Photo by: cod_gabriel on Flickr.com

I have told few people my first experience with the bitch called love was a German Mädschen. We were fourteen and held hands for a week before we kissed (no tongues). Months of intense writing followed, long letters. This was before the internet. Then it stopped and no heart was broken.

Years later I tried to make up for experience missed with one of her countrywomen. Now we were twenty-something and the bitch called love had grown. Holding hands had evolved and hearts could be broken. Also, there was internet, although we never became online lovers. This was before Facebook.

Nevertheless, technology had become part of our lives and part of love and this sweet sweet German girl took technology serious.

She was like a machine.

Never have I experienced something as human as a relationship as mechanical as with a German girl. We lived together three months, in Berlin, in her apartment where even the random things had a fixed location. Three days in the week she cooked, three times I microwaved food and once we went out for dinner. Sunday morning, eleven o’clock sharp, we cleaned the apartment. Everything had structure.

Even us, we had structure. We made love on Tuesday, Friday and Sunday. Every Tuesday after thirty minutes she would say, “Okay, I think it is enough for tonight. Tomorrow work awaits.” And like a man she fell asleep.

The world and everything in it had changed since my first experience; love was not the same. What was die Liebe became automatic and what had raised my pulse only raised surprise. Is this German love? Machine like? Mechanical? Planned and structured and exactly how it should be?

My sweet sweet German love, how it disappointed me but became me as – by the book – I broke off our rather perfect fling at the three months barrier.

We chatted a while on messenger, after that, and had there been Facebook we would have said that we “still got along great” which we did but not anymore. Her machine moved on and so did my heart.

Maybe one day I’ll take a third shot at loving a German bird.

Share a Sunset by FireTom on Flickr.com

Okay, so, yeah, one day when I was heading down the highway between Agra and Jaipur in India, my driver and friend for the occasion introduced me to a friend of his and it clicked. His friend was a she and she was lovely and lived in a small cabin next to the highway.

I spent five nights with her in that cabin and during the day we drank Miranda and played Backgammon and on the sixth day we got into an argument about money about with I will not write and I had to leave her. Only five days, but did we love each other for the 122 hours we shared! Did we love each other for every single one of the six thousand Rupees the final argument was about!

This girl, this wonderful Indian girl, how she proved that Indian girls are the world’s finest, sweetest, most caring creatures… And how she proved wrong the false adage that Indian birds are prude. Never have I loved and made love so easily and thankfully as with my own Bollywood princess.

Nevertheless, it was not in the bed we shared most, but in daylight with a soda and the Indian sun on our bare legs. My miss India told me about her dreams, her wishes, her country.

She taught me about dating women, about Indian intimacy, about how to and how not to be. Useful lessons I still put in practice. For instance, that it is more important to be faithful in mind, then in body. She meant, when I asked for explanation, that you should continue to bring presents and give compliments.

Also, she taught me that there are questions that are off-limit, such as “Do you want to marry me?” and “Did you enjoy it as much as I did?” Some questions, she told me, will always trigger a No if you’re not driving an Ambassador.

Ay, my Indian love, why did we have to fight over money on the sixth day? I understood your needs, but thought the amount did not meet the demand… The things I learnt and how I learnt them, so I continued my way to Jaipur and never saw her again.

Photo by: Hawken.dadako on Flickr.com

One of my first intercontinental flames was a Japanese girl. She was the cutest little thing and we hung out for three months or thereabout. I fancied her Toy Story cap, her pink sneakers and the many buttons on her trendy shirt. She was crazy, in this sweet innocent way all Japanese are crazy. In the end it didn’t work, everything was too new and too different and I too inexperienced. But I learnt, Yes I did, some important dos and don’ts for dating a Japanese.

You see, we all know Japan. So I planned a date to court her (these were the early days). We all know Japan and its clichés. I had it all worked out. We met for early-afternoon coffee and then I took her to an arcade to play a martial art game. The clichés. After the arcade we walked along the seaside and had a Sushi dinner. To conclude the night, we sang karaoke. She loved it. I thought she loved it.

