A quick recap of the last two dates, one with Francois and one with Ansel. This afternoon, a classmate teased me, “It’s like you’re dating the United Nations.” Yeah, of no choice of my own, my dates are either Black-American, Asian-American or international (Francois is French). Where are my white, Californian guys? I guess I haven’t found one I’d like to date yet. ;)

Date #1 with Francois: 15 minutes before he’s going to show up, to a Korean place he wants me to introduce him to (he’s a Korean food newbie!) he texts, saying “I’ll be 10 minutes late.” 10 minutes later, he texts, “Add another 10.” I’m late too, but he arrives five minutes after me. No worries, I tell him, after he calls while in the parking lot, lost and unsure where to find the restaurant and/or me. But I’m a little frustrated because I spend five minutes just telling him where I am and he can’t even understand that. He finally finds and meets me and momentarily I wonder if he’ll kiss me on the cheek, French-style, but he hugs me, American-style. A running joke between us is that we’re turning into Californians (specifically, we’re becoming “Californicated”). Well, he is cute. Tall and lithe, just the way I like my men. Somewhat well-dressed, with a dark blue sweater and washed-out jeans. He’s got a bad case of acne (at 28?). Ugh. Cute, though, and stellar smile, one of the best I’ve seen in a while. And of course: That accent. French-Californian. It’s a nice one.

Before We Meet Again

We sit down and spend a good 10 minutes looking at the menu as I explain what the dishes are made of. The menu is in English though, so I am probably over-explaining. Still, he’s genuinely interested. He smiles a lot and makes jokes. I laugh a lot. We finally order. He gets japchae on my suggestion and I get my usual, the vegetarian soon-dubu. We sit and talk and laugh as the side dishes arrive. He fakes a “real French accent,” and we laugh some more. I tell him about my experiences living in Korea and he asks me questions about that. He asks about my brother, my family, my Ph.D. program. I ask him about his (very geeky) profession of mechanical engineering and about his boat. He teases me when not once but twice I defer to my iPhone (once for a Google Earth image of his boat and again, to look up the definition of a word). It’s all so so easy to talk to him and I don’t remember laughing like this. But he’s a total geek and I can’t help but wonder that if he weren’t French and if he weren’t impulsively buying a boat on which to live on in Newport Beach, would I be talking to him? Maybe not.

When I Tell Her I Have Cheated

We finish. He pays. There are leftovers, LOTS of them. We should have shared the japchae, I say, and he agrees. He is so genuinely game about the experience, and likes the cucumber kimchi and cabbage kimchi and even the bony fish they bring us as side dishes that I can’t resist and ask, “Are you interested in a total Asian experience?” He raises an eyebrow at me and we laugh. I meant, I explained, we could go to this Taiwanese bakery and coffee shop. He’s game of course. We drive, him following me. At one point I realize I should turn left at a light and I have to swerve into the left turn lane. He swerves behind me and in my rear view window I see him laughing. I laugh too.

We get to the bakery, walk past the pastries and buy a couple of treats. We’re full, though, so we don’t need more than a couple: A pecan tart (his choice) and a savoury bun (my choice). We buy ourselves drinks and I pay for everything. He thanks me, sweetly. I get a sea salt green tea and he gets a cafe latte. We sit and enjoy another long conversation. It turns out he’s only ever had one girlfriend (*sigh* – why can’t I date someone who’s actually dated a few people?) and I wonder if I might be the only girl he’s seeing right now. He tells me he’s made “lots of friends” on Match.com but hasn’t dated anyone out of it. Interesting. We still laugh forever and ever and I ask if he’s this funny in French too. He says I’ll never know unless I speak French with him. I tell him I’m tempted to take a refresher course. ;)

11 Things That Are Different In Texas

Of course in the middle of all this wonderfulness, about three hours into the date, Ansel calls me. My phone is right there next to Francois and I, and he sees it, sees Ansel’s name and face and asks if I need to take it. Embarrassing! I tell him “No, it’s just a friend. I’ll call later.” But I blush furiously, and Francois laughs at me. I let the date linger on for another half an hour, and then I tell him I should go to bed (I’m tired, but come on, it’s 10:30 and I don’t have classes the next day). We walk back to my car. He walks closer and for a minute I think he’ll kiss me but it’s been so friendly, I really doubt it. He tells me about a party he’s going to in the same area I’m going to a party Saturday night. We get interested in seeing each other again, in having a drink together with a few of our other friends. I tell him I’d like that. He hugs me and I drive back. I’m not so sure I’ll hear from him again, but Francois emails me an hour later:

Thanks for the evening ;o)

here is the info for the line dancing: ….

Let me know what you’re doing this weekend.

