My Awkward International Tinder Date

I’ve had a few strange dates in my time, but there are two that stand at the forefront of my memory and will forever be the stuff of legend that I might perhaps be able tell my unborn children about someday. Or maybe they’ll be the subject of great comedy, should I find myself on a talk show recanting my past life. Either way, they shall be forever immortalised on the viewless wings of Poesy… actually, Keats wrote of a more noble cause.

This is the tale of: My Awkward International Tinder Date.

No, I didn’t swipe right and match with someone who was a few thousand miles away. My Tinder match had been staying in Cambridge at the time, and seemed to enjoy the textbook “I choo-choo-choose you line” which I stole from Ralph Wigum out of The Simpsons. Not my best work, but Tinder has been (and may in the future continue to be) an ongoing boredom crutch. Funny, the openers that work and the ones that don’t. Like the time I started with ‘Fat penguin!’ and was immediately unmatched before I could drop the punch line: “Sorry. I just wanted to break the ice.”

Tough crowd.

Photo: “From left to right: Lara (Cheyenne’s German exchange student friend), former Cambridge housemate, Rohan, myself, and Cheyenne (Tinder match)”

A double date to Nando’s, followed by some punting seemed to do the trick!

Long story short, I was then implored to fly to her for my birthday, but only for around four days or so. She insisted and so I threw aside the obvious thoughts of “this is fucking stupid” and eventually thought “Why the hell not?” and I booked the flight.

Oh Robert.. you stupid bastard.

So to clarify: I’d booked a flight out to a destination I’d never been before, to see a person I didn’t really know, while going it completely alone.

Yup, I didn’t know it yet, but I was about to have the lips bitch-slapped right off my face for such an appalling error of judgement.

One might actually call this ‘adventure’ lunacy, and that’s exactly what it fucking was. I’m not entirely sure what chemicals had been placed into my water that month, because I can’t for the life of me remember feeling anything particularly special about this girl. I must have really enjoyed the in-flight-entertainment during my previous flight to LA of the same year. Or maybe it was the free booze and the cool feeling of arriving into an airport half cut. My friend, Alison, recently explained to me that she was feeling quite hormonal during that particular month of October (as she was pregnant), and had perhaps egged me on due to some imbalanced emotions.

Nice one Alison. Nice one.

Young Simba: Danger? Hah! I walk on the wild side. I laugh in the face of danger. Ha ha ha ha!

Well, that’s when shit got real. Whoever I met in Cambridge was not the person who turned up at Gerald R. Ford International Airport, Grand Rapids, Michigan. Same physical person, but something was amiss. It would ultimately boil down to two nights on her sofa (‘surfer’ she’d say in ridicule).

Two fucking nights.

I’ll walk you through the chronological order of events.

Wednesday 1st October 2014

I arrived in the late evening (around 11:00 pm Michigan time) so it was effectively 05:00 am for me and I could barely see through the weary eye of fatigue. Cheyenne and her friend, Kathryn, greeted me at the airport and took me to an IHOP for a late night snack. Apparently we were surrounded by “skanks” in the restaurant as Cheyenne couldn’t seem to contain her disgust; everyone seemed quite nice and friendly to me. We ate some terrible food and the waitress, who seemed to love the accent and my general humorous demeanour, began to flirt with me a little (can’t help that I’m afraid!).

We then drove back to the apartment in a fashion not too dissimilar to the below:

I don’t remember too much more of this night, except that we shared an extensive kiss. Cheyenne went to her room and I fell asleep on the couch.

Thursday 2nd October 2014

I woke up fairly bewildered and for a moment could not fully recollect where I was. There was a general feeling of awkwardness within the old, rickety apartment as we went about our morning rituals. Cheyenne filled the house with loud music in a clear attempt to mask her awkwardness; to the point where I found myself showering right next to a Bluetooth speaker that was quite literally vibrating the soap suds off my body.

Cliché country and western songs spilled across my delirium filled, washed with jet lag brain, as I struggled to piece together the data on just What. The. Fuck. I was doing there.

I wasn’t offered any drinks or breakfast of any variety and had to make do with some strawberry liquorice I acquired at the airport in homage to my Fringe hero — Walter Bishop.

I was notified that a friend of Cheyenne’s was on her way over to the apartment with a four-year-old toddler in tow. The plan, then, would be to head out to see the ArtPrize; an international art competition, open to any artist and decided by public vote (basically a bunch of artwork had been littered about downtown Grand Rapids).

