And so the adventure begins: my first major trip with my mother.  Sure, as child we had done some southern Ontario farm weekend getaways and, in later years, long-weekend urban treks to Chicago and New York, but nothing with this scope or duration.

We were off to tackle Peru.

Mom (we’ll call her… Flobie) and I made it safely to the plane, got space for our carry on (no checked bags!) and our empty middle seat strategy worked.  Of course, the goofiness had already begun well before.

Just as we were passing the signs to direct us to the correct terminal at the Toronto Airport for Continental, Dad (who shall be named… Flerb) panics.

“Wait!  What terminal are we going to???” Flerb yelps suddenly.

I look up from picking my cuticles just in time to see “Swissair” flash quickly by.  And my mother tries to blame it on me! I quickly deflect, pointing out that *she * had the tickets.  And not only were they in her possession, but locked in the trunk at that. So Flobie suggests we go to the terminal that has USA departures, and my father, in classic Flerb, exasperated hand gestures and all, sputters,

“They *all * have USA departures!”

Luckily for Mr. and Mrs. Seinfeld, their calm, relaxed daughter was already mentally recalling the various airline alliances.  She remembered that Continental was part of One World, as was Canadian Airlines [RIP, my sweet] which used to depart from Terminal 3. She led the sheep. Presto! And with plenty of time to spare.  One hero point for Amy.

My friend Wanda once sagely remarked, “If you want the boys to appear, buy a plane ticket.” My love life had been exceedingly dull since the beginning of the year (let’s face it – it was dull well before that).  But with the trip to Peru on the horizon, things started to heat up.

An old friend of my parents went on a Passover retreat (don’t ask) and met someone named Mitchell Goldfarb, originally from Ottawa but now in High Park. At this retreat apparently he sells Mitchell on me.  Meanwhile I get the nervous pitch from Flobie and Flerb (one call, two receivers) that their friend knows a guy who “works for FedEx, is into sports, has a good sense of humour, is not religious and has a hairline like your father’s.” Would I be interested?

Although not overwhelmed by this description, I agree, only to be told a couple of weeks later that Mitchell has started dating someone and wanted to see how it would go.  Fair enough.  But lo and behold, he phones Wednesday, a call which I return once it is pretty much assured that the Leafs will be polishing their golf clubs and that the Raptors and even Blue Jays are seeing the wrong side of the score.

The call got off to a good, comfortable start, but eventually it became clear to me that he was not as “unreligious” as was sold (reminder: he was discovered at a Passover retreat) and that if I had to listen to his annoying laugh and (this is going to sound brutal) Jewishy accent much longer I wasn’t going to be as pleasant.  With a mammoth yawn and a “boy, am I tired!”, I bid him good night and promised to call him upon my return.  He wants to see pictures, too. All of them. Yikes.

Thursday was Radio Shack Day where I got chatting with my sales person for quite a while as I went through the excruciating process of deciding which mini portable radio to buy.  He had the most unusual colouring. He had strange coppery hair which blended almost seamlessly into his red eyes. Seriously, his eyes were red. He looked like he had rabies. Turns out he was more than just a Radio Shack schlep. He managed a rock band and was using the sales gig to fill in until the next tour. (Wait – I know why his eyes were so red!  Must be all the stars.)  He wants me to drop by with pictures and tell him how the trip was.  At this rate I should prepare a PowerPoint presentation.

So then last night, Friday, big night.  It was my friends’ Jack and Jill party before their wedding next month, and I was supposed to meet The Famous Ted to whom I had been described as something like “an active girl who is a cross between Elvira and Cher.” (Ok, I’m kidding about the Elvira part.) Despite promises that he had been looking forward to meeting me, he was not there. Harumph.

During the evening my friend Cal came over to chat with two buddies in tow. At first glance I didn’t find the tall blonde one particularly attractive – I couldn’t see past his protruding ears. On closer inspection, however, there was something appealing about him. I tired to catch his eye, but to no avail. He seemed far more intent on speaking with my girlfriend.  I shrugged my shoulders and turned to consoling my poor friend Drew who explained that his Peruvian fiancée was going mental and had broken off their engagement, so perhaps under the circumstances it might not be wise to call her when in Lima.