I can mybee free myself tomorrow afternoon  if you want o go surfing ;o)

Biz

Date #4ish with Ansel: I’m not sure how to count dates with Ansel as he’s not a going out to dinner kind of guy. The last three times we met, after our first date together, it was over at his house, for a game of Scrabble or movie or home-made dinner and makeout session. Not exactly dates. More like “Forget the dates, let’s just start being home-y.” I’m not sure what to think about all this as it’s a little boring but add to this the fact that he’s giving me some mixed signals. His text messages are sweet and (now) frequent, peppered with pet names (“Zoebee,” “sweet cheeks,” “beautiful”) filled with sentimental thoughts, like this one:

BTW, Zoe, you’ve been the most kind, generous, understanding, and accepting person/lover I’ve ever known. -Ansel

So, I expected, quite naturally, that when I saw him again we’d be close, like a young, wildly-in-love couple. Nope. Not even close. When I saw and kissed him, it was like “Oh, we’re still in the Friend Zone, aren’t we?” He’s so formal, so reserved, so damned inexpressive, I have no clue what to do. Besides, it’s all getting a little boring. It was raining on Friday, so we went to the local ice skating rink. He complained the entire time, about the loose fit of the skates, about the fact that he was a much better mountain biker than a skater, about the slippery ice. I waited for him as he adjusted his skates, tried to skate beside him and all to no avail; it was like I was invisible to him. We finished skating (he only went on for about 15 minutes) and he asked, “What do we do now?” So I took him to – yes, I have this bad habit of doing this – the same Taiwanese bakery and coffee shop I had taken Francois. Good choice, me! He was riveted by the selection of pastries and filled his tray with them. Turns out his Caribbean mom used to make Chinese pastries for him and his siblings growing up. Who would guess? :) He picked the mocha and I was going to see if he paid for both of us or if I could pay for both of us but he let me go ahead and pay for myself by myself. Oh OK: Dutch. That’s how it’s going to be. First date = he pays. Second “date” (I visit his house, we select groceries for dinner) = I pay. Now, fourth date = Dutch?

How I Roll With Married Men

Anyway, we sit and talk over our drinks and pastries and then we spend a good half hour walking around looking for a place to get some dinner. We finally settle on a sleek Japanese restaurant I’ve always wanted to check out. The barmaid has a really nice looking peacock feather tattoo creeping up her right arm and we chat. In fact, the barmaid and I get along better than Ansel and I! Anyway, Ansel has never had sushi (has this guy lived under a rock?) so I help him choose rolls he’ll probably enjoy. He loves avocado, so I order an avocado roll. He is not sure about fish but I take a gamble and order a Philadelphia roll. He likes tofu so I order the home-made tofu. He likes none of them. No, he kind of likes the avocado roll, except for the seaweed on the outside. He likes the pickled ginger! *sigh* OK, one more food he’s not into. One more thing he’s not adventurous about. And I thought I was playing it safe with those choices.

On the way back to the car, he actually puts his arm around my waist! I feel like I’m getting spoiled. This is a lot of affection for him, especially in public. But at home, even after a good session behind doors, he’s not interested in holding me at all. Like, at ALL. Seriously? I feel lost, I feel overwhelmed with a sense of loss and sadness. I remember Edgar and Paul and even Four Year Relationship Guy (and heck, everyone I’ve ever dated!) holding me close, being affectionate. Why can’t Ansel? I reason it away by saying: Ah, he’s just getting used to me, just not sure he can trust me yet. When he does, he’ll be different. But now I’m not so sure. I have half a mind to end it here, over this lack of affection and attention, but there are so many other things – we communicate well, we have a lot of respect for each other, he listens to me and gives me a sense of reason when I don’t have one, he is loyal and considerate – but how much does this lack of affection matter? I can’t help but think it matters a lot. I’m a feeler. I feel. He thinks. How will that dichotomy work?

These are the Times When Men Don’t Know How To Act

This morning we went to the local farmer’s market and once again, I was reminded that this just might not work. As I excitedly rushed through the stalls, chatting to vendors, touching, tasting, smelling the produce, bargaining prices, picking up fresh fruit and vegetables … he was never by my side but standing outside the stall, looking around him, thinking. Always thinking. We walked back and I felt like there was this disconnect between us. How can two people who experience life so differently be well-matched? I know I get myself in trouble with other passionate people, but shouldn’t passion be matched with passion? Or am I way off base here?

So I laid down on my bed when we got back. I laid down and looked at the sky. I laid there for several minutes as he wordlessly packed his bag to return home. I didn’t look at him. Finally, he came to my side, sat down near my feet and said, “I’m going to go.” He did, with an obligatory kiss goodbye. I laid down on my bed again and began writing this.

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