Melbourne is a city of dank bars, unlit lanes and young aspirants. Perfect for dating
|
Version 0 of 1. The last date I went on was at a sports bar. I mean, was that a date? I paid for the beers. And then I saw an older gent press his face against the tinted window separating me from the smoking porch and stare at me for a very long time. On the upside, I won $50 on Catzilla, which was a horse dressed in pink. Everything is so confusing in this post-Carrie Bradshaw world. I sign off my days with questions, like: “Are men in their 20s the new designer drug?” Or, “What the hell am I doing with my life?” Or perhaps more honestly, “Could I ever love anyone who isn’t Al Pacino?” Melbourne, where I live, was just ranked number two in the world of dating, according to a Time Out poll of more than 11,000 people. What does that mean? No one knows. The same survey revealed that the British accent eclipsed the French accent in terms of hotness, followed by American and Irish and Aussie accents. I suspect there may be some data-point problems at play, but that’s neither here nor there. Paris came in first as the world’s most dateable city, which makes sense. It is pretty to walk through, sitting in cafes while looking expensive is an occupation, and the Time Out survey says that people in Paris still primarily meet one another at parties, rather than through the dating apps that my dad describes as “sad”. But does Melbourne make sense in the number two spot? In the past year, the city was ranked both the sixth most expensive city in the world, and also the world’s “most liveable city”. These incongruent positions perhaps signal a population composed of people working a bit too hard, earning the kind of too-much-money that makes them feel like they are martyrs of capitalism, a status that ought to be recognised with being sat immediately at Movida Bar de Tapas. Bloody Marys at Sunday brunch are on the human rights, charter, right? They are definitely not overpriced symbols of souls in turmoil. So yeah, people here tend to spend a lot of their time and money on the decadent consumption that dating life requires. There are also things to “do” in Melbourne, if “doing things” is up your alley. Many, many, things to do so that you and your squeeze can draw the attention away from the fact that you are two humans courageously risking embarrassment and rejection by exposing your desire for one another. Melbourne also seems to be populated by very young, very well-dressed aspirants. It’s not yet LA – we still drink more beer than water – but there is a desperation in the eyes of the unblemished peaches that have not yet lost the hope that dating inspires. “Could this be the beginning of a recurring shared cabfare home?” “Could this be The One, or at least A One who shows my ex that I too can move on?” Does dating even work? None of my past relationships ever began with a date, they began because they couldn’t have not begun, because when you meet someone with whom you share some mutual recognition, no amount of hazing via film festival screenings or jazz-in-the-zoo dos will change that. The other night when I was on a maybe date, maybe not, let’s-never-discuss-this kind of thing, I really didn’t want to do anything, or consume anything. I wanted to go home and read, or rearrange the objet in my room, or just lounge around and talk shit. Which is what we ended up doing, which is what you can probably end up doing in any city or non-city in the world. But maybe which is more easily achieved in a small dank bar in an unlit lane, of which Melbourne has plenty. |