THE TRAVELING SHOW--Part 2

My date with the Victoria doctor seemed up in the air. Or, more precisely, it was not in the air, with fog grounding his flight. Still, I refused to let distance and weather take away the opportunity to meet a fine man.

I willed the fog away.

And so we met, two and a half hours later than initially planned. As the plane approached the dock, I tried to act casual in meeting my doc. I fought to suppress a sudden image from “Fantasy Island”. Why did I immediately connect to the role of Tattoo, instead of Mr. Roarke? “Ða plane, da plane!” On that old TV show, lonely souls retreated to a quiet resort to ultimately find love forty-eight minutes later. Oh, what a fantasy. Here we were fleeing our quiet paradises attempting to find love (or something like it) in the urban jungle.

As so often happens, reality hit within seconds of sighting my date. It was easy to spot one another. He was the only black man disembarking and I was the only guy with a schnauzer at his feet. Roland walked through the Arrivals gate and the date was DOA.

No attraction.

Damn.

I skipped both hug and handshake, opting for a simple “Hi” instead. Roland smiled, I smiled. Everything was perfectly civil.

Initially Roland had arranged his flights to allow a six-hour visit. I’d tried to be tactful in reply, saying that seemed too long for a first meeting. He dutifully booked an earlier return flight, still leaving almost four hours. I figured we could walk around Stanley Park. Two, three times. Let the dog stop and mark every tree in sight.

The flight delays proved to be a blessing, cutting our time to allow a quick lunch and nothing more. As I drove toward a vegan place I’d discovered in Kitsilano—why not make the most out of this?—he disclosed that he was 54, not 45. “You can take me right back to the terminal if that offends you.” Perplexing, but not offensive. “Guys my age are out of shape,” he continued. “And no one will look at me online if I provide my real age.”

In that moment, my date went from being a no-go to a downer. My fifties are just around the corner. Would even the bad dates dry up? Would I recognize Mr. Last Chance before it’s too late?! Fifty is still thirteen months away. This is my biological clock ticking.

I paid for lunch. It was the least I could do since he’d gone through the expense of flying to meet me and I’d picked a restaurant that he probably didn’t like one bit. He was still in the pleasing mode, telling me the food was “really great” and he’d love to come back again. That’s when it dawned on me that the disinterest wasn’t mutual.

Double damn.

I was perfectly cordial throughout, but the conversation didn’t flow. I close off when I know things aren’t going anywhere. Why invest? Why provide any sort of mixed signals?

In a sense, I was relieved as Roland mentioned a number of things that are clear turn-offs to me. It’s not important to go into details. The point is that this was no longer about a lack of physical attraction. Personality-wise, he wasn’t my type either. Would I have overlooked things if he were Dr. McSteamy? Campaigned for a second date? I’d like to think not, but that’s admittedly an easy thought when McSteamy is a mere hypothetical.

I played the role of timekeeper, intent on getting him on the 5:00 flight and catching my 5:50 ferry. As I drove, he said, “I’d really like to do this again. Would you be up for it?”

Just when I needed an urgent traffic situation to pretend to require all my focus, Vancouver traffic never flowed so smoothly along Burrard Street. I pride myself in always being honest, but I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t glance at the man in the passenger seat and say, “I don’t feel a connection. Sorry.”

I went with a gutless, watered down assent, something like, “I suppose that could be a possibility. It is a lot of travel though.”

From his grin, he took that as a clear yes. I pulled into the drop off zone, gave him an awkward hug while still strapped in the driver’s seat and wished him a nice flight home. As he exited, he said something complimentary about my online photos not lying. He grinned again and was gone.

Driving away, I failed to wave or look back. That final grin lingered. I knew it. I’d felt it before and even flashed it a time or two, the gleeful expression on someone anticipating good things to come. I was wracked with guilt. For the flight home at least, he’d be thinking about our second date. I should have been completely honest. Better yet, I should have done something blatantly buffoonish so he’d not think a second about a second. I was raised too well.