What became apparent quite early on, was that no-one was really going to acknowledge my presence for a number of hours. As the mother-and-son unit entered the apartment, Cheyenne bypassed the hospitality, forwent the pleasantries and transferred all attention to our new arrivals. They fussed over the child for what seemed like an inordinate piece of real estate in my otherwise healthy budget of time (that I was currently pissing away) and we eventually left the apartment.

Sure enough, I was left trailing behind; a third wheel in the wrong company in the wrong goddamn country with a big Tinder ‘T’ for ‘Twat’ on my forehead.

As I trailed behind the two women, it dawned on me that this was not in my head. In fact, it became so obvious and unnatural that the friend then attempted to talk to me wherever she found the chance to do so. I remember a look of pity in her eyes as we talked, and I’d like to think that she saw the unease in my face and was aware that I was currently without a friend in the world. It’s funny, because we seemed to then develop a type of alliance. We were the same age, and she was enjoying my conversation, but it was almost as if she had to relinquish that connection the minute Cheyenne returned.

After rushing through many art galleries where I was reprimanded for taking too much time, we then stopped off to have lunch. This is where things got tasty. It was at this juncture that some of the innermost workings of Cheyenne’s psyche came to the foreground. I could have punched myself square in the face for believing that I had any idea of who this person was.

A very polite, young and well-mannered waitress approached the table to take our order.

I have found that Americans like to take things quite literally in their language. So, for example, they call the pavement a ‘sidewalk’ or a torch a ‘flashlight’. Both of these American terms are literal explanations of what you do with the object in question. So when I ordered a lemonade, it should have been no surprise to me that I would literally receive a glass of cloudy lemon drink rather than a Sprite or a 7-Up as we’ve come to know of a lemonade in England. This reminded me of my time spent in Florida as a kid, where I ordered a cherry coke and received a whole cherry in my beverage. Still, it tasted ace!

I made a joke of this and the waitress also chuckled with me, to which Cheyenne scowled and uttered to her chum across the table “Did you see the way she looked at Raab?” Clearly not amused by my new friend, Cheyenne decided to make things difficult for the girl and asked if she could order a plate of humus (as you do) for the tiny trucker-come-Hobbit looking infant. The waitress was a little unsure if this was something they had readily available and informed us that she would find out. Off she went. Cheyenne’s reaction you ask?

“Oh my gaad. Is she for real right now? It’s a plate of fucking humus. What a fucking cuunt!”

The humus debacle was solved and we returned to the apartment in the early evening after a rushed tour of the city in which I barely got to experience any of the culture. The next strange thing to unfold was the plan for the evening. I was notified that I would be attending Founders Brewing Co. with Cheyenne’s best friend, Kathryn, who would be picking me up at around 7pm.

Cheyenne had made other arrangements for herself.

Super.

So that would be a night out with a complete stranger in a strange land. Why the fuck not? So off I went with Kathryn, who, I must say, was an absolutely beautiful human being. We laughed at how ridiculous the whole thing was and what a tool I must have been to have bought any of Cheyenne’s spiel back in the UK. I used my powers to suss out what the issue was and quickly discovered that she had done this with many different folk in the past. She would place the needle over her vinyl of romance and it would quickly come to a screeching crescendo the moment she had to share her personal space with anyone. Kathryn couldn’t believe how unkind her ‘best friend’ had been and told me that Cheyenne had been sending her texts about it being awkward while having me there and could she take me off her hands.

I shrugged off the ill-feeling and regret of seeing multiple red bank notes of aviation travel floating around the u-bend of the nearest lavatory, and went about becoming intoxicated at the brewery in which I was located.

They had a fantastic selection of delicious ales, and I was even gifted a twelve percent proof concoction by the crowd of people that I had somehow managed to attract over to our table. It seemed somewhat hilarious me having to introduce Kathryn to my new friends. My story was retold with a mixture of reactions from “you’re a hero dude!” right through to “that’s the most retarded thing I’ve ever heard.” I made jokes, put on different accents, dug out various impersonations from my repertoire and attracted a few ladies with the whole eloquent, British persona; all the while trying to reclaim the dignity I had lost somewhere across the Atlantic Ocean. Hell, I’d even managed to have Kathryn confide in me some of her deepest secrets, to which she demanded I “never tell Cheyenne, or else!”

After an impeccable evening, I eventually found myself with Kathryn at the door to Cheyenne’s apartment. *Sigh* Once more unto the breach, dear friends.

Therein we discovered Cheyenne watching television. Having literally just entered, I was yelled at for walking over her yoga mat; totally understandable given the damage spongy foam can sustain under the human weight for which it was intended. After a few side splitting jokes about the evening’s affairs and the relative absurdity of the current scenario, the three of us were momentarily joined in the union of laughter. But this was no fairytale world, and soon enough my sister in arms was gone — leaving me to fight the good fight alone.

