MAKE ME LAUGH

Funny guy.

 

Makes a damn good first impression. I’d forgotten that. Heck, thanks to COVID, I’d forgotten any kind of first impressions. 

 

I’d spotted Evan’s profile on a dating site—no, not this one—in December after expanding my search range since there was a paucity[1] of men from Vancouver with profiles. Evan lives in Seattle. Doable. The city, I mean.

 

So often guys fail to elicit any interest in their profiles due to a lack of photos. Posting a single shot is suspect. Like maybe he had one good day in 2008 and the photo turned out to be spectacular. It doesn’t even look like me! (Not even back in 2008.) Other times, a guy will post a photo of a mountain or a pyramid. (Vegas? Giza? In this case, does it matter? I don’t fantasize about dating a mummy.) Sometimes, the guy is actually in the shot. Tiny. Size of an ant. It was really important to get the whole mountain in frame. I could go on and on about guys’ profile pics. Bottom line: do better, dudes.

 

Evan was not photo-challenged. Nine pics, himself the main subject of each one. 

 

Evan’s photo gallery showed personality. A true character. Evan in cowboy gear. Evan in leather (not kinky, but another version of a western look). Evan on a hike. Evan on an Alaskan glacier. Evan flashing an impish grin. Evan at the beach, shirtless. (It’s the beach after all and, yes, it’s a nice look.) Every shot was arty. The man knew how to present himself. I’m not one for leather—my standard line is, “I’m a vegetarian”—and I fled Texas after eleven years, needing distance from All Things Cowboy, but to each his own. What struck me was this guy oozed style and after so many dates with guys showing up in a Batman t-shirt or sweaty gear after coming from the gym, style warranted a message.

 

The next day I had eleven messages from Evan. Okay, I realize that can sound creepy, but it wasn’t. Evan, like my friend Katrina, is one of those people who presses Send after every separate thought. In this context, Evan’s flurry of messages was a stand-out. A man willing to express eleven thoughts at the outset. This goes so far beyond the standard “Hey man” or “Thanx 4 the msg how r u”.

 

We exchanged messages off and on over the next three and a half months and, as COVID numbers started to go down again, I decided a road trip was in order. Meeting Evan was a catalyst, but I’d been missing the Oregon Coast as well as craving more time in my old haunts in Seattle and Portland so all the better. After booking places to stay, I let Evan know of my upcoming two days in Seattle.

 

He’d be in New York for work.

 

Work sucks.

 

What happened to all that working from home business?

 

Still, since this trip had very little nothing to do with Evan, I opted not to postpone plans by a week and had a truly amazing time. I’m someone who needs to travel. 

 

All was not lost on the Evan front. I would have to drive through Seattle again as I returned from Portland. We agreed to meet for a drink. Perhaps it was inauspicious that I showed up a couple of minutes early and the bar was closed for a private event…someone’s memorial. That felt like the gods were making a point of going beyond spilled salt, broken mirrors and walks under ladders. I might have to chug my drink and flee, saying something about long border waits as I pushed the toddler standing between me and the exit.

 

Evan showed up, wearing denim and a stressed caramel leather jacket, flashing his grin and within thirty seconds I was laughing. It wasn’t even a block to the change-of-plans margarita destination—chugging and fleeing would not be very responsible—but I filled most of that space of time continuing to laugh. It was an easy back and forth. I’d like to think my banter was as breezy and amusing as his. 

 

In arranging where to meet, I’d suggested coffee, but Evan had indicated he’d need a drink because he’d be nervous. I’d texted back, duly lowering his expectations, saying I don’t make people nervous. It’s not even possible. True, but perhaps a self-sabotage in the realm of self-promotion. All my in-person giddiness led Evan to comment that I was the nervous one. Nope. When I get the giggles, they stick around. Rather than nervous, I was instantly at ease with Evan. (He still thinks I was nervous.) 

 

It’s entirely possible that Evan could say something mundane like “Today I saw a bird with wings,” then punctuate it with a grin and I’d crack up. I have no idea if others find Evan funny, but he’s hysterical to me. Let me be his laugh track.

 

The quick drink lasted five and a half hours. Yes, lots of laughs, but also plenty of serious conversation as well. We clicked. 