And triple damn.

THE TRAVELING SHOW--Part 1

“I’ve never done this before.” It’s rare for a middle-aged man to say that about anything, but I believed him.

When it comes to dating, I am usually the one with the more extraordinary journey, heading out of the house hours before the agreed upon time and schlepping over to Vancouver via ferry and car. But this time Roland had me beat. He was flying in.

When Roland first messaged me on Plenty of Fish, I was immediately skeptical. I replied by saying I was a ferry ride away from Vancouver and two ferries away from his home on Vancouver Island. But rather than going to fade out, Roland responded by suggesting we meet in Vancouver, a halfway point of sorts—I’d go the familiar ferry route while he planned to arrive by float plane.

Well, okay. I must admit that the set-up sounded romantic. I pictured us as one of those older couples in the vignettes of “When Harry Met Sally.”  He came by plane, I came by boat. What’s a little distance?

But, of course, that is getting several decades ahead of myself. We still had to get through the first date.

I had reason to be optimistic. At the very least, Roland had impeccable timing. His initial message came right after I stumbled upon my adorable and definitely taken family doctor on a trip to Whistler. The encounter had thrown me into a fit of envy and a whiny state of unfulfilled entitlement. Why can’t I find me a gentle, hunky doctor?

Roland just so happened to be a doctor. More importantly, he’d written a thoughtful profile and was articulate in his messages. (By contrast, another would-be suitor who first messaged me within five minutes of Roland, ends every run-on sentence with “he he he”, “ha, ha, ha” or a should-be-forever-banned-from-all-discourse “LOL.”)

Our date was supposed to be a week ago, but Roland cancelled when friends from Calgary showed up. At the time my mind naturally went to “The Brady Bunch”. Remember that episode when Greg advised Marcia to back out of a date by saying, “Something suddenly came up”? No?! Am I the only one whose childhood was shaped by syndicated sitcoms? Such a shame...

The week’s delay gave me too much time to think. As much as I repressed our “When Harry Met Sally” cameo, I couldn’t help but entertain the idea of dating a doctor in Victoria. He’d fly to me, I’d fly to him. Would they allow my dog on the float plane? I barely held it together aboard large aircraft; how would I handle being on a wobbly toy plane? Every dream has a little turbulence.

I checked my messages when I woke up, bracing for another something suddenly coming up. Nothing. The date was on.

I took an early ferry in so I could meet up with my friend Ron at a farmers’ market. As much as Ron and I have in common, I don’t talk to him about dating. He is completely indifferent on the subject. In the eighteen years I’ve known him, he has never been in a relationship, has never groused about men or pined for a date. As far as I can tell, his one true love is sushi. So when I casually told him what I was doing later on, I was taken aback by his enthusiasm. “Oh, that’s great! A doctor! From Victoria!” And that’s when it became clear that, while I was excited about a guy, he was more enthused about a dead queen. “It’s perfect! I can come visit you guys! Victoria!” Fortunately, Ron’s mind (and stomach) drifted to other matters. On the ride back to Ron’s, he downed an entire bag of fresh cherry tomatoes. “These are the sweetest tomatoes I’ve ever had! I have to go back for more. They’re amazing! This is the highlight of my week!” That’s when it dawned on me that Ron was cheating on sushi.

Distraction over, I headed to the float plane terminal. Long-range visions were replaced by imagining our first moment. What should I say? Would a handshake be too formal? A hug too friendly? Coffee dates were so much easier. I always arrived early, got my coffee and settled in a booth.

As I idled at a traffic light, my phone rang. The screen displayed a Victoria number. Roland called to say his flight was delayed due to fog in Victoria. Subsequent calls and texts kept me apprised of further delays and cancellations. Finally, he texted, “Should I give up?”

Where’s the romance in that? I let him know that my dog and I were content sitting at Kits Beach, with me starting a new book and the pooch enjoying some prime butt sniffing. Fog schmog. This was one medical appointment I would will to happen.