The Dating Game

It was a second date. The first had gone well, really only ending because we both knew we had to work the next day, finishing up with a walk to the tram stop and a polite kiss on the cheek. I'd put it down to him being a gentleman in the old-fashioned sense. On the way home he'd texted to say that he'd had fun, and that we should do it again soon.

So there we were, a little over a week later, meeting up once more. Somehow he brings out other sides of me. I'm normally pretty punctual to anything afternoon or evening (the morning is a whole other story); two dates, two late arrivals. We wended our way to a little Italian restaurant down a lane way, over a bar, and, in light that I later realised was entirely too harsh for anyone trying to impress but feeling a little insecure, we proceeded to discuss the joys of old-fashioned comfort food, the mysteries of public transport, exactly what constituted a hipster and why we would never be one (I disagree, I think he does have a little of the hipster about him, but nothing full-blown, or I never would have agreed to a second date), and various other topics before agreeing to move on to drinks.

Our second venue was the polar opposite of the restaurant we'd eaten in. The restaurant hasn't changed since 1978 when diners were held hostage at gunpoint - maybe earlier, I'm not sure. It was cheap and cheerful at its best. The bar - sorry, cocktail lounge - was an entirely different story. We climbed the stairs in hopes of a table with a view but found ourselves instead with a view only of a canoodling couple, and an epic drinks list. So we talked on, getting through, somehow, a bit of philosophy, gender roles, cultural reinforcement of tradition and suddenly I was on the receiving end of a completely unexpected question.

"So, I'm not sure how to say this," as alarm bells began to ding in my head, "but what are you hoping to get out of this?" Talk about a question without notice. I was left scrambling, trying to assemble an answer that wouldn't scare either of us, something suitably non-committal either way. To buy myself a little more time, I asked for clarification. Out of what? "The whole RSVP process, I guess."

That was a little easier, gave me a little more wriggle room at least. I still wasn't sure how to answer it, but I felt comfortably able to come up with something nice and evasive. "That all depends what I find," I told him, a bit of a giggle attached to break any ice that might have been forming. Time for revenge. "What about you?" I asked, watching him squirm. And squirm he did, attempting to duck and weave, and finally acknowledging that it was a ridiculously awkward question to have asked. But not before dropping something on me that I can't shift from my mind. My evasion was obvious. His was not so much evasion as partial truth, I think, although the lack of certainty has left me over-thinking things ever since.

Because he's not looking for anything serious, he was careful to make clear to me. To the point where he implied that he was just looking for friendship. I wasn't pleased, but I was OK with that. We get along well, I don't have many male friends, and we venture to places that I've never made it to before, by virtue of his touristing (he's not from Melbourne originally.) Sure, there are a few things about him that I'm not sure of (his take on gender roles, for a start, followed closely by his inherent snobbery) but it's nothing that I haven't been exposed to before from friends, and certainly not deal breakers. So although things paused and struggled awkwardly after his question, we stayed put and worked through it. It probably helped that we moved onto another bar soon after.

Several hours later, we were saying our goodbyes. Bearing in mind what he'd said earlier in the night, I wasn't expecting much. My tram was coming and it was close to the last tram of the night, as far as I knew, so a long goodbye was far from my mind. Yet the kiss goodnight was not the friendly, polite kiss on the cheek that I'd half been expecting. It was a little different. The look on his face, and the goodbye as I ran off to board my tram (rather, bus replacement service, but that's a whole other story), suggested that he was surprised I was leaving so quickly. I snuggled down into my seat as the bus pulled out, and, ipod in place, settled in for half an hour of reliving and examining. I still couldn't get to an answer that suited me.

My confusion grew when I was walking into my flat and my phone buzzed with a text. "How is it I didn't kiss you sooner? And why rush off so quickly? Would have quite liked if you'd stayed a little longer." OK, I thought to myself. Nothing serious, but a little bit of fun, potentially to be had. I can see how that might happen, without thinking too much yet about whether I wanted that for myself. Closer consideration would have me saying no, I think. Confusion grew more this afternoon. I somehow found myself in my messages archive on RSVP. His profile has become inactive. I'm pretty sure it was active when I looked in the same place the other day. So somewhere along the line, he's decided to go another way. I just have no idea which way that is, or whether I would want to go the same way.