 

I don’t know what, if anything, will come of us. Last week I officially abandoned my ten-year quest to move back to the United States. Seattle’s a three-hour drive on a good day, five on the not-so-good (and more typical) days—a tunnel, a border wait and ridiculous Seattle traffic lie between us. I saw a couple of red flags regarding Evan. Then again, I don’t think there is a single gay man in his fifties who doesn’t have a few fiery banners flapping in the wind behind him. I openly shared several of mine as well. Not something I’d do on a first date with a local boy but, with the distance between us, why not put everything on the table? If I’m too much, I’ll at least save myself a couple of trips. Gas ain’t cheap these days.

 

It’s two days later and the feeling of joy remains. We’re still texting so the red flags aren’t death knells (yet).

 

Funny guy. 

 

Maybe we have wings, too.

 

 

 

---

[1] Ooh, I’d forgotten how much I love this word. Haven’t used it in ages but it just popped up. Welcome back.

CONFLICTING SIGNALS

Now I’m getting dating advice from traffic signals. Everyone—everything!—has an opinion.

I pressed the knob to trigger the pedestrian WALK message and Mr. Button blurted, “Wait! Wait!” 

It was stating the obvious, but this was a traffic signal after all. In real life, we can’t expect to go deep like the electronic freeway billboard that sagely supported Steve Martin in “L.A. Story”. (I’ve tried but the electronic sign closest to me is one-track minded: BUCKLE UP. IT’S THE LAW.)

At least Mr. Button was on point. It’s true. I absolutely should wait. In two months, I’ll be back in Vancouver. There will be other single gay men. I may be interested in a few. And there’s always a chance that one might be interested in me.

It could happen. And that’s a thought I’ve never been able to reasonably think in the ten years I’ve been under rural arrest.

But I was still feeling the sting from a recent Seattle coffee date that went bust. Yeah, yeah. It should not have been a surprise. I’ve been going on these meet-and-greets for years, with no lasting luck. Seattle men, Vancouver men. It’s getting to the point where I can’t keep blaming them. I’m starting to think it must be the coffee. Yeah, that’s it. I should switch to tea.

I tried not to get too excited in anticipation of meeting Steve. Sure, his online profile was impressive, as were his messages. The guy could communicate in whole sentences, even paragraphs. Such a rare find! And, on a shallow note, his photos revealed a handsome, fit 52-year-old man—most notably in his shirtless selfie. Woof!

He did not disappoint when I met him in person. If anything, he dazzled more. I’m not a beard guy but the look suited him. And his blue eyes hooked me every time I gazed at him. Simply put, Steve was stunning. Even better, he could carry on a conversation. My profile jokes, “Save your monologues for Letterman” and he took it to heart. It was a very natural back-and-forth. I laughed and smiled without force. He made me feel completely at ease. Without a doubt, I knew this had been a great first meeting.

Early in the conversation, Steve startled me, saying I was “genetically blessed”. As we hugged and went on with our separate plans for a Sunday afternoon, he referred again to my biceps and my chest. I shrugged it off. “I’m a late bloomer. The bulk has only come in recent years.” He ogled away. Flattering, not creepy.

And yet I left and formed an adversarial relationship with a traffic signal. Something went wrong. Really, nothing.

Except for one fundamental, immutable factor. Steve had made it clear that he wanted to pursue a relationship with a local guy. In his messages, he’d mentioned passing on a man who lived but an hour away. Vancouver, with a border wait, well, it was never going to be.

Too far. And I knew this was as far as it would go. Within an hour after coffee, he sent me the crushing confirmation:

It was so nice to meet you. Sincerely, I enjoyed my conversation with you and my time. You are a beautiful man and I mean that both inside and out...nice to come across and yes, if you were in Seattle, I would definitely have gone out with you. ;-)

If.

Location, location, location. Steve is all too rational. Somehow I’d hoped. If I were somehow dazzling, he’d be border blind. Whatever happened to Anything for You? Alas, one coffee cannot dazzle, no matter how buzzed one might get.

No dazzle; just fizzle. This is a hard one to take. I’ve had many a coffee date where I thought I clicked with a guy and then he vanished. And I’ve had many more where the lack of clicking was indisputable. But here we did click. It was not a twisted figment of my imagination. It was real. It was mutual. And it was not enough.

And so, as Mr. Button advises, I must, “Wait! Wait!” Not for Steve. My visa application with U.S. Immigration will not be processed for years. Instead, I have two months to go until I move back to civilization. Maybe there’s a guy in Vancouver.