How naïve, how dumb I have been.

Of course she smiled; Japanese girls always smile. Of course she said Yes when I asked her if she liked the date; Japanese girls have a tendency to make you feel good, to agree. Later, when we were heading for the inevitable end, she told me she would have had liked something slightly less Japan, slightly more creative. By then, I had learnt to ask open-questions, not the Yes/No type.

For, when you’re dating a Japanese girl, remember that given the option, they will always say Yes. Not because they mean Yes, but because it’s in their culture. Ask real questions and you will discover their true opinion.

Do also pay them enough attention. After a while, I didn’t. There was no response. That I took as lack of interest, but it was lack of my understanding of the Japanese way to say Thanks. So I stopped calling and broke her heart.

Ay, my Japanese flame, such a beauty from the other side of the world and the times we saw, the things we did. One word wonderful. Had I only known better, had I only been more experienced… (My life’s story, I reckon). In my humble opinion, Japanese girls must make perfect wives, but the dating them takes practice. Next time, who knows.

Photo by: laslo-photo on Flickr.com

It’s the uniform, I guess… And the fact they get paid to be friendly and helpful. And definitely that they’re the boss, this difference in position. You know what I mean; no sane man has never felt the need to spend some intimate moments with a flight attendant.

And, considering how easy it is, I guess most also have.

Not that I’m a member of the notorious Mile High Club (planes ruin my stomach and I simply can’t with a bad belly); my trick is to get them out of their plane.

The first time I fancied a flight attendant enough to give it a try, was on a LAN flight, Bogota Lima, in the afternoon. The kind of half-empty flight that doesn’t really take off on the flight experience part. Such a flight in which you read everything there is to read, even before you’re up in the air. So I spent my time trying to lock eyes with one of the equally bored Shakiras walking the aisle. Quickly one bit.

Now here I think is the trick, I’ve seen this happening a million times. Most men try to score the girl when they’re still tied down with their seatbelt. Wrong! This might work on Desperate Housewives Airline, but with the Columbians on LAN you need a bit more. And you can’t give her more.

My experience, Columbian girls like to fight domination, but need to be dominated first. You can’t dominate a girl looking up from a cramped seat with your peanuts and mini-can of Coke. Come on! Instead, you wait until you leave the plane.

One, for you stand up and can meet her eyes in the air. Two, she has to make a snap decision. Women, in gerenal, are bad at making snap decisions and choose whatever a strong looking man suggest. Three, she might be ending her shift so with some luck on her part and some waiting on yours, you can pick her up together with your backpack.

That’s how I played it with the Columbian. She loved it. Her company had paid the hotel room and I knew some cool placs in the city. She was amazing. Full of passion and energy, as if she had been waiting for someone to do this with her for years. Ow, I remember that night well; Columbians are unforgettable anyway.

When I kissed her goodbye in the morning, feeling slightly uncomfortable in a hotelroom I had nothing to do with at six in the morning, I even gave her my real phonenumber. I guess I could have married her. We never flew again.

Planes at an airport

The best part of the last three years I have been living to the sound of jet engines. It has been another plane taking off and another time running to find the gate closing and another friendly voice telling me the outside temperature in a new city. I cannot move a pile of paper on my desk without finding a boarding pass.

Okay, so, on most of the flights I chased one thing: my heart (or my penis, which sometimes is the same). Somehow, I don’t know, I can’t find what I’m looking for in the girls of my country. They are simply not the same as girls from other countries. I don’t like the cuisine of my country, either. It’s a bit the same.

It’s a fun ride. Back to the kitchen, I’ve had my share of exotic dishes. More than you have had? We’ll see. On this blog I’ll be writing about my experiences. A bit like the Lonely Planet for international relationships. I like that one, “the Lonely Planet for international relationships.”

A friend of mine encouraged me to write about this for the world. He thinks I have a story to tell. Actually, he wrote a novel about part of my life the past three years (I feel honoured, ahum). No kidding, he might be right. How would I know? It’s good to share a bit of insight, isn’t it? Maybe you have something to add that’ll help me make future flights more useful.

Love, Robbert