I heard my name. Cal was telling the blonde that I would be a good salsa dancing partner. Before I could say, “con much gusto mi rubio tan guapo y alto con brasos del acero y ojos azules tan como el mar en la puesta del sol” he had me locked in an embrace trying to demonstrate his creative dance manoeuvers. As he spun me in Cal’s direction I frantically whispered, “What’s this guy’s name?” to which Cal whispered “John!” just as centrifugal force released its grip.

John was very forthcoming with his personal details as I danced in his arms. Thirty-seven, German descent, separated from his wife for two years following a one-and-a-half year marriage preceded by a five year courtship.  He was still having a hard time fully accepting that it hadn’t worked out (emotional baggage alert) because he believed that marriage should be for life. They still loved each other but didn’t get along in a couple sense.

Hmmm.

Then he gave me a big hug. “Is this good bye?” I asked, rather surprised and unable to think of a good reason for it.  “No, I just wanted to give you a hug,” he answered.  I realized the guy was drunk.  No wonder he made a big show of wanting me to get in touch with him when I got back.  We’ll see.

It took me two full evenings to pack, and I managed to squeeze everything into only two bags.  Give me some credit; I cut down from six pairs of shoes to five. I’m sure I’ll have extra room when coming back as half of one bag is filled with tampons and pads to accommodate the period which was obliged to start the day before the trip, naturally.

I can’t believe what an idiot I was when clearing US customs.  Word of advice: do not choose the line which leads to a 21-year old American lad whose testosterone is fueled by the power he relishes as being a proud Yankee protecting his blessed homeland from the extremely dangerous vacationers seeking a little sun and respite in the very holy land he holds so dear to his heart. This dude grilled me obsessively on why I was going to the USA until I finally snapped in response to his question why I was going by myself from New Orleans to Florida.

“Because I Couldn’t Find Anyone to Go With Me!!!”

Satisfied, you fucking gun-toting, Waco-emulating little twit?!! Of course, this may not have been the brightest approach, but I made it through, the dangerous, subversive sun seeker I am.

Going back a few months, when things ended with Mason I was rattled. My social life stagnated as I retreated to a corner to lick my gaping wounds.  Then I decided to do something I never dreamt I would do.

When I was speaking with my buddy Yogi before he took off for a quick terrorization of the Australian continent, he mentioned that he had met a girl on line and was going to have a date with her when he returned.  On the same token one of my oldest friends, Aria, confessed that she had signed up on a Jewish singled Internet service called “JDate.” Yogi suggested I set up a totally anonymous Hotmail account and give it a try. I decided to take the plunge.

I had a stroke of inspiration when entering my Hotmail details.  While I had briefly entertained “cool female” as a handle, I figured with millions of people preceding me in the cyber evolutionary chain someone was bound to have considered that one already. (This concept – that others may already have claimed common handles – was lost on Aria as I patiently sat through her attempts at creating over 40 permutations of user names, all of which were taken.)  I selected “Catalina de Erauso”, thenunensign@hotmail.com, after the 17th century cross-dressing Basque nun warrior I discovered during my Master’s studies. (I thought it was the perfect handle until I got tired later of explaining what a “nunen” sign wasn’t.)  With my new account in place, I gingerly entered the mysterious world of JDate.

Lo and behold, when I finally got to do a proper search, if you can believe it I had 69 matches.  My first reaction was amazement that there were actually at least 69 single Jewish guys in Toronto! (Well, 68 actually. I believe “Jill”, with the “slender, petite figure” is probably wondering why she hasn’t received any e-mail messages….)