I wait because I have to. It’s already been eleven years since I’ve been in a relationship of any significance. What’s two more months? I should be accustomed to the loneliness and the complete lack of affection or intimacy. Of course, I’m not.

For now, I’ll head back home to the land of solitude. There are no pedestrian traffic buttons to offer further advice. I shall appreciate that silence at least.

And I shall spend the next day or two ruing what might have been if I lived in Seattle.

If only.

RUNNING FOR THE BORDER...AGAIN

“Why would you go all the way to Seattle to write?”

Nosy border guard. If I had my choice, it would be Tuscany. Someday, I’ll be an odd reincarnation of Diane Lane in “Under the Tuscan Sun”. Writers do get restless. He’d never understand.

But then writing is not so much the focus this weekend. I could have told him the truth, but I went with my hunch and didn’t.

“Why would you go all the way to Seattle for a coffee date?”

Buzz off, dude! I might have said worse. And then I’d be banned from crossing. I’ve heard about this sort of thing happening. Canadians are supposed to be unwaveringly polite. When we’re not, it’s noteworthy. Drastic action is required. Hence, the ban.

No more writing in Washington. Or dating.

Nosy or not, I had to answer the border guard. He was new on his shift and I’d seen him lurking outside the booth, waiting to his predecessor to clear. I’m pretty sure I saw a gun. And so I explained that I’m writing a novel wherein coffee in a central component, almost a character. Seattle is research.

“Good luck,” he said, waving me on. Okay, maybe not so nosy, just curious. Looking for a way to spice up his shift, a mundane ordeal of ushering hordes of Canadian bargain shoppers through.

I’ll take the Good luck. And I’ll apply it to my writing—and, of course, to the undisclosed long-distance date. I’ll need it.

This is my third Seattle date in as many months. No repeats. To review, the first guy was geeky charming. We hit it off. The date went on for hours as we strolled quirky Fremont. After some back-and-forth messages the following week, he vanished. Maybe he was hit by a bus. Maybe my last “back” will finally get a “forth” when he comes out of his coma. I’ve seen Sandra Bullock in “While You Were Sleeping”. They do come back. And I know I can stay clear of the brother. My geeky guy’s family is in Michigan.

The second guy was the forty-one-year-old coming off a hangover. Graduated from university but never left the frat house. He needed the coffee far more than the conversation.

So, really, it is ludicrous to keep going back to Seattle. I do know that. In truth, I haven’t had a weekend excursion in a month and I’ve been looking for an excuse. If the date is another dead end, then there’s a chance to getting in some quality writing time.

The border guard will want a progress report.

 

DANGLING DELIGHTFULLY

There's a temptation to Google everything. Why let a question go unanswered? Used to be that a random wondering could die in the middle of a conversation.  No lingering harm in not knowing what Karen Valentine is doing these days...or if she's even still alive. And the day could proceed just fine without confirmation about whether Phil and Marlo got divorced. In fact, I'm happy not knowing. Let the talk move on. Googling takes time. It interrupts the flow. Sometimes knowledge is overrated.

I cringe when a date pulls out his iPhone. It breaks the intimacy and serves as a reminder of waiting text messages, tweets to read, Facebook posts to "Like". Pressing personal business.

But I may have actually been turned on when he fished in his pocket and pulled out his device. (Yes, I’m still talking about a cellphone.) With his eyes focused on the teeny screen, I snuck a better look at his arms, his hair and, yes, his body as he typed, "What is a dangling participle?"

This was not your average first date conversation. I’d repressed my odder conversational openers like “I’ve noticed a commendable absence of gum on Seattle sidewalks” and “Don’t you feel sorry for that troll sculpture under the bridge? Doesn’t he deserve a companion?”

It was Evan who brought up annoying spelling errors. He sought a refresher on its versus it’s. I provided a succinct explanation. He then he asked the question du Google. I answered but blanked on an example. And so he searched: What is a dangling participle?

And right then and there, I was his.

If he wanted me, that is.

And maybe he did. We moved beyond grammar—right after I provided a mini-lesson on prepositions. (Yes, he asked. I swear.)

Our first coffee date lasted three hours. Eventually, we spilled out of the café and strolled through parts of Seattle’s peculiar Fremont neighborhood. By the water, he pointed out the house he thought Tom Hanks’ character lived in “Sleepless in Seattle”.

