Homegrown vs Foreign: The Joys of Valencian Dating, First-Hand

The butcher from the shop on my street looks like a Dornish prince. I have no idea how old he is — pick any number between twenty-five and fifty, it does not matter. He has colourful tattoos running along his forearms and, whenever he ties on his apron and picks up an enormous, freshly sharpened cleaver, I spend forty minutes choosing beef.

To make matters worse, Alejandro is also a genuinely nice man: he speaks with warmth and respect, tolerates my atrocious Spanish, is kind to elderly customers, and always points the ladies towards the very best cuts for stews and broths.

— If anything comes up, message me on WhatsApp, he says with a dazzling smile, sliding his business card across the counter. With that mighty arm covered in tropical flowers.

Good Lord, I have never eaten so much meat in my life.

And yet, for several entirely objective reasons, I cannot start anything with Alejandro. Firstly, my Spanish is dreadful. Not long ago, I mixed up the words pato and gato and confidently announced that my favourite paella was the one with mushrooms and cat. Imagine what else I might accidentally tell him. Secondly, there is a vast cultural abyss between us.

Which is why I go on a date with Boris instead. He was one of the two hundred men who liked my concise profile on an app for somewhat questionable dating. Like me, Boris is not looking for anything serious, and I have a good feeling about this.

I examine myself in the mirror with the merciless, laser-like gaze of a forty-year-old woman. All things considered, Boris is rather lucky: I have prepared well for this date. I have completed a course of psychoanalysis and know exactly why I hate my mother, my teeth are in excellent condition, and my face is essentially a showroom of the discreet achievements of modern cosmetic medicine. True, I did not manage to book my phototherapy appointment to remove some faint pigmentation, so I apply serum, moisturiser, SPF and foundation. I choose my outfit carefully to look both relaxed and attractive at once. I do not want Boris to think I was nervous or made any particular effort.

Our online interaction had been perfectly typical for this sort of app.

My trainer had recently calculated my BMI, and for a fleeting second, I thought I could save Boris some time by simply forwarding it and sparing him the exhausting arithmetic. To be honest, I would probably have stopped hunting Boris at this stage already, had I not consulted ChatGPT first: apparently, ly such questions are perfectly normal on dating apps because men are visual creatures.

One must make sacrifices in pursuit of the cosy, softly lit atmosphere of finding "one of your own". Visual creatures it is, then.

Boris is lounging comfortably in a half-empty bar; I almost recognise him. Damn it, perhaps visual creatures are not limited to men after all. He is wearing a comfortable, slightly stretched black vest draped over a protruding belly. He smiles at me — or at least I think he does — and immediately launches into stories of emigrant suffering. Boris's tired T-shirt is logically complemented by equally comfortable shorts. He had apparently been expecting not only me, but also a second portion of chicken wings.

I feel like the hero of an old Soviet romantic comedy, sitting across from someone and desperately searching for a detail that might save the evening — or at least justify it. I need something — anything — to latch onto. So far, however, my gaze keeps snagging only on Boris's double chin and his unevenly clipped little nails, with which he deftly grips another greasy chicken wing.

— So, are you divorced? Boris opens with a trump card. I recall my psychologist's brilliant advice — you do not have to answer every question — but at that exact moment, the waiter rescues me. He arrives carrying Boris a pint of beer, and Boris, visibly inspired, immediately redirects all his emotional energy towards the lager.

What follows is an extensive account of Boris's wanderings through Germany on his way to Valencia, the number of countries he managed to visit during this pilgrimage, and a condensed introductory lecture on board games. Not that I had asked about any of it.

— Well, I quite like you, actually, so we could carry on at my place — I have a little flat nearby, Boris continues escalating his impeccable flirtation. — I like older MILFs. By the way, I'm thirty-two. Though honestly, the age gap does not bother me. Oh, sorry,y babe, business call, got to take this.

By this point, the steak on my plate has already gone cold.

So have I.

All I want is to walk into Alejandro's butcher's shop and ask him: how? How do you manage every morning to get that ocean wave sitting perfectly in your hair? Why do you smell so good? Why do you squat at the gym? You are a man — all of this effort could so easily be avoided. Just look at Boris. His phone rings a hundred times more than yours does. Loser.

I make my excuses and walk home along my blooming street, heavy with the scents of spring. Purple jacaranda blossoms and tiny white elderflowers fall onto my unfortunate head.

Oh, damn old Soviet comedies. I think I had better go and learn Spanish instead.