Why does it all have to be such a muddle? It was all so much more simple before he blurted out that question, when it was just a question of liking each other. Now, with the element of potential commitment also introduced, I'm a long way out of my comfort zone and not entirely sure of the rules of the game. But then, I never really knew the rules of dating in the first place...

Hilton: The 4 star screw up

One of the things we were really looking forward to on this trip was reaching Niagara Falls. Not only were we going to be seeing one of the natural beauties of the world, we had also decided to splurge and stay in the Hilton. It was going to be great; our room was high enough and cost enough that we were going to be having in-room views of both the Canadian and the American falls. We could hear the roar as thousands of litres of water rushed over the edge, we could almost feel the spray. We would be staying in luxury that would put our other accommodations (admittedly, chosen as much for their cheapness as any other criteria) so far into the shade that we would probably be griping about their crapness for the next 4 weeks. Or so we thought.

Because almost from the moment we arrived, I've been questionning whether it was worth all the extra cash. Sure, the views are great. But what do views matter when there is a litany of disaster strewn across the interior?

It started when we first arrived at the door to our room, fully laden with our bags because we were trying to avoid the insane tipping system that sees anybody getting cash out of you, however crap their service. But we couldn't get into the room, because neither of our electronic key cards worked. A trek down to the lobby later, and we could get in. And yes, the view is great, if you discount the enormous Fallsview Casino that splits the two falls, and the car park that partially blocks the view of the Canadian falls. Or the crane that is out to the side, by the corner window, with it's cabin just a floor below ours. It is awe inspiring, and we were suitably gobsmacked. Had that been the only problem, we would have considered our stay enjoyable, in spite of the need to divide the Crabtree and Evelyn toiletries between us, as they hadn't given enough for 2 people to use. But it didn't stop there.

After a trip to the Falls, and many photographs for L, we came back to the room, planning to treat ourselves to room service. This is, after all, an early birthday treat for me, and the only thing that would have completed it more than lazing about in luxury having room service (i.e., having minions wait on my every command) would have been a massage. But getting back into the room once again proved problematic. Because my key still didn't work. Luckily, L's did, and we were in, on the bed, and ordering from the children's menu in no time. When the food arrived, it looked great. L's lasagna was a gooey concoction of cheese, tomato and pasta, just as all good lasagna should be. Mine was a couple of chicken drumsticks with vegetables. The veg was delicious, cooked well and not dripping in oil, unlike many other meals we'd sampled to date. I bit into the chicken, crispy coating flying off the drumstick (I'd thrown caution - and etiquette - to the winds and was eating with my hands by this stage). But something wasn't quite right here. It was too hard to get through the bite. A look at the drumstick revealed why. There was blood oozing along the bone. I've never actually seem chicken that has been cooked do this before. It was stomach churningly vile.

So of course, I called up and got them to bring me a replacement meal. It took a while, as well. Someone came to take the plate away, first, clearly not believing me without seeing for themselves. By the time the new meal came, it was on towards ten o'clock. If I hadn't been starting to feel queasy from the rare chicken, I would have been ravenous, gnawing my own arm. As it was, I was a little wary of the replacement meal and immediately cut into the drumstick, not wanting a repeat. And it was almost as bad, the meat a horrible dark colour that suggested that it hadn't been properly prepared before cooking. So I called them up again to complain. "So you want it well done then?" asked the person on the other end of the phone. Now, as far as I am aware, you don't ever ask how you want your chicken cooked. There is no medium rare for chicken. There is only cooked, or uncooked. And this was clearly the latter. So I just got my money back, a strange hybrid of US and Canadian money that came with an apology and a promise to "tell the cooks". Because clearly, they hadn't been informed that they sent up a chicken that had only just left the coop the last time. By this stage, I was considering myself lucky to not be camped out by the toilet bowl, because I was feeling decidedly unwell.