Seriously?! Just the day before, I’d snapped pics of a Seattle beach that I’d thought might have been the place where Meg’s character spied Tom’s character playing with his son. And, yes, elsewhere I’d photographed a couple of seaside homes I surmised could have been where Tom’s character lived. For someone else to bring up a Meg Ryan romantic comedy, well, maybe there is such a thing as fate. And maybe I don’t have to lurk atop the Empire State Building.

He described the peaks of a nearby mountain range as looking like they’d been created by Dr. Seuss. Again, I’d had Seuss on my mind the day before as I snapped shots of colorful churnwazzits and crankbangoozles at Gas Works Park. Elsewhere, I’d spotted a part of a train trestle that had to be the cousin of the infamous Snort from Are You My Mother?

Nobody—NOBODY!—connects with me on these terms.

Smitten, indeed!

What will come of this? Who knows? He’s in Seattle, I’m kinda sorta Vancouver-adjacent. But then Meg’s Annie pined for more in Baltimore and Tom’s Sam suffered insomnia in Seattle. I’d like to believe they found lasting love. Maybe this could turn into something. We’ve got a quirky beginning. Oh, the places we might go!  

BUILDING A WEEKEND

I have a date. In Victoria. That’s not very practical. It’s a two-ferry trip plus a fair amount of driving. So is a coffee with a guy I don’t know worth it?

Who knows?

True enough, the coffee date was the beginning point. But the stakes are too high when you go through all that bother for a single purpose. How good can the latté be? The date is part of my new Go for It attitude. Just do things. If it gets to the point of working out the details, so be it. If not, so what?

I am always looking for an excuse to explore Vancouver Island and, especially, Victoria. Victoria and I have a love affair of sorts that is just waiting for the right circumstances to bloom into something bigger. I took the dating opportunity and made it something bigger. Time for another weekend in Victoria!

I am making it a grander experience this time around. Forget that ferry madness. I am taking a float plane to Nanaimo, then renting a car and driving south to the city. Given that I have a decades-old fear of flying, hopping in a teeny tiny aircraft is sheer craziness. But I’m doing it. And, at this point, a few minutes before takeoff, I am more excited than nervous. Adventure!

Who is this guy who has taken over my body?

I’ve Googled bakeries and ice cream shops to sample on the drive down and in Victoria. I plan to stop at my favourite furniture store on the highway. (I don’t need anything, but a browse seems safe. I don’t think they can fit in a sofa on the return flight.) I have a favorite running route along the water that I look forward to doing Sunday morning. And then there’s a café I discovered during my last visit that will be my breakfast stop. Pan-fried oatmeal with lemon curd and blueberries. Amazing! My backpack has some choice reads along with my beloved laptop. It’s going to be a glorious weekend!

So much more than coffee with a stranger. I’m ready to soar!

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.

UP IN THE AIR

Yes, now what?

I'm in the air once more, somewhere north of Sault Ste. Marie, wondering if it might have been better if I'd discovered one of those Seinfeldian insurmountable flaws in Michel. Over the course of five days of rushed meals bookended by a couple of more leisurely dates, I only grew more attracted to the man and, from what I can tell, it was one of those rare occasions when the feeling was mutual.

I'm tempted to search out that old Alan Alda-Ellen Burstyn movie, "Same Time Next Year" for some fictional guidance and an affirmation that I've uncorked a possible date with Destiny rather than Desperation. It had better be more than an annual fling. Already my head is trying to figure out if once a month might be possible. Highly unlikely as I begin a new, (almost) all-consuming job in a week's time.

This wasn't supposed to happen. When I left L.A., I did so after falling in love twice. On each occasion, I gently persisted—is that even possible?—with pitching a move to anywhere in Canada. (Surely, now that he'd fallen under my spell, he'd follow me anywhere, right?) After these relationships fell apart (for reasons other than my Canadian leanings), I decided I needed to move to the place I loved before finding the man I loved.

How was I to know I'd strike out in Vancouver? (There was, ahem, that seven-year disaster of a relationship, but I try to block that as much as possible.) I still love the natural beauty of the city and its diversity, but it's been the most challenging place I've ever lived when looking at the social front. I'm fortunate that Michel is Canadian, but I thought my "anywhere in Canada" plea had expired.

