1
The European Connection
Since I have been in the States, Ive noticed that whenever a cosmetics company or salon wants to confer instant cachet on their product, they describe it as European or Europes favorite, as in European facial, and Now Europes favorite mascara is available here. I have even seen an advertisement for Europes favorite ironing board. (Hello? It would only be my favorite if it would do all the ironing itself.) And a recent ad raved about shopping in a European atmosphere. What would that mean to me? A cold, rainy place that charges six bucks a gallon for gas? Thats European to me. The irony is that in England they use the reverse marketing strategy, touting the U.S.A. as the land of miracle creams and potions.
As we all know, neither location has magical properties, but somehow we still fall for the romance of the foreign, the exotic, and the unusual. Its no different in the personals. Because I identified myself as English and recorded my voicemail message in my homegrown British accent, I was inundated with hundreds of replies from men convinced that I was the hottest import since the Beatles. They felt I was exotic, classy, and somehow special, and they wanted to meet me just because I was European! (Not a bad thing.) One generous soul said, You speak this language of ours so well. (Excuse me? Language of yours?) Aside from the guys who loved my accent, others felt we had a connection due to their European heritage, be it real or imaginary. And of course there were the men who were so sophisticated and well traveled that only a European woman could appreciate their charms.
I lost count of the number of times I was asked about The Queen, Princess Diana (although most Americans still call her Lady Diana), Benny Hill, Monty Python, and a tall guy named John that their mother knew. Now, granted my sampling was not entirely random, but few of these Anglophiles were themselves terribly worldly. Few owned a passport, and a great many had never left their own state. Some, in fact, had never left their trailer park. I was stunned by how provincial some of these guys were. With all the terrible things happening in the world, the average American news station leads its broadcast with a headline along the lines of Montgomery County introduces mandatory school uniforms . . . details at eleven. A man from Oregon asked me what apartheid was. Another had no idea who King Hussein was, or for that matter where Jordan was (and no, I dont mean Michael). One man I met in Florida astutely noted that I didnt take too much ice in my soda, which, according to him, was a European thing. Especially perplexing was a man who, when I mentioned Poland, looked up at the ceiling as if in deep thought, then asked seriously, Poland . . . is that Holland? I assured him that it most certainly was -- it was easier that way!
Nor did the fellows I met know much more about their alleged homelands. What is it with Americans who profess Im Italian or Im German? Most of them cant say a single word in their native tongue, and if you ask what town their forebears were from, they havent a clue. I have since been told that because the country is such a hotchpotch of different cultures, Americans choose an identity they like and stick with it. I think thats kind of funthat way you can be from almost anywhere you want.
All these men (and many others as well) claimed that they chose my ad primarily because of the European connection, fragile as it may have seemed to me. So here go my attempts at international diplomacy. . . .
Paul, 32
Electrical Products Salesman
single
Paul sounded a bit hung up on appearances, though I didnt know how much until we met. His message said he was a very nice looking man, and he was also at pains to tell me that he had lots of hair that wasnt receding at all. I returned his call at his place of work, and we agreed to meet for lunch on his day off. Just before we hung up, he said, What shall I wear for you?
Oh, just something casual, I replied. Its only lunch. I detected that he seemed a little disappointed at that answer, but what the hell.
I arrived a few minutes late, but I wished I hadnt come at all when I spotted Paul in a corner of the restaurant. There he sat, dressed as a king! I kid you not: The man was in full monarchs regalia, with some kind of robe around his shoulders and a crown on his head. As I approached him, he stood up, tipped his crown, and said, See, I told you I have lots of hair. Funny, but how much hair he had wasnt paramount in my mind right then. The waiter who had shown me to the table had tears in his eyes from laughing, but Paul seemed oblivious to this. You are dressed like Lady Diana and Fergie, he announced approvingly, gesturing to my long, plain black skirt. In fact the only reason for this attire was that it had been quite chilly when I had set out, but to Paul the long skirt was fit for a princess!
