When I moved to Spain almost twenty years ago, I was young (ish), free and happily single. In those early days, I was far too caught up in the excitement of the move, dealing with everyday practicalities and battling with bureaucracy to think about finding
a partner. When I did eventually start to look around, there were slim pickings, to put it politely. With limited Spanish, I thought I’d stick to my own kind, other British expats. Unhappily for me, most were well past retirement age while I was still in my thirties.
So I bobbed along hoping that someone would come into view, but nobody did.
What I needed was a plan.
As my Spanish improved, I decided to try my luck dating Spanish women. Here, I was following the excellent advice of my Spanish teacher, who insisted that the best way to improve the language was to find a native-speaking partner. Bars and clubs were never my scene, so I did what every other singleton on the planet seems to be doing these days and went online.
Taking the plunge online
I joined a subscription-based dating site. I put up a profile, chose a decent photo, hit publish and waited.
And waited.
Eventually, I decided to make the first move. I flicked through profiles and sent messages to those who caught my eye and seemed genuine. I was on the app for about a year and had several dates. By dates, I mean meeting for a coffee after messaging for a couple of weeks. It felt less pressured than arranging a meal on a Saturday night.
I met the first woman in a café in the village square, and I was fervently kissed and embraced before I even had a chance to utter a greeting.
To this rather reserved Brit who wasn’t used to the easy physicality of the Spanish, this came as something of a shock.
Too much physical contact from someone who was, to me, still a stranger. It was an early lesson that everyday Spanish friendliness can feel surprisingly intimate to a Brit. She spoke English reasonably well, but the conversation went off the rails almost straight away. I opened with “qué tal?” (how are you?) and just got a one-word answer of “ok.”
She then hit me with a barrage of rapid-fire questions:
How much did I earn?
Did I have any savings?
I tried to steer the conversation elsewhere, but the questions kept coming. Perhaps she thought these were perfectly reasonable to ask, but it felt more like a job interview than a date. Our time together didn’t last much longer than the time it took for the coffee to go cold. I made my excuses and left.
More weird dates
Date number two looked more promising initially. She recognised me from seeing me around the village, and every message was accompanied by love hearts. We met for coffee, and all went well until she started talking, or didn’t. She folded her arms, looked at me and said: “Tell me about yourself.”
So I did.
But when I asked her a similar question, she just replied, “There’s not much to say.” When the silence dragged on, I asked a few more questions but only received monosyllabic replies. As uncomfortable as this was, when I got up to leave, she asked me what time we were meeting for dinner later that evening. That was the first I heard of it. I hurriedly
invented a fictitious aunt who needed my help and bade her good day.
Subsequent dates also didn’t get past the coffee stage. Either the conversations stalled after five minutes, the questions were personal, or, on one occasion, the woman who arrived bore only a passing resemblance to her profile photo.
Now, the only thing these disastrous dates had in common was me.
Perhaps I wasn’t nearly as adaptable as I’d imagined when I packed my bags for Spain. I was still looking at dating through a very British lens and probably reading too much into things, that to a Spaniard, were perfectly normal. My love life was sinking faster than a poorly built sandcastle.
The one that didn’t get away
As it turned out, I didn’t need the website after all. An acquaintance knew a Spanish woman who was single and asked if he could give her my number. We messaged on WhatsApp for about two weeks, then met for coffee and hit it off immediately. Within minutes, the conversation was flowing. We laughed, discovered we shared the same outlook, and before long, two hours had disappeared.
I was smitten.
By then, I’d stopped second-guessing Spanish dating etiquette and was simply enjoying getting to know the person opposite me. We then went for a long walk on the beach, and I asked her out to dinner the following week. That was seven years ago, and we’ve been together ever since.
In the end, my Spanish teacher was right. I found a native-speaking partner, and my Spanish improved immensely. He just neglected to mention I’d have to survive several awkward coffee dates first.
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Read more about Spain here in Dispatches’ archives.
Read more from Paul here.
Paul Arnold
Paul Arnold is a former BBC producer who worked on science, news and magazine programmes, traveling the world to interview Nobel Prize winners, politicians and celebrities. After 16 years, he left the corporation and moved to southern Spain, where he ghostwrites for publications across the USA, Canada and Europe.
