Happily Eva After: In praise of remaining rational

Despite a few heady days of allowing my imagination to run wild, at the end of the day, my balanced dating philosophy still held sway.

By EVA
Despite a few heady days of allowing my imagination to run wild, at the end of the day, my balanced dating philosophy still held sway. Here, a paean against Azerbaijani fantasy (photo credit: Courtesy)
Despite a few heady days of allowing my imagination to run wild, at the end of the day, my balanced dating philosophy still held sway. Here, a paean against Azerbaijani fantasy
(photo credit: Courtesy)
It was too good to be true.
I knew it had to be, but I let myself dream.
This in itself was highly irregular.
You see, I’m in my mid-30s, and this isn’t my first time at the dating rodeo. I’ve learned that a burst of initial excitement about a dude usually culminates in nada.
If he seems “just perrrfect” (gush) at first, I really don’t know him at all. Maybe I am seeing him in the light of how I want him to be, maybe his motives aren’t as pure as I think. If he’s suddenly head over heels, well, he doesn’t really know me, either.
All that can be sussed out with the magical ingredient of time, which is why I would rather take everything slow and steady (thus “winning the race” like the fabled tortoise).
I prefer to understand the measure of a man by being together in different situations, over a meaningful progression of dates in a true courtship process – rather than smooching on steeds riding off into a magical sunset after knowing each other for a week or two. (Where do they go after this sunset? I always wondered. 7-11 for a Slurpie? Home to plop on the divan?) Not allowing my imagination to run away with me – no huppa fantasies for this muchacha – and slowing down physical intimacy enables me to assess whether we are building a relationship in a real way, based on shared, lasting values.
But that all went out the window when I went to Azerbaijan.
Azerbaijan, you say? Yes, Azerbaijan, is my rejoinder.
In my role as a writer, I went to cover a conference on the unique history of Jewish life in this former Soviet republic, the resurgence of Judaism in the former Soviet Union and the state of world Jewry as a whole.
It was remote. It reminded me of Borat. It was moving.
It was fun.
It was the perfect state of suspended animation to have a romance.
Samy was presenting at the conference. An executive at a well-known hi-tech company, he was going to speak about Israel’s status as the burgeoning “Start-up Nation.” And he was attractive from the start, when I met him at the airport.
A small group of us who had arrived from Israel needed to catch a shuttle to the (hilarious, Stalinist-bungalow-colony- style) hotel where the conference was being held and where we would be staying over the next few days. We started talking, and I made sure to grab a seat next to him in the minivan.
He lived in Tel Aviv and, playing a bit of Jewish geography, we discovered we had some people in common. I started to feel comfortable – he was a known quantity, in my bizarre Russki surroundings.
Throughout the conference, even as I played Girl Friday and composed articles on the spectacular activity enfolding around me (seriously, it was beautiful to see how much Jewish life meant to these people), I got to know Samy.
He complimented me, telling me I looked great when we ran into each other near the elevator (we were neighbors on the same floor) after I changed out of my grimy flying clothes and into more polished threads. Having been raised for part of his childhood in Moscow, he was fluent in Russian, and translated for me when we took the organized tour of Jewish sites in the area. We laughed at the same random stuff and he bought me hotel coffee in an imperialist china cup for the equivalent of $1. (Side note: One can live like an oligarch on a very limited income there. The coffee even came with a chocolate wafer!) I, in turn, became a star pupil, judiciously attending his workshops, noting how he had mastered the art of public speaking and his weighty material, how good he looked in his suit (when was the last time you saw a man in a suit in Israel?) and how attentively everyone listened, seeking his advice on private ventures and making it in the Jewish state.
Is there anything more attractive than a man who is admired by others? He seemed corporate, successful, serious yet fun, shaking a leg with me at the Kabbalat Shabbat concert – a real man, just like I like ’em. He knew a lot about a breadth of topics – rock groups of the 1970s, kayaking in Barbados, the microeconomics of Bangladesh (I exaggerate only slightly).
He had the wacky facts that kept me interested and the kooky ideas for activities that were right up my alley – at his suggestion, we even went boating in the 1950s paddlers (that I’m sure Khrushchev gave a go) on the muddy lake next to the hotel, as men without shirts enjoyed their vodka and cigarettes on boats next to us (you can’t make this stuff up).
