a new week, a new boy

It's a new week in Sydney, which means it's time to mix it up with a new boy. Not that anything was wrong with the old ones, it's just that my Italian boy is getting a little clingy. What used to be endearingly cute text messages that I would feverishly try to translate have somehow become annoyances. I'm sure some girls would relish the idea of ten cute text messages a day, but I suddenly find myself less enamoured by there contents. This might be in part because I may have let things go a little far last week. Suffice to say, I'm bored, and as mean as it is, I'm applying my "love 'em and leave 'em " strategy.

I spent Monday night on a very nice date with another cute chef, this one from New Zealand. The difference is, he is aspiring to be a journalist and unlike my Italian chef, we actually have very nice thoughtful conversations. He picked me up and kissed me on the cheek and we headed off for a nice walk and dinner at a somewhat fancy Thai restaurant. We chatted all throughout dinner and he wooed me with his thoughts about the world. As the perfect gentleman he is he treated me to dinner and when I thanked him for the night he leaned down for a brief kiss.

He called me yesterday (a first, since everyone in this backwards land loves to text), and asked me to go to the Art Gallery with him tomorrow afternoon. Of course, I swooned.

lost in translation

In a jam packed week I managed to go out with two guys between all my other engagements (school, shopping, and sightseeing). My first date was a disappointment mostly because this guy seemed to have so much potential. Wednesday night Officer save the world picked me up at my flat at about 8pm and we headed out for pizza at a place called Bogart's. He asked me what I wanted on my pizza and when I asked if I could have half without meat, he seemed puzzled. Eventually he let it slide, like being passively accepting the rational of a child whose mind can't be swayed due to insolence. It bothered me, but what bothered me more was that reflecting on the night, he didn't ask me one question about myself. Not one. Doesn't that seem odd?

He took me for a drive out to see all the "views" of Sydney, which were breathtaking and pretty romantic, especially under a canopy of upside down constellations. But I wasn't feeling the awkwardness that had settled between us. We sat on a bench, while he "pushed" me into making out with him. As he pushed into me, I pushed away. It was so irritating. I just felt like the whole time he was going through the motions. When he suggested he come over so "we can be naughty" (who says that???), I told it wasn't going to happen because I barely knew him. I used to think that guys who wanted to sleep with a girl by the fourth date were being pushy. Thankfully he hasn't called. Apparently, in Sydney, I'm a prude to think I should at least know a few details about a guy before I sleep with him.

To make cheer myself up, I answer the persistent text messaging of my Verona boy, and when he asks, "can i see you?" I text him and tell him I'll meet him in the city. I can't help but smile around him, his big blue eyes, his mop of loose curly hair, and between us barely a sentence in one language. I don't know much about this boy, who is slightly younger than myself. We head to the boardwalk, grab a coffee and he tries, despite the barriers, to find out a little about me.

He's pretty sweet and I can't resist when he leans in for a kiss. It's kind of endearing to see us, both speaking to each other in a different languages. In all this struggle to communicate, there is an absence of deception, and something refreshingly forward. "When can I see you again?" He asks. I'm not sure this is going anywhere but where I find myself right now. When I get home, an Italian text message on my phone is as transparent as it gets in this silly upside down world, "Mi piaci molto! xx" (I like you a lot). I think I'll take Officer save the world's advice and embrace this moment.

while i was waiting

I've been waiting patiently during the past week for the handsome pauper to call me and still no avail, although it hasn't fully been nine days yet. If this is some sort of test of my steadfastness I'm sure I've failed. I've been racking up a handful of potential alternatives, at lunches, on the train and in the pub. I never knew it could be this easy!

The first of these, a shy guy from Peru, I'm certain I won't date. He is very sweet and perhaps that is the problem. He invited a friend and I over for a lunch-party on a Saturday afternoon. He prepared the meal himself and even baked a cake. The entire afternoon he wore the look of, "it's all for you" proudly on his face. When he called the house a few days later to ask me out, I said I was surprised. He said, "I'm full of surprises!" I promptly nipped that one in the bud.

Then, on the way home from a massive hilly hike on the ocean's shore, and let's just say fully embodying the look, a cute tall boy with big blue eyes smiles at me. He says hello and I immediately recognize his accent, Italian. The train ride is full of broken languages, English: his, Italian: mine and coy smiles. He tells me he is going to Verona in April for his niece's christening. "Have you ever been there? You should come with me." I didn't consent to the trip, but I did give him my phone number when he asked. Verona in April does sound nice!

Yesterday, a swarm of guys surrounds our table. For some reason the underdog has my eye. When I ask him what he does, he says, "I save the world." I almost spit my drink out my nose. Turns out this fair haired, Australian is a police officer and what he is lacking in game, he surly made up in his ability to make me laugh. He coerced me onto some silly dancing. He even sent me a fully coherent text message shortly after we parted complete with punctuation. I think I could like him.

My pauper better find his fingers dialing my phone number soon because apparently this city is full of surprises!