So I did what seemed reasonable for someone feeling a bit sick. I went to bed and slept the sleep of the exhausted. After all, I had spent the day before reminding L that when she's driving, it's a good idea not to wander across the road, not to steer where you turn your head, and that the Americans drive on what is quite clearly the wrong side of the road. I had also been trying to answer questions that there was no way I could have known the answer to: how does the US/Canada border crossing work? where do I pay the toll? And, as you might expect, I was in a beautiful queen size bed, the perfect amount of support, the perfect pillow configuration. Sleep-wise, it was great. It was only when I woke up again and stepped into the shower that the next screw up hit me.

The shower should have been awesome. It should have made up for any number of pathetic showers along the way. It should have delivered on the border guard's assertion that only the best things are to be found in Canada. But it didn't. Because the thermostatic mixer thing was loose. Because gravity pushing things down. Because the hot setting was at the top of the dial. Because I didn't like being scalded whilst in the shower. Funny, that last one. I have a strange dislike for the sense that my skin is about to leave my body. Probably a similar feeling to what the chicken had as I bit into it's leg. But either way, I've come out of the bathroom and to my computer, still with something of a stomach ache, all steamed up because there's no exhaust in the bathroom either, to sit on my ratty desk chair (like something that the Thistle hotels I was working on in the UK would have discarded long ago as being too worn out, given that you can actually see the padding on the seat), with the TV providing a fuzzy picture reminiscent of the reception you get with the old bunny-ears style aerials, and turned to my blog to work up the kind of righteous indignation I can never manage in person. Because although I plan to go downstairs and complain, and demand to know what they're going to do with me, I'm certain that I will be ineffectual. And that's not right. Because this is supposed to be a treat, staying here. It's supposed to be a bit special. And so far, it's been special for all the wrong reasons.

A lot to answer for

I got very excited in New York over Christmas. There were many reasons for the excitement, but the one that made me stop in my tracks and walk a few steps back to check out a poster on a billboard was the discovery that the writers of The Nanny Diaries have finally gotten around to producing a sequel. This may be news to some - those in the UK, certainly, where it's not destined to land on shelves for another month or so - but to quite a few, it will be no shock. It was out in New York, it was out in Australia, and it made the journey back from Melbourne safely stowed in L's luggage until it was pounced on by me and read in a flash.

It's taken me a little while to digest what I read there. The book was lacking several things, not least of which was the fantastic alliteration of the Harvard Hottie - now he has a name, somewhat disappointingly, and is extremely absent for a large chunk of the book. The years have rolled by faster in Nanny's New York than in the real world, though, and suddenly Nanny is jaded, nostalgic and approaching an early mid-life crisis.

Gone also is the biting but disturbing critique of the wealthy society families. It's not nearly as surprising now to discover the truth behind something Cherry told Ponyboy in The Outsiders a few decades ago: It's rough all over. We've been presented with the dilemma of the rich child who has everything they want except the love and attention of their parents often enough to have become desensitised to it. And if we wanted to know what happens when the children grow up and reach high school, well, we've had Gossip Girl to instruct us on the difficulties of their lives. The parties, the clothes, the dash to spend cash - it's all too familiar.

The difference is that Kraus and Mclaughlin set their novel just as it was all revealed as a sham. They hint at the outcome before the story even begins, with a quote about Bernie Madoff's relationship with his sons. The makings of something a little more serious than the usual chick lit romp are already in place - even if they just re-use the framework from The Nanny Diaries. But somehow, it all falls flat.

Maybe it was me. I've read a whole lot more books with pink covers featuring cartoons of impossibly thin but beautifully dressed girls. I've seen Gossip Girl, and the episodes focusing on what happens when one of the rich bastards gets caught out. But whatever it is, somehow, Nanny just comes across as a little spineless and whiny as she hangs out with her former school mates, swans around town getting paid and enormous amount of cash to do very little, it seems, and fails to stand up for those who deserve it. Nanny, the great defender of the unloved, the champion of the children, has gotten all growed up and lost something in her years living abroad with her world-saving husband.

Still, for any who haven't read it yet, don't take my word for it. Read the follow up to the book that is credited with lifting the lid on Upper East Side Manhattan. Take a peek into the sort of lifestyle we can only dream about. Then follow it up with lashings of Gossip Girl; because really, who doesn't wish that they at least had the option to reject that lifestyle?