A Kosher Dating Odyssey: One Former Texas Baptist's Quest for a Naughty & Nice Jewish Girl by van Wallach Page A
Authors: van Wallach
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would happen. We strolled up to the apartment and once inside got down to kissyface pretty efficiently, powered by more CDs.
Shabbat ’n’ Chet Baker smooch jazz—what a winning combination.
The Shabbat Seductress and I became warm friends and shared holiday adventures in deepest Brooklyn, and have even collaborated on some editorial projects.
* * *
Fedelma the Oenophile
Fedelma and I exchanged fun banter about our backgrounds. I pointed her to some online reading and she referred to the “Hebrew-Hibernian article—a sweet little tribute to two tribes with a theatrical bent.” Our emails indeed had a literary bent. So we finally got together for a first date at the Guggenheim Museum in New York. After the stroll down the spiral display area of the museum, we went to a French restaurant for dinner on the Upper East Side. Now French food is a type I almost never eat, preferring Indian, Chinese, Cuban, Mexican, Thai and BBQ. I can’t remember what I ordered, but I do remember the meal came with a choice of hot cider or wine to drink. Fedelma chose the wine, I chose the cider, not having any genetic predisposition to alcohol (if I could have ordered a sweet, sticky alcoholic drink with an umbrella in it, that would have been a different story).
A day or two later we had a post-date conversation and Fedelma voiced deep concern. I thought the first contact went well enough. Fedelma couldn’t understand why I wanted the cider rather than the wine. Who eats French food without fine wine? I could tell we were running on tracks that would never intersect, all because I had such a Baptist preference for nonalcoholic drinks. We never met again.
* * *
Screwing Up With Motek
I met Motek early on and we connected in a strong way. She called me special and said my ability to “read” her was scary. I hinted how she could “read” me with motivations like letting me feel wanted and accepted. But I dithered and dawdled on meeting her because of my creaky 1986 Saab, which kept me locked up hundreds of miles from her. Of course, the onrushing rapids of romance soon carried her far away:
I haven’t heard from Motek in a couple of days so I know she’s out there dating. I called, in a blaze of creativity, her home. Her daughter said to try the cell. I did, against my better judgment, and got through to her. She couldn’t tell who it was—she was in a restaurant. Before long she did IM, telling me she was with an Israeli pilot. I felt embarrassed at my failure of judgment, which was flagrant—my gut had told me not to call. She didn’t seem fazed. She felt odd, telling me, calling him the “competition.” ...
[A few days later]
We had glorious chats of rising intensity but my exquisitely timed phone call and the talk that followed gave me some clues to the current context: Israeli pilot, around for two weeks, intriguing and sexy and there, well, why not have a great fast fling? Let nature take its course. Still, even I had visions of sugar plum fairies, and Motek and I are so much on the same wavelength.
[A few days after that]
Motek seems to have completely withdrawn from the field of combat—sad, because we had a strong connection even if she [catty comment redacted]. Other things beckon. And I was the one that said I wouldn’t disappear. The chain of connection is so fragile, but new chains are always being forged. I was on the phone last night for an hour with the Girl from Ipanema in Brazil. She speaks amazingly good English, very colloquial, as if she lived here. So, that was fun.
* * *
Listen Only
The Lark and I always had a great friendship. As soon as we met we began swapping chatty notes, often on our romantic frustrations with others. I advised her on the mating habits of Southern men, while she provided empathetic play-by-play analysis of my thwarted pursuits. She lived in Boston and worked as a health-care professional, but we never could navigate the New England space between us.
Finally,
Shabbat ’n’ Chet Baker smooch jazz—what a winning combination.
The Shabbat Seductress and I became warm friends and shared holiday adventures in deepest Brooklyn, and have even collaborated on some editorial projects.
* * *
Fedelma the Oenophile
Fedelma and I exchanged fun banter about our backgrounds. I pointed her to some online reading and she referred to the “Hebrew-Hibernian article—a sweet little tribute to two tribes with a theatrical bent.” Our emails indeed had a literary bent. So we finally got together for a first date at the Guggenheim Museum in New York. After the stroll down the spiral display area of the museum, we went to a French restaurant for dinner on the Upper East Side. Now French food is a type I almost never eat, preferring Indian, Chinese, Cuban, Mexican, Thai and BBQ. I can’t remember what I ordered, but I do remember the meal came with a choice of hot cider or wine to drink. Fedelma chose the wine, I chose the cider, not having any genetic predisposition to alcohol (if I could have ordered a sweet, sticky alcoholic drink with an umbrella in it, that would have been a different story).
A day or two later we had a post-date conversation and Fedelma voiced deep concern. I thought the first contact went well enough. Fedelma couldn’t understand why I wanted the cider rather than the wine. Who eats French food without fine wine? I could tell we were running on tracks that would never intersect, all because I had such a Baptist preference for nonalcoholic drinks. We never met again.
* * *
Screwing Up With Motek
I met Motek early on and we connected in a strong way. She called me special and said my ability to “read” her was scary. I hinted how she could “read” me with motivations like letting me feel wanted and accepted. But I dithered and dawdled on meeting her because of my creaky 1986 Saab, which kept me locked up hundreds of miles from her. Of course, the onrushing rapids of romance soon carried her far away:
I haven’t heard from Motek in a couple of days so I know she’s out there dating. I called, in a blaze of creativity, her home. Her daughter said to try the cell. I did, against my better judgment, and got through to her. She couldn’t tell who it was—she was in a restaurant. Before long she did IM, telling me she was with an Israeli pilot. I felt embarrassed at my failure of judgment, which was flagrant—my gut had told me not to call. She didn’t seem fazed. She felt odd, telling me, calling him the “competition.” ...
[A few days later]
We had glorious chats of rising intensity but my exquisitely timed phone call and the talk that followed gave me some clues to the current context: Israeli pilot, around for two weeks, intriguing and sexy and there, well, why not have a great fast fling? Let nature take its course. Still, even I had visions of sugar plum fairies, and Motek and I are so much on the same wavelength.
[A few days after that]
Motek seems to have completely withdrawn from the field of combat—sad, because we had a strong connection even if she [catty comment redacted]. Other things beckon. And I was the one that said I wouldn’t disappear. The chain of connection is so fragile, but new chains are always being forged. I was on the phone last night for an hour with the Girl from Ipanema in Brazil. She speaks amazingly good English, very colloquial, as if she lived here. So, that was fun.
* * *
Listen Only
The Lark and I always had a great friendship. As soon as we met we began swapping chatty notes, often on our romantic frustrations with others. I advised her on the mating habits of Southern men, while she provided empathetic play-by-play analysis of my thwarted pursuits. She lived in Boston and worked as a health-care professional, but we never could navigate the New England space between us.
Finally,
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