I sat down on the “surfer” and attempted to speak to Cheyenne about her evening, who would then snap at me: “You’ve got to be quiet right now; I’m watching Grey’s Anatomy!”

I shrank back into the sofa and shivered at the cold air that was blowing through the wide open window. If only this insanity was occurring in the Sunshine State. Having momentarily placed my finger tips on the ledge of the window in an attempt to close it, I was yelled at further: “Raaab, don’t touch the window! It’s an old building — it’ll break!”

At this point I could see no alternative but to lie on the free part of the sofa and force myself to sleep.

This poor-punting-prick had been so hopeful bless him..

Friday 3rd October 2014

I woke up to this Cheyenne nutter going bat-shit-mental at her bedroom door.

She had somehow managed to break the door handle so that part of the mechanism had fallen off into the bedroom. She finally conceded defeat and buggered off to her early morning yoga session, leaving me to sleep off my hangover. Heaven knows how I managed to drift off again after witnessing that insanity, but that’s when I was brutally brought back into the world by a second frenzied attack on the wooden door.

It reminded me of my eight-year-old nephew when he had broken his Thunderbird toy.

I stirred and went to approach the door for a closer look at the issue, only to be blasted with a torrent of abuse: “Raab, don’t fucking touch the door okay? You’ll just break it and I can’t afford to buy a new one!” Reeling at the sustained hostility, I could see how to rectify this issue with relative ease.

I returned to the sofa, unzipped my bag and took out my toothbrush.

At the same time I could hear her on the phone: “Yeah, it’s broken and I’ve got this British guy here and I need to get into my room.. how long will it take you to get here?”

The now vacant barrel of the door was a perfect fit for my toothbrush, and with a swift motion of the hand (much to her amazement) the bedroom door swung open.

You’re welcome.

I would even go on to fix the handle thus cancelling the requirement for a mobile door handle technician.

And so began the second stint of zero breakfast offerings, absent cups of tea and awkward showering. The content of the day had changed slightly, however, and we would now be meeting up with Kathryn and her new boyfriend, to go and visit a cider factory.

It sort of reminded me of a school trip to Snetterton in year four; only, I was a grown man and could see I was hated.

Things had taken a 180° degree turn and Cheyenne was now putting her hands on me a lot more often. Dare I say it, but there may have been a smattering of flirtation. All of these things I could not understand nor comprehend; I am a VERY simple man by comparison.

For the second time in the trip I found myself on the American highways, fearing for my mortal existence. As Cheyenne tailgated drivers, weaved in and out of traffic, veered across lanes while staring at her phone to update her Facebook status, take a Snapchat, send Whatsapp messages and change the track that had been blaring out of the car speakers — I became acutely aware of what a terrible time I was having.

I wondered if they had taught any self awareness at those yoga classes, if they had attempted to impart any form of Zen during the sessions.

The one very consistent thing about this girl was her road rage.

Thankfully we arrived at the cider factory in one piece. I could surely calm my nerves/drown my sorrows with a selection of alcoholic beverages. The standard behaviour reoccurred with Cheyenne focussing on Kathryn and her unassuming, kind hearted, salt of the earth boyfriend, Chris — who it’s safe to say I liked immediately. He must have been briefed on the situation as he was looking at me knowingly. The two of them were more concerned about including me than they were with the current conversation with Cheyenne. They would enquire about England and all of the typical ‘other worldly’ stuff. One thing we all enjoyed were the subtle language differences. And then when I ordered my drink, one thing became crystal clear to me — “this aint no goddamn cider.”

Those language differences were a constant source of interest, as we had ostensibly arrived at an apple juice factory.

Here’s your definition of North American cider:
an unfermented drink made by crushing fruit, typically apples.

Here’s the one I had in mind for us UK chaps:
an alcoholic drink made from fermented apple juice.

So, basically I attended the Copella factory in Suffolk..

Chris and Kathryn departed for their home some thirty miles away, and I now faced another of Cheyenne’s dilemmas. There was a softball game she wanted to attend, and you guessed it, what the fuck was to be done with my sorry British ass? I implored her to go and explained that I’d be more than happy to frequent The Grand Rapids alone for a few hours (I was quite looking forward to it to be honest), but she had another interesting idea up her sleeve.

Suddenly we were driving toward her godparent’s house, whereupon we discovered her sixteen-year-old god sister and older brother smoking weed in the basement. The folks were away on their holidays, and Cheyenne wanted to palm me off onto these kids while she did her thing. At this point alarm sirens were going off in my head.

