The International Element - Foreign vs Creepy

The beauty of living in a cosmopolitan city (well, at least compared to Christchurch) is that I am constantly meeting people of a variety of nationalities. however, while I love anyone with an accent, I have to wonder whether dating a foreigner long-term would ever be worth it. Yes, there is the thrill of the international element (and the outcries of jealousy from friends, whether or not the foreigner in question is actually an attractive option. Because let's face it, throwing the phrase my 'Italian/Spanish/Swedish lover' into conversation is always going to sound impressive) and the allure of communication carrying over cultural or language differences. But at the end of the day, who doesn't want to sit down and have a good bitch to their certain someone about the random crap from their day? Or send a lazy text that barely makes sense but you know they will understand? The effort required to date a foreign man must be balanced by his level of attractiveness, I feel.

This was not the case for Frank, unfortunately. However, he is a case study which proves that you CAN meet men in random places and people actually DO give their number out sometimes - I had previously thought this was restricted to cliched rom-coms only. Frank, 28year old cafe worker from Athens, manages the cafe directly opposite my apartment. The first time I entered the cafe with a friend, Frank struck up conversation; also undercharging us for our purchases. Upon discovering that I was a new member of the city, he offered to show me the city and give me a tour. I was both taken aback, distracted, and exhausted (having not yet consumed my coffee), so did not think anything of this.

A week passed. By chance, I entered the cafe again, and saw my new friend Frank. His boss informed me that he had 'been waiting for me all week.' I don't know how I missed this. Frank reiterated his desire to give me a tour of the city, gave me a free coffee, and even wrote his name and number on my receipt. All in all, a nice little romantic story. However, upon actually going out for drinks in Surry Hills, it turned out that Frank was loud, opinionated, and a little deranged (see: fond of yelling 'rape!' out the window of his car while speeding through Sydney on too many scotches). It might have been that I am ignorant of the particularly Greek sense of humour...but maybe he was just odd? How much can be attributed to culture, and how much to strange personality? Needless to say I haven't made it back to the cafe yet...and have been sneaking out the back entrance of my flat.

Which brings me to case study number 2: French man.
This one, again, started out just like a fluffy rom-com featuring me, instead of Jennifer Lopez. I met French man by chance in a friend's hotel lobby, where I was hurrying to after work to get ready for a dinner. "You are not Australian, because you dress so well" remarked a smooth, foreign accent behind me. This came from Sam aka French man - 26, Parisian and graphic designer. Attractive, thank god, in a dark, stubbly kind of way. Well-dressed. He struck up a conversation by the lifts; he paid me compliments, I made a poor attempt at French, he got my number. Success!! I thought smugly.

I then made the poor choice of exclaiming to all and sundry that I was going on a date with a Parisian/an older man/an artist/all of the above. Mum got excited. Unfortunately I was to learn that 'foreign with a sexy accent' does not equal 'man of my dreams,' and that even I cannot view a date from hell through rose-tinted glasses. Saturday: 5pm. I entered the swanky Meriton World Square apartments to meet Frenchie at his flat, in my best dress and new coat. Would we go somewhere fancy for dinner? My stomach rumbled in anicipation. Would he cook for me and ply me with French wine? Would we take a romantic walk down to Darling Harbour?

Answer: None of the above. The pain of this disaster date is still fresh in my mind (no matter how much comforting banana bread I consume); to explain it in detail would be too much to bear.
Highlights include: Frenchie's room, which he shared with a Japanese girl. Ohh no, I'm sorry - by 'room' I mean an enclosed balcony, divided into two, with sheets pegged together to act as a door. I've seen squatters with better digs. Another highlight was my dinner, which consisted of an apple, as Frenchie 'doesn't really eat lunch or dinner' (no wonder French people are so thin). Throw a socially awkward Korean flatmate, Peter, into the mix: 'You two look like you are going out. Are you going out? Are you going to go and kiss?' (2 minutes after I entered the door). Other high points include misogynistic comments re: girls playing soccer, then viewing a movie on a tiny laptop, followed by watching French man watch French political satire. Even if it was in English I doubt I would've got the joke/cared. After this we viewed something bordering on French porn. When I could take it no longer I threw myself towards the door on the pretext of 'catching my bus.' Which is when he finally tried to hook up with me.

Sorry Frenchie, it's not that I don't get your subtle French humour - it's just that you're a creep. PS I'm pretty sure a bite on the face doesn't constitute French kissing. PPS Wearing socks and sandals is NOT making an effort.