I Googled “dating someone who doesn’t speak English as their first language” and I assumed that there would be a modicum of useful information, there wasn’t. Wine and cheese seemed paltry offerings attempting to bridge the gap between our languages, cultures and experiences. Yet, here we were on our first date. I was pretending to like tapas. Who really likes tapas? It’s like pretending to like abstract art; no one really understands it.  I mean maybe if you’ve had a full dinner beforehand or if you’re used to eating Tic-Tacs for entire meals, this type of thing appeals to you. Those over-priced plates are a scam perpetuated on those who pretend to have Epicurean sensibilities. But, I remember, you seemed to like them. In fact, you seemed to love them. You raved about how artistic they were. “Delicious!” you exclaimed with an overemphasized “De” indicating your zeal to pronounce the word correctly as you picked up a piece of toast that appeared to be covered with rabbit food.

A few glasses of white sangria later, I stopped to notice that your smile crept up on the left corner first before it spread across your mouth and twinkled its way into your eyes. And, I liked it. You sounded a little less like Dracula at this point. Your views on the EU, your love of Persian poetry, and your knowledge of obscure theologians impressed me. I wondered what was wrong with you. I remember asking myself over and over again, “Why is he single?” Then I remembered, that I was single too, so I stopped asking. 

You told me inane facts – that you learned to drive here, in the states.  You learned to paint and liked to shop at outlets (like most of the Europeans I know). Who likes outlets anyways? Those overpriced stores are scams perpetuated on those who don’t know how to navigate the world of Internet shopping or TJ Maxx. Then I realized that the stubble on your face reminded me of a Bedouin, in a good, mysterious way. It made me think of bedazzled, magenta silken scarfs draped over low, square dinner tables with oversized cushions, not chairs.

I remember, perhaps most importantly, the story of your coming here.  How 12 years before you were in a camp that exploited the labor of young Eastern Europeans, and how you planned your daring escape. Boy, your accent was sexy.  Your daring escape was only thwarted by your unexpected release. Homeless, with your backpack full, you made your way to the closest big city: Boston. Then I caught you looking at my cleavage and I blushed, but I didn’t mind. So there we were, in the cradle of modern American, two unlike people suddenly without suspicion, and the tapas was delicious. On our second date we went shopping. At the outlets.