The Joys of Valencia Dating, Part Two: A Spaniard Named Raúl and a Married Man with Tuesday Slots

After the last column on dating in Valencia, La Cotorra's social media became a space for debate: readers discussed everything — from journalistic ethics to spiritually impoverished men. The author, meanwhile, didn't waste time and continued studying the local dating market. Here's what came of it.

Last Tuesday I had a first date with a Spaniard named Raúl. We strolled a little along the promenade, and then sat down for a glass of wine at a bar on the beach. The soothing hum of Patacona, warm sand in my sandals. Everything seemed to be going quite well until I asked Raúl, "How are things?" What's new and interesting with you?

Raúl broke into a broad smile and answered the question. In detail, he answered. From his story,y I understood a great deal. In short, some aunt or uncle, either thirty-five or fifty years old, had come to visit Raúl, and they had something hurting in the back area, and then something amusing happened. Exactly what, Raúl repeated several times in different words, and the third time around, I laughed. Just in case. "Do you understand?" Raúl asked anxiously. Fixing what I thought was a natural smile on my face, I nodded away. Of course I understand. Just partially. There were times, my friend Raúl, when I wouldn't even have understood the phrase "do you understand," so yes — that is, sí. I understand, I understand all too well.

And so the date flowed into a listening-comprehension exercise on new material. I can't say I passed it without remarks. But Raúl didn't perform perfectly either.

— So,o where are you from, by the way? — he asked.

— Byelorussia, — I answered.

— Oh! Russia! — Raúl perked up. — Na zdorovye! — and reached over to clink his beer against my albariño.

At this point in the date with a local, I realised that to spar over sensitive topics I'd need to brush up on my subjunctive and learn a couple of Spanish swear words.

Once home, I paid for a Duolingo subscription and sent my tutor a desperate message. For now, though, while my love life with Spaniards keeps running into the language barrier, I ought to give my fellow citizens another chance.

I have to admit that by 2026 my list of wishes had shrunk considerably. Because of the constant uncertainty, worry, and anxiety that now fill my everyday life, I can't handle so-called serious relationships anymore. So the image of the man I'm looking for has been simplified: someone attractive with whom I'll at least have fun.

Drawing a deep breath into my lungs, I went back into the dating app.

Witty descriptions, attractive quotes, engaging light flirtation in men's profiles. Yes! It was all here! In Barcelona and a bit further north. Valencian men, on the other hand, preferred squatting photos and the "flame" emoji instead of all that nonsense. "Let's not waste my time or yours on messaging," they sternly warned. How could you not agree?

Finally, a certain Anton came online — a 43-year-old mysterious stranger in a checked shirt that pleasantly hugged what was, presumably, his six-pack. Anton's profile had a quote from "Hedgehog in the Fog," and I couldn't walk on by—a like for Anton and for the hedgehog.

We're sitting in a coffee shop tucked away from all the central streets, one whose existence I hadn't even known about. My companion chose it. As it turns out, Anton is married, and our mind-blowing, whirlwind romance will, by his proposal, unfold on Tuesdays, from 1:30 PM to 3:00 PM.

Anton assures me this time will be more than enough for me, and asks sternly:

— Shall I book you in for next week?

Without waiting for my answer, he continues:

— Usually I prefer women of about twenty-five, well, thirty at most, — Anton says, peering without enthusiasm at my forty-year-old face. — But unfortunately, problems start with them quickly, — Anton sighs heavily.

— What kind? — I politely enquire.

Anton rubs the slightly thinning little hairs standing vertically on his forehead and gives a predatory smirk.

— Well, they fall in love and start wanting to marry me, — he reports with pleasure.

Well no, I can't get myself involved in that, pal. As it happens, my Belarusian passport is expired, and somehow, even in this situation, that's rather a plus.

Yes, in emigration, I'm prepared to make all sorts of compromises, but now I myself am a compromise solution for someone! I hurriedly make my way back from my meeting with Anton. I'm overcome with mixed feelings. Gradually I realise that I feel surprisingly good and pleasant — above all, because the date with Anton is over.

Maybe dating isn't for me at all?

Getting ready, getting nervous, sitting opposite an absolutely random person and trying to get to know them in half an hour to an hour — it's an awful and pointless stress.

I hurry to share this revelation with yet another guy who has been persistently messaging me on the app for several days now.

— Agreed, — he replies, out of nowhere. — Dates are a complete drag. And the word's a bit silly too.

Today, my guest is Mark — a board-game lover and a person who hates dates just as much as I do. We're sitting on the floor by my games console, eating pizza that I ordered myself. The finale of The Boys is on the telly, and our curses at the screenwriters ring out almost in unison. My cat doesn't shy away from Mark, and at last,t I have someone to battle it out with in Split Fiction on two controllers. Mark gets up and washes up after himself (and me).

Everything would be fine if not for one "but" — my new friend is 27 years old. I wonder: is an age gap like this already normal now, has the world changed, so that I can date a younger guy without society judging me? Although in any case, we're not dating, just eating pizza.

Mark has long, long eyelashes that cast a faint shadow on his cheeks.

And he also has a bike.

He talks about it all the time, when he isn't chewing.

The bike, the bike, the mountain bike.

— Shall we go for a ride? — he says.

From the context, it seems clear that this is about the bike, but I discreetly Google the phrase so as not to end up in a Raúl-2 situation. This is yet another foreign language, with its OP characters and MILFs, that I know only partially. Well, let's see where all this leads!

I think I'll go and hide all the creams labelled Antiage from the bathroom shelf.