by my suppressed investment-banking-analyst identity. I was kind of used to lowering my voice when delivering my professional background, both to prospective men and the non-hopefuls. I mean, what kind of a guy would want his lady to get stuck at work till past midnight on a daily basis, and then show up, looking blood-shot eyed and unfit, stuffed to her ears with junk food and generally as attractive as a lamp post, just without the energy? It was refreshing to see an interesting gentleman not remotely stirred by the sad truth of my existence. We exchanged numbers and bid each other farewell by the airport luggage reclaim.
…He called the same week, suggesting a Saturday lunch. Not having had a decent date with a guy for quite a while (see: https://anjci.com/so-what-has-changed/), I was impressed once again. The proposed venue was Indigo: http://www.onealdwych.com/, a pretty little hotel restaurant bang in the heart of London. Excellent choice, I thought. Man, did I look forward to that lunch.
Things went well that day. The food was fine; nothing quite to lick the fingers for but the wine, Chilean white, fully compensated. My conversationalist seemed very professional at his job and prudent in his approach to life; liked good Portuguese football; knew which wine adds which flavours of appreciation to which food; and had a few connections among my banking friends. I had to work (on a Saturday!) afterwards, but it was with a happy heart that I returned to the office that day.
Our next date was a dinner at Gaucho’s Sloane: http://www.gauchorestaurants.co.uk/restaurants/restaurant.php?id=sloane. This time the experience wasn’t quite as rosy. Rui seemed nervous, which I knowledgeably blamed on work-related stress. In addition to dictating my meal choice (which, fair enough, guys need to be allowed to do on a purely occasional basis) and forgetting to ask if I wanted bread (before sending a full basket back to the kitchen), he visibly cheaped off, cringed towards me and asked if I “really wanted wine”. Priding myself on my non-fussy-diner-woman reputation (with the right guy, even Pizza Express is rock ‘n’ roll), I shrugged it off. Of course, not, I said. I mean, when you are having a fine Argentinean steak, having Argentinean wine to accompany it would surely be gross overindulgence. In addition to imposing dry law in a truly dictatorial manner, my neighbour spent the rest of the evening moaning about work and consequently apologising for “being a bum”. Frankly, he was. At least he had decency enough to pay.
Life went on; I got dragged into a killer project at work and was pretty much welcoming every sunrise from the office window (at least I could see one from where I was sitting). My love life was assigned last-degree priority, but I did miss the travels. Defying the entire thy-shalt-not-book-weekends-away-before-asking-thy-master concept, I unilaterally decided to spend a weekend in Lisbon. Just on my own, blackberry turned off and swine-like banking males left behind in London. I was stupid enough to deliver the happy news to Rui, after which it of course “just happened”, that he would be in Lisbon that weekend, too. I gave him the benefit of the doubt and accepted the fact.
…Rui picked me up from Lisbon airport that night, and off we set for a simple fish dinner at a traditional Portuguese place. The fish was gorgeous until the point when Rui smiled at me apologetically and suggested to “go Dutch”. Are you familiar with the expression? Going Dutch means paying separately for oneself. I could not believe my ears. Having studied in the Nordics for over two years, I have no problem paying for my food. In fact, I prefer paying for my food as means of avoiding possible misunderstandings with men. But this was clearly not the situation. It was Rui’s country; it was my first visit to Lisbon; it was his invitation; I was a woman; for God’s sake, the guy was in his mid-30s and a Vice President of a respectable company – versus me, a green investment banking analyst. I swallowed. Rui seemed to take particular pride in “offering dessert” afterwards, a freshly sliced mango. To my comment that the mango was “like Heaven”, he moved his thick Portuguese eyebrows in an up-and-down fashion, responding that he knew “other things, which are much more Heaven-like”. No way, I thought. Man, have you just missed it.
We met again the day after. I had heard great things about the traditional Portuguese fado singing. Fado is a sort of Portuguese blues, often sung live in restaurants for spectators to enjoy. Going to Lisbon without listening to fado is like visiting Skopje and failing to see the Kale Fortress; an absolute must. But I couldn’t go alone, so I asked Rui to join me – as poor as the company was menacing to be.
The evening started off on a low note. The minute Rui saw the menu, his eyes nearly fell out. So expensive, he gasped. To me, it looked an average London restaurant experience, surely in line with the two past dates we had in London. Oh, he said. He got the company to pay for our first lunch. Just told them I was a kind of client. As for the dinner, he tried but the company wouldn’t pay. At least we didn’t have wine, he said with relief.
Needless to say that I was speechless.
The night went on. Fado was nice, but given (a) Rui’s never-ceasing moaning about prices; (b) Rui’s loudly and frequently expressed disagreement with the quality of the food; and (c) Rui’s discontent when I touched the bread (“they’ll charge you for it!”), the evening was anything but enjoyable. At the end, came the bill. 60 euros. It was for 60 euros that I had to tolerate the company of a complete loser that evening. Need I even mention that the bill was followed by that famous “let’s go Dutch” phrase? Seriously, I should have paid the guy in the beginning – just to have the pleasure of a dinner without his company!
What happened afterwards was a joke. Suddenly awaken to a gentleman’s call inside him, Rui ordered a cab to drop me by my hotel. We reached the place, I waved goodbye and suddenly realised that the guy, too, was getting out of the cab. What’s up, I asked. Did he suddenly fancy a walk? Rui looked a little taken aback. Oh, yes, what a lovely evening, he said. Indeed, he might as well walk to his own hotel. Enjoy your walk, I said, thinking more along the “Good riddance” lines. Off he went into the night. I was no longer surprised that a seemingly respectable professional male was single in his mid-30s. I should have known from the start that no worthy men stay single for too long.
He phoned me up several times afterwards. Would you be interested? I wasn’t.
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