When I finalised plans for my three months in Montreal one thing I did was sign up for an online dating website. I figured that at the very least I could have some conversations over coffee with people who weren’t too dreary and didn't show signs of being a serial killer. 

It was more than disappointing, then, to discover that after an initial burst of connections with men who seemed remarkably good looking and rugged and outdoorsy, nothing happened. It turned out they lived in Mississippi and were only visiting Montreal, or they were monosyllabic in their text conversations or, depressingly, they didn’t see how fabulous I was and just didn’t respond. Obviously not well raised. So I stopped swiping left and right, and turned my focus back on writing, market shops and searching for the best boulangerie. I felt no angst. Perhaps there was also relief.

Last week, however, returning home mid-evening, walking past the bustling shops and tiny hole-in-the-wall restaurants on Blvd St Laurent, dodging couples and groups of women all buzzing with energy and purpose, I decided that I needed to make one last attempt. I examined my profile. “Rented my place in London, returning to the land of my birth, looking to make Montreal my home. Cyclist, writer, looking for intelligent man for coffees, meals, blah, blah, blah.” All quite ho hum.

I rewrote my profile post: “Three weeks and I’m gone. Will I return in the spring, like the swallows? Loving Montreal, even as it gets cold. Are you active, with emotional depth, into hiking, cycling, film, books, live music, who is up for a last minute connection? If yes, let’s explore. Life’s short, we need to embrace it.” Not overly chaotic or ribald but I thought that the time limit might appeal to those commitment-phobic guys. 

Boom! Responses flooded in and I was having conversations left, right and centre. I discovered that online dating is actually quite time-consuming, hence the delay in posting this, and also on Sunday, my usual day for blogging, I had two coffee dates. Not one, but two!

I met Philip* up at Café Henri by the Marché Jean Talon. He’d mentioned where he lived, and I decided to opt for two birds with one stone: if the “date” was a washout, I’d at least return home with a bag full of cauliflower and onions and tomatoes. He was quite nice. Hmmm, that’s damning with faint praise. I tend to give people the benefit of the doubt and assume that they talk a lot because they’re nervous, but no. Not this time, and boy, does mansplaining get dull quickly.  

Over the course of an hour stroll, I had those fabulous outdoor Montreal staircases explained to me, the dififerent neighbourhoods, how a company works, how Fairtrade isn’t terribly fair, and then the minutae of the Québec election last month was examined, even though I’d suggested that I didn’t have an interest. I stopped trying to add my own opinion because it only delayed the end of his story. I liked his boots, his leather bag and his pea coat but unfortunately the man inside was only interested in himself. The upside was in the actual market, as it was quite fun strolling past the stalls with someone who held my bag so that I could add the lettuce and scallions. But I think I’m grasping at straws here. In reality, he made no suggestions, bought nothing himself, had no interest in all the fantastic quebecois produce on display. I climbed onto my Bixi bike, a slight mist falling, happy at least with my purchases.

When I met Marcel*, later that day, my heart somewhat sank as he said 'Bonjour'. A full québecois accent. But hey, in for a penny, in for a pound, and at the very least I’d get in some language practise. We headed towards the mountain but then switched to a café as he was worried that I’d be cold (temperatures dropped to zero Sunday morning). What began feeling rather trite and difficult, especially coping in French with that accent, actually ended up being quite fun. I mean, we’re not running into the sunset. Spoiler alert: I’m unlikely even to see him again, but our conversation ranged from ageing parents (can we ever escape that topic?) to holidays to retirement plans (in his case) and my year of exploration (in my case), and onto camper van trips, topless sunbathing, Cuba, cycling in and around Montreal and the trials of empty-nesting. 

What did I learn from my dates? 

1. There is an epidemic of loneliness out there. 

2. Any future online dating will only involve men with children. There’s more hope they would understand priorities, possess a certain degree of empathy, and might share the joy and wonder of watching a child grow up.

 

3. I don’t know how to date. Even before my 28-year marriage I had the same boyfriend for too long. Perhaps when I was 12, when as giggling adolescents we’d jostle each other, vying to dance with that cute boy, who would then ask his friend to tell my friend to ask me to be his girlfriend. It was still fraught but somehow more straightforward. 

* Names have been changed to preserve anonymity 😳