Adventures in Tinderland...

Navigating digital dating on a whim (and not quite knowing what I got myself into)

Jan 18, 2024

Dear Readers,

I share my journals with everyone who wants to read them. I am a minimalist and don’t need much but it is my writing that has to sustain me. Food, shelter and comfort, and the occasional visit to the vet all need to be paid for.

We are sitting on a terrace in Brasov in late August. My best friend Rachel and me. Her sons, two lanky teenagers, are now old enough to discuss these things in front of. Not that they are enjoying this conversation. ‘Geez you guys are weird, it’s embarrassing’. The little one is playing on his iPad but the way he smirks tells me he is eavesdropping.

My single status has been up for debate for decades. “You’re so lovely, how come you don’t have someone?” is often heard at birthdays and family reunions. At the age of 46, I have never been in a long-term relationship, as I consider everything under two years as short-term. I have never introduced a man to my family.

“You’re so lovely, how come you don’t have someone?” is often heard at birthdays and family reunions.

When I moved from the Netherlands to Romania, I didn’t consider any cultural clash that would impact my love life. Or sex life as it isn’t always about love. Sometimes like is enough. After seven years I am also not sure if my “still single status” can now be solely attributed to said cultural clash or is just the continuation of a pre-existing condition my therapist and I have not been able to successfully identify yet.

I have often been told to start online dating. I was still in my thirties when it was first suggested, and I said no. ‘But if I am still single by forty, I will consider it.’ That gave me a good few years to devise an excuse not to throw myself into the hell hole that I considered E-romance.

Another friend, Mia, had no patience for any of this, ignored my protests, and just grabbed my phone straight out of my hands. Ten minutes later my profile was featured on a random dating app, that I can’t even remember the name of but now realize was a more obscure version of Tinder.

Ping. Ping. Ping. Notifications kept popping in around the clock. If it’s three in the morning, it’s just some poor lonely horny bastard looking for a last-minute booty call. Or, it’s a tall handsome stranger who lives in a completely different time zone, using his lunch break to check out the ladies online.

Mia had forgotten to check my location settings, which meant my profile had gone global. Within a week I was virtually hanging out with a Serbian fisherman, a Tunisian artist and graphic designer, and a policeman from Perth, Australia. After also receiving multiple Google Translate marriage proposals from various African republics, I decided to call it a day. There is only so much long-distance wooing a woman can handle, especially when it is expressed in clumsy declarations like: “You must be for sure my forever true love in my heart, yes!”

“You must be for sure my forever true love in my heart, yes!”

The policeman endearingly called me a “berry fairy” after I sent him photos of me wandering around in the woods. He made me laugh out loud in the middle of the museum with his cheeky comments. Had I lived anywhere near I would have liked to meet him for a coffee. Eventually, he did find someone a little closer to home and the conversation fizzled out.

The Serbian fisherman came to Holland for a fishing competition that took place not that far from where I lived at the time, but that information was received with a spectacular lack of enthusiasm, so no luck there either.

The Tunisian artist and I talked for almost a year. We shared what inspired us in art, literature, and music. He was a melancholy soul who suffered from insomnia, which meant that he virtually accompanied me during my art project “RISE” at the crack of dawn for exactly 77 days. I will always love him for being there with me.

There was one man, whose personal details I have completely forgotten. Age, location, profession, none of it stuck. What did stick is that he asked me for my email address, which I hesitated to share but did. He sent me a photo. I dreaded opening it, but it turned out to be a portrait he painted of me based on one of my profile photos.

Sometime during the start of the pandemic when we weren’t all under house arrest for crimes we never committed I made it out to Timisoara during one of the brief relief periods. I went to visit my friend Malina for the weekend. Wandering around the Sunday market she convinced me to give online dating another go. ‘Tinder is not as bad as people make it out to be.’

Ahum. Ten minutes after installing Tinder on my phone and setting up a makeshift profile and not even twenty swipes in (all left) I stumbled upon a guy who I had once met on a Blablacar trip, then saw my mechanic and then spotted an acquaintance of an acquaintance, whose wife was pregnant with their third child at the time. What the flying fuck?! This was way too close for comfort.

