“I thought you were twerking”, uttered a Canadian guy to my friend as a way to get an intro. He has been eyeing me awkwardly for about fifteen minutes and finally he had his ‘in’..
My French girlfriend just had some beer spilled on her and she made a quick motion clearly resembling Miley Cirus. Clearly.
Let me say this first. I hate the new lingo. Selifes. Twerking. Chillax. I cannot stand this fake culture built on media references. It annoys me that bars in Toronto on a Saturday night resemble a zoo where the guys are like apes, walking around pumped up, trying to awkwardly get action, not sure how to act, except to flex their biceps, offer lame pick-up lines, yell a lot, high five even more and look like they haven’t had sex for ages. Except for those really good looking ones who look like you are fully beneath them to even look you in the eyes.
How I miss the feeling of looking at someone and them looking right at you with a twinkle in their eye. Not something that happens often in this city.
Right after I almost puked in my mouth, Senior Twerker came up to me even though I looked like I wanted to teleport myself out of that bar and country.
“Where are you from?” he asked. In Toronto, no one is really Canadian, so we are constantly curious.
“Russia”
“Wow” he exclaimed. I was all ready for – “Russian women are hot” which is always the second line, but thankfully he restrained himself before I would seriously puke in my mouth.
“And you?” I offered for politeness sake.
“Italian” he said.
OK, I know what Italian is and that boy could not be it. It’s not that I idolize Italians. I definitely do not. Nor French, German or Spanish men. But I can tell the look of an Italian a mile away. It is the intensity, the raw sexuality, the directness, the openness, the confidence in his role as a man that cannot ever be confused with Canadian blandness.
“Let me guess” I offered “born in Woodbridge (Italian part of the city)”
“Wrong. Toronto. Better?”
I shrugged. Sure, I was being mean but I was in a bitter mood, tired of all this fake jargon and lame conversation. It has been a while since I have felt attracted to anyone and he was really getting on my nerves.
“Not really”
“Well, what kind of men do you like?”
I hesitated for a split second before blurting out “Europeans. Real ones.”
It took him about a minute to take off. And I didn’t even feel bad.
Ok, so in hindsight I was horrible. I judged a guy for something he had no control over. Not his fault he didn’t know any other food than meatballs and pizza. Not his fault he has probably knows three obvious words in Italian and says them with a thick Canadian accent. Or that he introduces himself as Niko without ever having ever experienced more than two weeks in Rome or Sicily.
But TWERKING!? He really had it coming.
And let’s be real. European boys are not all that great either. Just the other day I had a dull and shallow date with a French guy. Even though wine tasting was involved, it was still lackluster. And we split the bill equally. The evening before I had to endure a German guy tear down my video channel ruthlessly until I had no hope in it or me any longer. And yesterday, I spent a few hours in a club with a Spanish guy who was too awkward to make a real move. So, okay, Europeans are not all intelligent, worldly, cheeky and sexy.
But at least there are many that are.
Canadian boys – or at least Torontonian boys, you need to step it up and offer a girl something other than a lame pop culture reference in order to introduce yourself and maybe if you look her deep in the eyes and talk to her like a woman will she actually feel like one. And then, possibly, she will finally not care that you are a just a regular boy born in Woodbridge.
But for now I will stick with my Europeans.
Mia's International Dating 