Mars and Venus or just the Atlantic ocean?
We’ve all had holiday flings: the swarthy Italian who informed you that your eyes had stars in them, the enthusiastic Australian who took to throwing you over his shoulder and chucking you in the sea for no apparent reason, the Frenchman with the hypnotically sexy voice and somewhat distant relationship with personal hygiene. Who hasn’t been up for two weeks of fun, what-the-hell-he’s-sexy-who-cares-if-he-doesn’t-speak-English-or-use-deodorant? But what about an honest to goodness grown up relationship with a foreign man? Settled down, arguing about who picked the rubbish DVD and why there are smelly socks on the kitchen floor, going to Home Depot and trying for a baby - ideally not at the same time, but still, you get the drift.
Living in Canada for the past couple of years and having dated one or too many men while I was there, I became interested in just how unaware it is possible to be of the dating conventions we all blindly follow until we meet someone who – quite literally in some cases – speaks another language. For example, I find that in Britain when you’re seeing someone, even if it isn’t especially serious yet, avoiding shagging other people is just manners – whereas in North America the “is this exclusive?” conversation has some fairly serious commitment connotations, and “of course it bloody is, are you taking the piss?” isn’t quite the desired answer.
In London, pulling someone (or hooking up with someone, I realize that this blog needs to be bilingual) generally consists of: you meet, you have a bit of a snog, you exchange phone numbers and meet up – usually with other people, your friends will meet his friends at a bar, or one of you will invite the other along to a party – a few times and you may or may not end up alone (with each other) and naked at the end of the night. After this has gone on for a couple of weeks, you finally arrange a date which you get all nervous about and put on pantyhose and lipstick, and that heralds the beginning of you as some kind of a couple. That’s it, roughly, anyway.
So when I was first asked out in Vancouver, and the young man in question seemed to want to do the pantyhose-and-lipstick date thing right away I thought that he was moving terribly fast and was clearly deeply in love with me. Which was fair enough. Until he casually mentioned that he was also seeing someone else. But – wha--aa – huh?
Interviewing a few male Canadian friends, all in the interests of research naturally, I was surprised, and not especially displeased, to learn that we British women have something of a world wide reputation for being good in bed, because we tend to be less self conscious about our bodies – who knew?! - and are seen as confident and straightforward... again, who knew?! And also, a bit scary. This, I believe is down to us thinking that they are head over heels with us because they want to take us out to dinner when we have only just met, and ending up perturbed to learn that they are not so desperately in love with us that they are skipping steps – they just do things differently in Canada.
And even if these cultural barriers affecting the, let’s face it, already tenuous levels of male/female communication, don’t put a kibosh on the whole thing right away, there are practicalities to consider. As much as I love travelling and living abroad right now, the thought of settling down and raising children several time zones from my family saddens me. It might be what I end up doing, who knows? but committing to someone whose work ties them to their country, therefore potentially committing to my kids only seeing their grandparents a couple of times a year, would be a big step. Would I be able to demand that we go back to Britain every Christmas? And if not, what would Christmas be without Slade on the radio every 5 minutes, the Queen’s speech (not that I have watched it in years, I just like to know that I could) and a Christmas pudding my dad sets fire to with way too much brandy? A few years ago, when I was with my American boyfriend, we chatted on the phone on Christmas afternoon and I mentioned I had to go because my dad was about to light the pudding… there was a bit of a silence after which he enquired as to whether all Brits set their Christmas dinner on fire, or if it was just us.