In the artificial world of the conference, I allowed my imagination to run away with me, picturing us getting married and telling the hilarious and improbable story of how we’d met among the Azerbaijani Mountain Jews. We seemed to be building a real connection, and though we were both being casual about how often we were hanging out given the high number of other people to speak to, I was sure I wasn’t imagining it.
I wasn’t. He caught up with me at Ben-Gurion Airport as we were all about to go home. He came out with it in the way every girl wants to hear. “You’re beautiful, intelligent and fun. I really want to see you in a real way at home.”
Swoon. It was like a movie. I happily agreed.
Perhaps we really were on our way to the huppa.
He called me the next night, like the reliable guy I just knew him to be.
“I want to come see you tomorrow night,” he said.
“Yes,” I breathed.
I was excited. Who wouldn’t be? I thought we would go out in town and have a drink under the shimmering moon.
The first wrinkle came as he was running late. Still, he had just gotten back from the trip and had a lot to catch up on. “Totally fine,” I reassured him.
He called when he drove up an hour and a half later. I was getting antsy, nervous and eager to see him. “Do you want me to come outside?” I asked.
“Actually, do you mind if I take a shower at your place?” “What?” I said, thinking I hadn’t heard correctly.
“I’ve had a long, sweaty day, working, driving and roller- blading with my grandmother.” (See, I told you he was kooky.) I didn’t like it. It was too soon to invite him into my home, our first time together on “dry land.” I didn’t want him to see my inner sanctum, and be forced to give him a towel and toiletries.
Who was this person? I was a formal girl, wanting courtship.
I knew he was wacky, but I thought it just extended to jokes and silly activities – not my bathwear. Where was the formal guy I thought I knew? Looking back, I recalled that at one point in the conference, he had voluntarily offered his bongo-drum jamming services to the band. And his points about Maori warriors had seemed somewhat scattered.
Still, I could get past all this. Perhaps he was just folksier than I, who shuns all things shanty.
“Okay,” I stammered. He swept in, gave me a quick hug and complimented my taste in decorating. I handed him a lilac towel, he disappeared into my inner bath chamber, and I was left to stew with my laptop in the living room (far from the shower and any weird scenes).
Hmm. I attempted to collect my thoughts. I would just not think about it, and move on with the evening.
Barefoot in jeans and a T-shirt – no suit this time, that’s for sure! – he joined me half an hour later in the kitchen. A cup of tea would be great, he hinted.
Well, then, we retired to my balcony – something I prefer not to do until at least the fourth date. Adding tehina and crackers, fully taking on the role of reluctant hostess, I tried to enjoy the stars, simultaneously telling him we still should go out and have a drink.
“Oh yes,” he said, happily munching away.
Eventually, after some conversation I don’t really remember, we went to a neighborhood café – it was too late to go into town – and had a glass of wine.
I was still confused but steadily coming to the realization that he was not at all what I thought he was. His hippie, embracing-everyone sensibility extended into an almost Reconstructionist view of Judaism and a fully agnostic view of God (which he had come to after some formidable childhood years in Communist Russia) – anathema to my straightforward view of the Creator and modern Orthodox vision for my life.
In Azerbaijan, everything had been going so swimmingly, it just hadn’t occurred to me to ask about religion. He was from Israel, we were there on a conference about Judaism, he mentioned he didn’t eat pig products – of course he was at least traditional, like so many others I had met.
Back in Israel, I was suddenly seeing him how he really was – and remembering the wisdom of my balanced dating philosophy.
We parted with a chaste peck (finding out I was somewhat observant, he suddenly seemed to think I was almost shomer negia) and the invitation for me to come spend a Shabbat at his yishuv so that “I could really get to know his surroundings,” where they held regular jam sessions, apparently.
“Way too soon,” I thought.
“We’ll be in touch,” I said, smiling forcedly.
It was becoming very clear that my fantasy of a whirlwind courtship spanning continents culminating in happily wedded Jerusalem bliss was not going to be a reality.
Over the phone a few days later, I thoughtfully explained that before we met again, we should acknowledge what I saw as the hard-to-bridge differences in our beliefs.
Like the good guy I knew him to be, he accepted that we were, in reality, poles apart. I agreed with him it was a shame that we, who had so much in common on the surface and so much fun together, couldn’t get past this.
This was true, but I needed to be rational.
I went back to the drawing board.