We met up in Ottawa, but he's from Toronto. Can I live there? I grew up in Hamilton until I was thirteen, but I've never explored T.O. as an adult. I know it as the home of the CNE, the Maple Leafs, the Blue Jays and the Ontario Science Centre. I've long outgrown these attractions. How can I ever abandon the Canucks? How will I follow them in the land of Leafs-Senators-Canadiens fans?

Yes, I know. Breathe. I really shouldn't be thinking about who's moving where at this point. But there is also that haunting notion that we might meet halfway and settle down in...Saskatoon? Winterpeg?! Brandon?!! I am breathing, but now it's that choppy hyperventilating kind. I've set the Air Canada barf bag on my lap just in case. Does breathing into a paper bag really help? What will the beer-swilling, shoulder punching, armpit sniffing frat boys beside me think? (Frat boys. Really?! I'm starting to think that, when making seat selections online, there should be Twitter profiles for each of the "Occupied" seats. We have the technology. Wouldn't that make traveling more pleasant? Gosh, I might have a better chance of a row of seats to myself. My bio would read: Depressed, mid-forties Wal-mart stockboy; Rubik's Cube fanatic; just divorced and BITTER; lacking in flatulence control.)

When you live in the same city as a new beau, slow but steady is possible. But how do you put the kibosh on "WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING?!" when each date requires a security check, a photo ID and one checked item of luggage? (Sorry, I'll never fit everything in a carry-on. So many possible weather changes across three time zones, you know. Forecasts can be wrong.)

Michel tells me he's due for a trip to Vancouver. One of his best friends lives in New West. What's the "due" date? September? October? I didn't press.

Maybe that major flaw will surface in a Welcome Home email. Oui, Michel, we'll always have Ottawa. Of course, neither of us played things out as a carefree tryst. Unless I woefully misread the situation, both of us are seeking something deeper, something longer lasting. Being single is so much simpler. But here's hoping I'm done with The Simple Life.

WE MEET AT LAST

"I look forward to meeting you." The statement took me aback. We'd been in contact for six months. And yet, what he said was accurate. We'd exchanged a flurry of emails and talked on the phone once, but there had not been a face-to-face meeting.

I blocked all thought about introductions and potential topics of conversation while on my five-hour flight. I reminded myself, however, about how crazy the situation was. In our daily lives we were separated by 300 minutes of air time. Tick tock. Break them down and minutes aren't that long. Comprised of finger snapping seconds. No,...crazy. There was no way to rationalize things through silly mindplay that downsizes five hours.

He first messaged me on the social dating site Plenty of Fish back in February. I'd like to think that my photos and my carefully worded profile might have been the impetus, but he had a schnauzer and I had two. Who was I kidding? Dogs are a bigger draw, paws down.

Once I had my rental car and drove toward downtown Ottawa, thought repression became more difficult. In twenty minutes, I would finally meet Michel. I should have glanced at his online photo again. What if I didn't recognize him and he didn't recognize me? What if we each sat alone at different tables, sipping coffee, trying to look perfectly content while suppressing that shattering feeling of being stood up? What if he wandered in, spotted me, disguised a look of repulsion and made a quick getaway?

I'm good at preparing for the worst. What I wasn't ready for was the flip side. As I approached the entrance, there was a handsome man sitting close to the door. Was that Michel? He smiled and stood up. Signs pointed to yes.

How many times have I met someone for coffee, sat there and wondered how long was long enough so as not to appear rude? How many times have I sipped a latté and gotten the impression the guy across the table wanted me to Bogart the thing? I have this romanticized remembrance of the past when connecting was, if not easy, easier. And with years going by, I am cognizant of the possibility that history is not always cyclical. Sometimes the past is the past. When an immediate connection occurs, who cares that it required a long flight with the final hour being so turbulent that I hunched over and sprawled across the empty seat beside me, too frazzled to sit upright?

There was that awkward hello. Handshake? Coy wave? I surprised myself by hugging him. He didn't seem to pull away. Good start. As the café was set to close—Ottawa is a sleepy town on Sunday nights—he asked if I felt like grabbing a bite to eat. Just what I needed after surviving the day on plain bagels. (Airport cuisine is a challenge for vegetarians.)

We ambled by the Parliament Buildings, having the grounds to ourselves. It reminded me of one of those "Bachelor" dates where the producers pay for exclusive access to a prime location. Sparks Street Mall was just as deserted. After nearly four hours of walking and talking, we headed back to my car. A block away, I stopped and pulled him to a side street. "Can we sit for a moment?" The bench was wet so I spread out my coat as a covering.