“Err, hello, dickhead — you already have enough trouble trying to explain to the authorities what you’re doing in this country in the first place, let alone be found in a basement with minors.”

While I filtered my story back, via Whatsapp, to the various important people out there, it eventually transpired that these kids would not be staying at the house. The plan had thankfully fallen through, and I could see the sheer resentment and disdain begin to boil up in Cheyenne’s eyes. She would have to forfeit her game and babysit me for yet another day.

So now we were headed to a Walmart (or something similar). I was fascinated by the place and loved exploring the culture and was having a good look around. This wasn’t going down so well with Cheyenne. “Raab will you come on? We’re done in here now!” It went on like this a few times, but not before I purchased my Teenage Mutant Hero Turtlesmug (fucking loves it).

When we arrived at the conveyor belt she decided to shout at me once again: “don’t crush my bananas when you pack them! I don’t want bruised ones.” I mean, there I am packing her shopping in a sensible manner and I’m getting this shit.

My needle was starting to flicker into the red, but it was Friday, and I had until Sunday to endure this.

We got back to hers for early evening and resumed the awkwardness. The plan, now, was to go out to a bar and meet the rest of Cheyenne’s chums — but before this would happen, I decided to level with my host.

Me:

“You know Cheyenne, if I’m causing you any problems or if you’re not comfortable having me stay over for the next couple of days, then I’m totally cool to book myself into a hotel to get out of your hair.”

Her:

“You’re being weird right now; I’m just tired — okay? It’s fine.”

I decided to leave it be after this.

We got to the bar and met Kathryn and Chris — and now it was the four amigos from earlier. The problem was that I was feeling uncharacteristically quiet. It’s always very noticeable if I’m quiet. The nice couple asked me if I was okay. Cheyenne’s response sealed my fate. I had been teetering on going over to angry Rob, and was unfortunately about to lose my battle.

“Oh he’s just being weird right now. He was weird back at the apartment too.”

I then took a deep breath in and came out with something like this:

“I don’t know what to say really, I mean, here’s my version of the last forty-seven hours.”

I explained things from my perspective. Cheyenne blew up as only Cheyenne could: “Are you kidding me right now?” She would repeat over and over again. The other two, who already knew she was treating me like shit, looked very apologetic and Chris said “Rob, you know, it’s really hard to argue with anything you’ve just said. I don’t know why Cheyenne’s being like this.” Cheyenne would then send obvious nasty Whatsaspp messages across the table to Kathryn, who was a little bit ‘piggy-in-the-middle’, and could clearly see my point of view and wanted to do the right thing. Conflicted, I think not!

After some back and forth — Cheyenne then stated “You know what, I’m done with this right now.” To which I retorted: “You might be done with this altercation, but I’m in fact done with this entire encounter. I know I am thousands of miles from home, with nowhere to go, but I’d take my chances out there then spend one more minute in your company.”

I then asked if someone could retrieve my bag from her apartment as I was about to walk off into the night. Fortunately, I had made good friends with Kathryn and Chris and they wouldn’t hear of me walking off alone. They asked Cheyenne if they could take me to the apartment to retrieve my bag without her, to which she would reply: “I don’t want him going in alone, go in with him!” I believe Chris then expressed some annoyance at the suggestion that I couldn’t be trusted in her dwelling. I went with my two compadres back to the apartment. There was one last interaction with Cheyenne before I did so: “You know you don’t have to leave on my account Raab.”

I then left.

Chris and Kathryn had managed to find a place right next door to the airport at fairly reasonable rates. They dropped me off at around 10pm and I thanked them profusely for the ride — they apologised in a similar manner. I suppose in different circumstances we may have carried on our evening together without Cheyenne. They bid me farewell as they then set off home; deciding not to return to Cheyenne that evening.

And so there I was. Alone in a hotel room on the eve of my birthday.

What happened next?

a) Probably cried
b) Re-installed tinder
c) Matched some American ladies
d) Seriously contemplated an invite to a Shisha bar on the same night
e) Fell asleep

Saturday 4th October 2014 (my birthday)

For my birthday I went to Wendy’s alone.

I had a burger and multiple free refills of a fizzy strawberry drink — recommended by a large kid who was doing the very same as me.

After I’d returned to the hotel, I asked the female concierge if they were planning anything big for my birthday, and if so, that I hated surprises and to just tell me then and there.

Returning to my room, I accepted a Skype call from my old pal Mike Kenna — who laughed his absolute tits off when I had filled him in on my woes. I have to say, I cracked up with him. It is pretty fucking hilarious really, isn’t it?

