Internet Interaction - Year Abroad #3

Next up on Inter:Mission: a bit of an experiment...

After almost 2 months on my year abroad, I decided that I would stop leaving my love life up to the Gods, and I would take matters into my own hands. No more waiting for Jean-Pierre to step around the corner in his stripy shirt and beret and take my breath away, it was time to get proactive. After thinking through my options briefly, and overhearing a conversation between colleagues, my mind was made up; online dating.

I think attempting online dating is the perfect example of something that has captured my year abroad spirit. I can’t imagine that I would create any such profile in the UK, predominantly through fear of cyber-running into someone that I know, but when in France my self-judgement seems to go a bit hazy. I can always say that I did it for an article anyway… Justification out of the way, a bit of research led me to the most popular French online dating website, ‘adopteunmec.com’ or as we could translate, ‘adopt a guy’.

As the title suggests, the website is heavily focused on girls having all the power. While men pay 30euros for the privilege of a picture of themselves and a couple of descriptive sentences, girls get the service free of charge. Not only do men have to pay, but in order to send a girl an email, the girl has to ‘accept their charm’ before one word can be exchanged. I like the sound of this already, no creepy 50 year olds asking you if, ‘you have ever been with an older man’ (apparently that happens). The site continues to amuse with  sections such as ‘sales’ where you can find the ‘best’ guys easily under categories such as ‘geek chic’ and ‘sporty’. My favourite aspect has to be the option to, ‘add to cart’ when you find a man you’d like to chat to, so it is basically just like being on Asos.com (more justification you see). The attention to detail on the site really makes the whole experience quite agreeable, although perhaps more so if you’re a girl…

Without a care in the world, I set up a profile indicating my Erasmus status and a photo chosen by Slovak (read my previous article to find out more about him). It was worryingly easy, within 5 minutes my photo had been approved and I was starting to feel a sense of that phrase Miley has us all arguing over, ‘female empowerment’. Flicking through images of 21-26 year old men within 50 kilometres of Bordeaux, I couldn’t quite escape the feeling that I was being horrendously shallow, but perhaps that’s the point of girl power.

After a necessary cull of many of the ‘charms’ and an addition of a second photo, the seemingly more normal guys began to surface. A few ‘bonjour, ca va?’ messages later and I already have a date night set up with a guy whose profile picture has him holding a puppy. Assuming that it will be a disaster, I really have very little faith, I’ve asked Slovak to ring me an hour into the date to ensure I’m safe. No doubt I will be back at my laptop keyboard shortly writing about how disastrous the whole thing was… I do hope he brings the puppy though. 

Dangerous Domestics - Year Abroad #2

My second column for Inter:Mission, this time I decided to talk about moving in with strangers...

When you make the decision that you want to live with other people (rather than in a studio flat) on your year abroad, you put your hand into a lucky-dip of unknown personalities. You may create future friendships that are to last, or you could find yourself slap bang in the middle of disaster. When you decide, as I did, to live in an Erasmus flat where the people change every few months, you are multiplying that risk by 10 and adding a pinch of communication trouble into the melting pot too.

When I first moved into my 4 bedroom, ‘this’ll do’ apartment in Bordeaux, the first person I met was a lovely Austrian girl studying French in the city. We immediately hit it off, chatting about lots of things we had in common and about how beautiful Bordeaux was. Perfect, at least I’ll have one friend. Not so, she soon informed me that she was in her last week, and she didn’t fail to add that the other guy, a Slovakian, was an interesting personality.

She was right, the Slovakian guy was an interesting personality. Although rather charming, especially if you’re into the Russian/eastern European accent, I soon discovered that he was affording his travels through blogging. ‘How interesting, I like to blog too. What do you blog about?’ He has 100 webpages apparently, and one of the most prominent money-makers focuses on a lovely group of 5 English boys called One Direction. Ah. The second eyebrow was raised when I asked his age and he responded that it is a, ‘secret that even my ex-girlfriend doesn’t know’. Of course I headed straight to Facebook, (I’m slowly discovering that an obsession with Facebook stalking is a decidedly English attribute) and after much searching of birthday posts and graduation years, the most I could deduce is that he’s older than 33. He still won’t tell me.

The next to enter my flat of eclectic eccentricities was a French girl who couldn’t understand a word of French that either Mr Slovak or I said. Although I am well aware that my French is not perfect, it is at least comprehensible. Whether I was confused, insulted or mildly irritated, her bedtime of 8pm on the second evening told me everything I needed to know about the longevity of our friendship (or lack thereof). Even Slovak said he didn’t fancy her, and that’s saying something.

Despite the mystery of an Erasmus flat, I truly believe that my year abroad is designed for experiences like this and I love it. When else will I get the opportunity to learn about different cultures so intensely and be able to shout Britain’s praises to others? ‘The Olympics was just such a huge success, you see’. Also, my room has a lock. That helps.

You can find the original article on Inter:Mission Bristol here.

A Disastrous Date - Year Abroad #1

I have started a fortnightly column on the fantastic website Inter:MIssion Bristol where I'm going to bare my soul and talk about some of the embarrassing things that happen on year abroads. My first piece is all about a date that went disastrously wrong...

Image: bizeminervois

After 1 month in the wilderness, I decided that it was just about time to dive head-first into finding my Jean-Pierre. By that, I mean the stereotypical year abroad boyfriend; floppy hair, sickeningly romantic but not quite interesting enough for it to last the long distance after you leave. I should point out here, for interest, that we were advised to invest in such boyfriends by Bristol; apparently it will be ‘wonderful for our language skills’. Perhaps invest is not the right word.

Upon making my decision, there were many things to be considered. Should I fancy someone at the office? Should I take to one of my roommates? Should I join an online dating website? Alas, I apparently decided the best option was to meet a man at 3am in a promising location…in the street. I should definitely mention at this point that I wasn’t actually drunk, nor he, but I accept that it’s not the most romantic of scenarios. Well, anyway, it gets worse.

After agreeing to go on a date with this boy, we exchanged numbers and each headed our own way. After multiple triple texts, a Facebook add and a doubling up of those excessive texts as Facebook chats, it began to dawn on me that the street might not have been the best place to meet someone. ‘Don’t be so judgemental’ I told myself, ‘he might not be that bad’. He was that bad.

Our date night was set, we were to meet on the steps of the beautiful Bordeaux Grand Theatre. As I left my flat, allowing myself the perfect time to be between 5 and 10 minutes late, I heard my phone ring. Apparently he was 15 minutes early; he just wanted to let me know. Not too strange, but not normal date night etiquette I would suggest.

After meeting and having the mandatory awkward not-sure-which-side-to-kiss-first hello that so often happens in France, we headed off in a direction that I assumed was to find a bar. Not so. He thought it was appropriate to take me to his hotel room, he’d bought a bottle of wine apparently. After seeing the sheer panic on my face, we agreed to change his plans and head for an Irish pub, in a public location, where there are other people.

If I hadn’t had enough blinkingly obvious deal-breakers already, now came the explosive bomb that finally blasted away my naivety. ‘So what do you do for a living?’ I asked politely, ‘Oh, I sell sex toys’ he responded casually. I was momentarily amused to find out that apparently the word for ‘sex toys’ is the same in French, but then realisation dawned on me; this embarrassingly keen, wildly inappropriate vibrator vendor was not going to be my Jean-Pierre. Time to make my excuses and leave.

You can find the original article on Inter:Mission Bristol here.

If only...