Normally, I'm thrilled if a first date ends with an awkward hug, but that's how the night began. Besides, I was only in town a few days and he had fourteen-hour work days ahead of him. I quoted The Beatles. "I want to hold your hand."

How long had it been? Years. I embarrassed to get more specific. I impersonated one of the Seven Dwarfs. Not Sneezy, not Grumpy. Bashful. Is it pathetic to be a forty-something Shy Guy? We cycled through few rounds of hand holding, kissing and hugging, interspersed with my nervous chatter—the same kind of banter that spills from me right before the doctor gives me a needle. How is it that the same odd mannerisms arise in moments of dread and moments of eager, heart-skipping anticipation?

A splendid first date. A disaster or even a shoulder shrug of a date would have been easier. I could have boarded the plane, congratulated myself for taking a chance and started emailing gay men in…I don't know,…Ireland? Nepal? Sometimes you have to expand your search.

Five hours away by plane. And I'm afraid of flying. So now what?

SO FAR OFF THE MARC

And now for a session of blogging as therapy…I think my five-month email relationship with Marc in Toronto just ended. Not that I had high hopes, but at least there was a shred of hope. Now? I guess it’s back to my rural bliss, saying hello to the slugs. And I’m talking about REAL slugs, the ones that dot my lawn, the ones that I avoid with the mower resulting in scruffy patches of the wild grass.

Gosh, I miss the city. And concrete.

All right, so back to Toronto. When I got the first message from him on Plenty of Fish in early February, I remember wondering what the heck an Ontario boy was doing looking so far West. I mean, he was in Canada’s most populated city. If the fishing had dried up there,… (Can’t they just build an artificial lake?)

Who was I to judge? There had been times when I lived in L.A. and in Vancouver when it seemed there was nothing bust rusted, algae-laden pop cans to reel in. (And here’s where I shall drop the fishing metaphors. It’s icking me out. I’m a vegetarian, after all.) If, for whatever reason, you enter your forties as a single gay man, finding a partner can be a challenge in any environment. I wasn’t getting a barrage of messages from B.C. buds so why not Toronto? It was closer than Chernobyl. And, in a best-case scenario, there’d be no immigration hassle.

Marc and I communicated daily for the first couple of months. We exchanged real email addresses and I looked forward to checking my email. It was nice to have something more than an onslaught of spam about erectile dysfunction. Premature, guys! Why are you targeting me anyways? Things evolved to the point that, when something exciting/aggravating/humiliating happened in the day, it was Marc whom I looked forward to telling. It felt like a real relationship.

And, of course, at the same time, it didn’t. What did he look like again? Once a month, I’d go back to glance at his photo on a website. What did he sound like? No idea. We’d thought about Skype, but my ancient laptop was incompatible. Regular phone calls never came up as an option.

It looked like he’d be visiting some friends in Vancouver in April or May. But then that didn’t happen. I looked into cheap flights to Toronto. Not cheap enough, considering I’m not making any money during my leave of absence this year. Three nights in Vegas just seemed too cheap.

I’d be in Ottawa in August and he was going to be there for work. We’d meet. Better late than never, right?

But then I read his email on Sunday. Not a “Dear John”; more like a Dear J-. His sister-in-law had arranged a blind date for Tuesday. How did I feel about that?

Well, what was I supposed to say? Blind date guy presumably lived in the same freakin’ province. They could actually sit down in the same place and have a regular conversation to get to know each other. They’d get a sense of whether there was any chemistry. So conventional. So real.

I’d wished him luck. If coffee went well, I noted I’d be happy for him, sad for me. Still, on Tuesday, I hoped for a late evening email. I’d had so many bad or bland coffee dates, maybe his would turn out to be decaffeinated too. But, alas, no new messages. (Even the friendly folks at Viagra had wisely moved on.)

It’s a gut feeling—felt it on Sunday—but I think coffee went well. Once again, my mother’s voice is menacingly settling into my head for a surprise visit. You shouldn’t procrastinate! You snooze, you lose. What’s with you anyway? Are you SURE you don’t like girls? Okay, I’ll stop there. As therapeutic as blogging might be, there are limits.

I am truly happy for Marc. He deserves to experience a spark in his life. And, for me, what’s the harm? Five months of contact, but we never met. Moving on should be a snap. Right?