A long, long time ago, before the advent of dating apps, finding a potential mate meant meeting them in person. In my homeland, England, this usually meant schlepping out to horrible nightclubs on a Friday night wearing “smart” clothes (a shirt with polished black shoes), enduring terrible music at tinnitus-inducing volumes, and awkwardly gyrating your way into a female’s proximity, hoping that they’d drunk enough Smirnoff Ice to reciprocate your desperate attempts to occupy their personal space.
God it was awful. Dating in the late 1990s and early 2000s really was the pits—take it from me Gen-Z, Tinder is just better. But then, at the turn of the millennium, along came speed dating. For those that don’t know, speed dating involves strangers placed directly across from each other on benches or tables who have minutes for a mini-date—a speed date. After that, a glass is clinked and the singles on one side of the table move one space down the line and repeat the whole process with someone else.
Such a night was hosted in Yangon last weekend; it had always struck me as a fun alternative to conventional dating and I had felt frustrated for missing the speed date love-boat back in the mid 2000s. I was just too busy drinking snakebites listening to Bryan Adams and not pulling in nightclubs to take part. But now was my chance to right the wrongs of the past.
Indifference
The evening got off to an inauspicious start. Not only did the turn out seem to be pretty low (24 in all), but who would be sitting there sipping on a vodka and passion fruit? My last Tinder date. The dating scene in Yangon is a village, and sometimes villagers know each other very well—just ask the good 11-fingered people of Cousin Falls.
At 8pm two violinists opened the session with a mini-concerto—presumably to get us all loved up and in the mood. It worked. I felt like Jack on the Titanic. Now, I just had to find my Rose. I decided to socially lubricate myself and threw back a few gin and tonics before I took my place at the end of the table.
My first date was a good one: a friendly young woman who was eating a big bowl of bibimbap and seemed quite indifferent to my get-to-know-you-questions. She didn’t give a damn about me, and I found that very refreshing—a solid start to my speed dating odyssey.
The next date was not so successful. The lady in question was friendly and beautiful, but we struggled to get the sparks flying because of the language barrier. “I like your dress,” I said, “which part of Myanmar is it from?” “Myanmar,” she replied. That was a pretty typical exchange for us. And yes, it’s my fault: my Burmese is rubbish.
The next date would be better, I told myself, and initially it was. She was beautiful, engaging, witty, and had incredible hair. “So, maybe I’ll get your number later?” I suggested towards the end of our allotted five minutes. “Oh no, sorry,” she said, “I’m actually in a relationship, in fact, that’s my boyfriend sitting right next to you.”
I turned to see a handsome bearded man in a singlet and garish tattoos laughing and joking with my ex-Tinder date. This was getting weird.
Then it was my turn to talk to my Tinder date. I decided to spend our apportioned time bitching about my previous two dates. I knew this wasn’t a good look, but I decided it was best to spew all my negative energy onto someone who already knew me and wouldn’t automatically think I was a cynical curmudgeon.
Just as well that I did, because my next date was…someone quite different: more on her later.
More gin and tonics
Another couple of dates later and it was time for me to switch tables. Speed dating fatigue had set in a bit, so I decided to down two more gin and tonics in quick succession—alcohol would make everything better, it always did.
True, from then on it was increasingly difficult to focus on what anyone was actually saying and by the time I’d got to the end of the second table I’d entered into a gin-induced fugue state, all the women I’d spoken to merging into a hazy hydra of awkward silences and nervous laughter. But that was okay. I was drunk, that was the main thing.
After the session was over a bunch of us gravitated to the bar and drank it dry. It was only when the venue started emptying at 10.30pm that I realised I hadn’t got anyone’s contact details.
What was the point in doing all this speed dating and spending what little was left of my life savings on gin and tonics if there wasn’t at least the potential for getting laid somewhere down the line?
I went back to the first woman I’d spoken to—bibimbap girl—and we exchanged details. As we were talking, another woman (remember the one I said I’d talk about later on?) asked me outside to smoke a cigarette with her. We went outside, lit up, shared someone’s abandoned drink and chatted for half an hour. It was really nice. We agreed to meet up later in the week, and we did.
In conclusion: speed dating is fun (as long as you both speak the same language and are both single), but it’s no substitute for making the effort to actually get to know someone—free from arbitrary time restrictions.
Attraction at first sight? That exists for sure. Love, on the other hand? My hot take is that love requires patience and time. And also cigarettes. Sure, they’ll eventually give you cancer and kill you, but as an ice-breaker they’re second to none.