This hotel was basically in the middle of nowhere; it was like staying at a Holiday Inn at the side of a motorway. All I had was the Wendy’s, a gas station, an awful looking Italian restaurant and maybe a hardware store. But I was so close to that goddamned airport that I really didn’t want to have to spend my last few dollars on a taxi back into the city. So I just watched the hours tick by on the clock. The unforeseen hotel expense had cleared me out.

The Todd Saddler situation

Chapter 1.

Now, a few days earlier, what had worked out in my favour was an interaction I’d had on my connecting flight from Charlotte “Nauuuth Caralaaaaana” (North Carolina) to Grand Rapids, Michigan.

Todd Saddler had sat down next to me to take the aisle seat. We hit it off immediately and began to have one of the nicest conversations I’d had to date. That’s one of the things I love about Americans — how open, unassuming and approachable they can be. Todd was a family man in his forties, hailing from The Grand Rapids Michigan, and was travelling back from a business trip to Munich; if memory serves me correctly, I believe he worked in manufacturing. We recanted his tales of Oktoberfest, and salivated at all the jugs on his phone (Stine’s of beer you must understand). He loved my quirky British sayings and we compared notes on our differing languages — ‘boot’ and ‘bonnet’ for ‘hood’ and trunk’ was to be a great source of amusement for us both.

Ultimately it was my time to share.

The reason I was in his backyard left him with a look of incredulity and we had a jolly good laugh at my impulsive travel plans, until he said, with all seriousness: “Well, Rob, I feel like you should take my cell-phone number just in case this thing doesn’t work out.” So I did one better than that, and I took Todd’s iPhone and installed Whatsapp just as we had touched down. I gave him a crash course in the software and what my emergency signal would be if things didn’t work out. He laughed and marvelled at the new app now on his device. I took his number and bade him a pleasant drive home in his BMW M3 or M5 — sorry Todd, I forget which it is.

*Emergency sequence Golf-Romeo — recognise distress pattern INCE041086*

Chapter 2.

Todd replied to my distress call the following morning, explaining that he was unavailable on Saturday, but that I could come to his church on the Sunday morning and we could have lunch later on in the day.

A 9am start was a little too early for me as I’d been up all night tindering and watching awful movies, but we had agreed to meet after his service later in the day. He came along to the hotel and picked me up in his beauty of a beamer: she was speedy alright, and had gears in the same place as we do in the UK — not in the dash! I’m sure there’s a technical term for it. The one that isn’t stick shift?

We went back to Founders Brewery, where I had been with Kathryn on my first full night in The Grand Rapids. I bought another mug to commemorate my time there and Todd then very kindly bought me lunch for my birthday now passed (including some delicious craft beers). Another saying he liked was “I’ll be back in two ticks.” He asked me: “Two ticks? Oh, like the clock? I love that!” I then explained all of what you have read here, and he was very sorry for my unfortunate experiences. I assured Todd that my meeting with him for those few pleasant beers had more than made up for the few nights prior.

It was time to get to the airport and Todd once again outdid himself and offered to drive me to the front door of the building. What a guy. He waved me off, and so begun my journey home.

Alas, not.

My connecting flight had been delayed by an hour or so, which would mean by the time I flew into Charlotte, North Carolina, my flight bound for Heathrow would be in the sky.

Fuck. My. Life.

I located my luggage on the carousel in Charlotte, eye bags well and truly in need of defibrillation, and asked the woman on the baggage stand when the next flight was: “Not until 6pm tomorrow, sir.”

It was midnight.

After a few phone calls, I was eventually put up in a hotel, not before nearly being shot for attempting to re-enter my flight gate to find someone else to speak to. A jolly chap drove me to my accommodation, explaining what amenities were in the local area. Apparently there was a decent strip joint nearby. Didn’t really fancy that idea much, but I did see a vending machine in the hotel lobby — a tin of pears had my name on it. I stuck three dollars into that machine and opened the wrong door containing zero items. No fruit. The door closed and boom. That’s it. I’m three dollars down and without pears.

Off to sleep I went in Charlotte, North Carolina.

That’s about it really. I got to the airport the next day and did a lot of waiting around (maybe 4–5 hours). Eventually I got on my plane, which was practically empty; because I mean, let’s face it, what type of prick flies to Michigan for four days in October?

No comment.

I watched: The Wrestler, Dawn of the Planet of the Apes and Edge of Tomorrow. Got home. Sat on my bed a little shell-shocked and thought: “Going on a Tinder date follow-up to America sucks. And I’ll never do it again.”

You live and learn don’t you.