I signed out and forgot about it for a few weeks. Then curiosity and boredom got the better of me. All “good things” come in threes, again. I made a friend. Found a lover. Fell in love. Out of those only the friend remains to this day.

The lover came over, brought cake, and took me for a huge food shop for the remainder of the pandemic. So at least he left me with a well-stocked pantry.

The loved one came to the rescue on the last night of a two-week quarantine. I had been to the Netherlands to visit my family and while there, the country had gone into lockdown. A quick visit turned into a two-month stay, during which my neighbour took the opportunity of my extended absence to meticulously clean me out. He stole everything from my camera and laptop to my chocolate stash. I knew I had been burgled, but the extent to which only became clear when temperatures dropped, and I went to my shipping container to dig up some ski clothes. The padlock had been smashed but put back into place. Opening the doors, I found every bag and box opened and the entire contents either taken or trashed.

Razvan and I had been talking on Tinder, which I had again turned to during my quarantine. He had sent me a song exactly at the moment I went into the shipping container and replied with a crying emoji. He immediately called to ask what was wrong and an hour later he was on his way. We drank, laughed, cried, and dove into an instant relationship. Within a few weeks, I met his mother, had lunch with his brother, and introduced him to my friends.

It ended badly.

After licking my wounds for a bit, I went back to Tinder. I must have somehow screwed up my digital dating karma even worse because what followed felt surreal.

There didn’t seem to be a single man who could carry a conversation for more than five minutes without casually dropping sex. I learned that men don’t view yoga as a mindful and wholesome practice but find it an opening to talk about flexibility and tights in rather tasteless ways. I also learned that a casual and seemingly innocent “good morning” came with evidence of spontaneous erections.

Initially, I attempted to approach it with a sense of humour, which didn’t go down well. One man asked me if I enjoyed being spoiled. In bed. I replied by saying that I preferred limb-dick lazy lovers who let me do all the work. Another asked me if Dutch women are good in bed to which I responded that I have no idea as I never had sex with a Dutch woman. The self-proclaimed masculinity coach took offense and reacted by calling me a stupid bitch, which made me think his version of masculinity was a tad toxic.

Another disappointing trait turned out to be the countless offers to come and help me with my house renovations. Had they all shown up I think my house would have been finished by now. I deleted my Tinder account again and my archive of unsolicited dick pics I had been generously provided.

The last time ever Tinder date was with a guy I had been talking to for weeks. We finally managed to meet up (also in Brasov) and went for dinner. He was hilarious, disarming, and charming and I genuinely had a good time with him. I suddenly can’t remember his name but let’s call him “whatshisface”. During the weeks we chatted he had sent me so many selfies that had a stranger looked through my photo archive they would have thought it was a ten-year relationship. Not a one-time thing.

He said ‘hopefully see you again soon’ when I left him at his car, and I walked back to the restaurant where we had dinner and where I had forgotten my car keys. I foolishly believed him. A belief that started wearing thin when I didn’t hear from him for days. When he finally did bother to say hello, accompanied by yet another endless series of selfies, I was in the midst of rather violent grief. My cat had died. I couldn’t communicate with anyone, let alone with someone who ghosted me after a first date. I told him this a week later. He replied with a hug emoji and that was that. I never heard from him again. It stung as I did like him.

My cat had died. I couldn’t communicate with anyone, let alone with someone who ghosted me after a first date. I told him this a week later. He replied with a hug emoji and that was that.

I recount all of this to Rachel, confirming her sons’ notion that I am indeed weird. Or at least not very good at online dating. They convince me to try again, so we put both Tinder and Bumble on my phone. When we return to the Airbnb everyone goes to bed and I look on Tinder. A few right swipes in I start chatting with a guy who seems funny and harmless. As soon as we connect on Instagram he bombards me with nudes, and I have to say the best dick pic I have ever seen. His body is so ripped that I think it is a fake. His profile is consistent though. Active and super fit. I never reply.

Bumble. The third profile I get to see is of whatshisface. New here, it says. It includes one of the selfies he took together with his son on holiday when we were still talking.

I swiped right but that is just my sense of humour. It wasn’t reciprocated.