I soon learned that Paul dressed as a king to alleviate the boredom of selling cheap electrical goods to cheap people. Apparently the company he worked for didnt treat him too well, so on his day off, he liked to be a king. Paul was not delusional, though. He told me over a regal repast of pasta and garlic bread that he spent his free time inspecting his apartment building for faults. He would then report them to the manager and see how long it took for them to be repaired or replaced. In his five years there he had single-handedly managed to get three managers fired, a fact of which he was extremely proud. He was indeed a king.
When I asked why he had answered my ad, his answer was simple: Youre English, so you know about kings and queens. Americans just dont. I nodded solemnly as if in agreement, noting with relief that our check had arrived. I thanked him for meeting me and offered to pay my share. To my surprise he asked that I pay his share too, as monarchs dont carry cash. The meal was under twenty dollars so I paid up, thinking hed gone to an awful lot of trouble for a $7.95 bowl of spaghetti. I got off lightly, reallywe could have rendezvoused at a five-star restaurant. And it could have been worsehe could have been Henry VIII. Then who knows what trouble his building manager and I would have been in!
Michael, 38
Realtor
single
Michael identified himself as Slavic when we arranged our date. I didnt press for more information, as he was in a hurry, but he said hed just had to call when he saw my ad because we shared a European background. When we met, he spoke at length of how bad he felt for the people of Kosovo, and though I agreed it was a terrible thing, he felt I couldnt truly understand his pain. After all, he said, I am Slavic, remember? My mother was from somewhere or other like that. I wondered how that keen sense of geography served him when selling a house. Oh, its a beautiful property, great location somewhere or other.
Michael was wearing the brightest multicolored shirt I had ever seen in my life, and I have seen a lot of shirts in my time. This one was dazzling, to say the least. I tactfully didnt comment on it, though when he asked me what I thought about it, I said it was very nice. (Well, you have to tell a little lie occasionally, to keep the peace!)
He was very hyper and talked nonstop about himself. More than anything, he wanted to be a millionaire and retired by the time he was fifty. Well, there is nothing wrong with ambition, but after an hour and a half of the life and times of Michael, during which he spoke at length about his controlling mother who dressed him only in the color fawn until he was eleven (hence the loud shirt, I guess), Id had enough. I thanked him for meeting me and he did likewise. Then he offered me a little advice. Apparently I was too quiet; the next time I went on a date, he confided, I needed to speak more. No problem; next time I go on a date, it wont be with you, Michael, so maybe Ill get a word in edgewise.
Allen, 39
Insurance Agent
single
Allens European connection was a Belgian brother in-law called Dettol. In England, Dettol is a well-known brand of disinfectant, so to my mind the name was a little unfortunate, but Allen appeared to be extremely fond of the man. It was Dettol said this and Dettol said that. In fact, Dettol seemed to be a right old know-it-all!
For our date, Allen chose a venue that was famous for its fondue, assuming that because I was from England, I must be a fondue expert. Huh? Despite his culinary ignorance, Allen was quite witty on the phone, and though he wasnt the first to say he loved my accent, he had the grace to say he knew Id heard it a million times before.
Allen was very into European women, he told me. American women were uniformly brash and motivated only by money, he claimednot like me. In fact, Allen wanted to take me to meet Dettol and his wife; he knew they would love meas he did!
I knew things were moving along a little too quickly when he asked if I preferred penises circumcised or not. I decided to be honest with Allen and tell him that far from being my one-and-only, he was one in a thousand.
To my amazement, Allen loved the idea of being part of my quest, even asking if I would identify him by his full name, and if any European women wanted him, could I please give out his number? I agreed.
I never got to find out whether Allen was cut or uncut, nor did we order any food. I left our date fondue-less, which was fine by me as Ive always considered those fussy fondue sets a little too trendy for their own good. Its the kind of gift you get at Christmas and eventually give away to your childs bring-and-buy sale.
Much the same way I felt about Allen.