One after another I read through them. I felt like a voyeur peering into the inner workings of our virile young Jewish future. This medium levels the playing field: we are all asked the same questions, and essentially we have the same answers. But what sets us apart is the way in which we package our answers. For example, instead of the ho hum “I have a good sense of humour,” why not write “I have an insatiable appetite for laughter.” You have no idea how many guys wrote they were looking for someone with a “zest for life”.  After about 20 profiles, I hardened. If someone mentioned “attractive”, “zest” or their salary, they were quickly disregarded.

When Aria signed up she was immediately hit with a flutter of interest.  I sign up and… hello?…. single expectant female waiting… good Jewish stock…. Nothing. Until, bing! A little message appeared in my hotmail account: 25917 > 59286 (that’s me!). Giddily I opened the email and saw a minimalist introduction:

Catalina [my dubious JDate name],

I liked your profile.

Hope to hear from you,
Gershon

My first nibble, yippee!  With great curiosity, expectation and optimism I quickly surfed to JDate and excitedly keyed in 25917, this most beguiling number.

{Gasp!!!}

It honestly took my breath away.

My profile clearly states that I am 28 and looking for someone between 28 and 34 (no point in wasting my time with the young ‘uns – I read enough of their profiles to gauge their maturity). Gershon, however, is 40, seeking marriage and children, and is clearly looking for anyone who breathes.

But the worst part, as much as it chagrins me to say it, was his picture. His hairline was exactly like my father’s: a shiny dome surrounded by a curtain of lank hair. His bushy eyebrows were no match for his illustrious moustache suspended from a nose whose nostrils reached for the sky. When I zoomed in I saw an incredibly ugly tie and stains on the collar. I was being courted by garden gnome parading as a used car salesman. I demurred politely.

Time to be proactive.  I earmarked five profiles with potential. Before I was fully emotionally prepared (are you ever fully prepared?), Aria pressured me into the contacting my first target, Corey. Due to our radically different contact strategies (she kept trying to rein in my personality lest I scare off the gents), I sent a very tepid, watery, uninspired message.  Needless to say I never got a response, a blessing given that shortly thereafter I saw him at a social event and he was wearing leather chaps. Oh my.

About a week later I tried again, reaching out to “Gefilte Fish” and “Robert”. I cringe to think I described myself physically as having [groan] “curves and muscles in the right places.” Aaagh, how could I prostitute myself so easily?  Put it out of your mind, Amy….

Happily they both responded. Gefilte Fish sucked up an excessive amount of my time. We exchanged conversational emails that were 14 – 20 pages in length that took me over two hours. While initially I couldn’t believe my luck – he was bright, had a sense of humour, came from Brazil (a latino, yahoo!) – I began to get the sense he was the kind of person who carried a pent-up chest of useless trivia and stories which he felt obliged to share in excruciating detail.  This was confirmed when he left an eight-minute message on my answering machine about going to visit his accountant. He bored me to tears.

Robert, on the other hand, shows some promise. Once I figured out that he was not actually dense but in fact had a very dry sense of humour, I was amenable to meeting up when I return from my trip. Admittedly I am disconcerted by his terrible spelling and his lack of attention to detail (shouldn’t lawyers be good at that?), but I liked the way he took to my proposal of being friends.

Suprisingly, wee Catalina attracted further attention. Bing!  Message from Javier, the randy Argentine. He must have gotten a bulk discount because he also contacted Aria. He wanted my photo just a bit to anxiously, hmmm. Then I was contacted by Michael who said, “By the way, what is your real name? Unless, of course, you are actually really old and like to dress in boy’s clothing.”

(!)

Needless to say, I was surprised and impressed, even if he did ask, “Do you really exist or are you just a dream?”

Alone, bewildered Calliope
Deferring everything for Guffman.
Here I jell, killing limply manifested nuances,
Oblivious passersby quickly regarded.
Sitting timid, uncertainty very willing.
‘Xacting your zeal.

Part 2

Attitude basks, considered dogma.
Everyone feverish, gregarious hell, instantly justifying kharmic laxative.
Many nobodies observing prescribed quotas.
Requisite stamina, trembling undulation, vacillating winners, ‘xcepting youthful zeitgeist.

P.S. Have you figured it out?