The Moroccan Mistake

Having just gotten back from Beirut, where I had met the loveliest Lebanese man, I decided to chance a date with a Moroccan guy I had met before that I wasn’t really interested in but thought hey, why not? Middle East guys are GREAT! The date was to go salsa dancing, so I could deal with having a salsa dancing partner once a week if nothing else came out of it.

This being the first time I had ever gone out with the guy, I was surprised when he asked me to meet him at his house. Even though I was advised against it, we were meeting a little early for him to teach me the beginning salsa steps, so I gave him the benefit of the doubt, thinking the salsa club might not be open yet. But I took my knife with me.

When I got to his apartment, he told me he didn’t clean anything up because he likes people to see him for who he is, and doesn’t want to pretend to be anyone else. Okay.

*                   *                    *                   *                    *                    *                    *

Salsa dancing was fun, he wanted me to stay out really late with him, but I had to work the next day so I declined. When he asked when we would meet again, I told him maybe we could get together that weekend to practice some of the steps. He called me the next night, texted me throughout the day, and the next day, and the next day. He called me on Saturday, apparently annoyed that we hadn’t hung out yet and that I hadn’t called him, and said “Look, why don’t you meet me tonight for a drink, and we can talk about what we’re going to do tomorrow.” Stupidly, I agreed, thinking that night I would tell him I wasn’t planning on doing anything with him the next day, and salsa dancing once a week was as far as I was willing to go (mainly because I don’t like being harassed).

He called me when he got off work, telling me he wanted to go home and change, then would meet me in 45 minutes. I said that was fine, but why didn’t he meet me at my house and then we could go somewhere. Silence. Then followed an annoyed kind of voice, saying how he’d have to drive all the way to his place then all the way back to mine, and it would take awhile. After a long circular conversation of whether he would just come over to my house instead of changing (and after asking to borrow MY shoes because his feet smelled, AND making a weird joke about if my feet were big they would fit) he grudgingly agreed to meet me at my house. Twenty minutes later he called.

There’s a problem. No parking. Silence.

Uh, well, you can circle the block and usually you’ll find a space.

Silence.

Look, I’ll just meet you out front.

Katie and I already had it planned. I was not taking him anywhere nice. There’s a crappy pizza place up the street, give him the ‘ol I don’t want to see you anymore (at this point) bing bang boom, leftover pizza for Katie and me to share. Hopefully hanging out watching a Merlin or something. Without this guy obviously.

Of course, the pizza place was closed, leaving Barfly and Captain Larry’s on Fort Ave as options. But as this guy became visibly more and more impatient after we circled the block ONCE, looking for parking, I suggested going to a local bar a little farther down that has a small parking lot. I don’t usually like going to this particular bar, but at that point, who cares. This is also after he kept making weird comments then ROARING with laughter, looking at me expectantly. The comments weren’t funny.

When I walked into the bar, it was clear the five people there (all employees, and the owner) were completely trashed. TRASHED. Drinking is fun, yes? But when you’re the only sober person there (not counting the guy I was with because at that point, I wasn’t sure what he was on) it’s uncomfortable and weird. We sat down to order some drinks, and one of the guys behind the bar decided it was a good time to vacuum. The bartender ambled up to us, a woman in her thirties with what was clearly a new boob job (seeing how intent she was in showing it off), decided to take advantage of the wind exhaust from the vacuum. She started gyrating around, dipping and flipping her hair back in front of us. After making a comment about this being the most awkward and uncomfortable moment of my life, I fled to the bathroom and started texting Katie.

DANI: Oh my God this is the most awful night ever.

DANI: I cannot even explain what is happening right now.

DANI: But it includes the mistake of going to (insert crappy bar name here) where everyone is completely trashed.

katie: oh, no! i’m sorry it’s going so badly!

katie: I expect stories!

katie: can you escape!?

katie: go pretend to throw up!

katie: dry heave!!

katie: fall off your bar stool!

katie: pretend you are a weasel and start running around on all fours!

katie: eat your napkin!

After I realized I couldn’t hide in the bathroom forever (stupidly not taking the easiest route, which was the door to the outside, between the bar and the bathroom) I grudgingly went back to the bar, angry I was stuck with this weirdo when I could have been watching a new Merlin, in bed, in my pajamas.

First, he asked why I had just gotten up and left, because he didn’t know where I was going. THEN he started a political conversation about the US, spewing on and on about the US involving itself in other countries where it’s not wanted. After making a few comments in response to THAT, he patronizingly told me I shouldn’t believe what everyone tells me. The evening plummeted. Nice Dani transformed into angry bear on a nest full of honey Dani. I perched on the stool and glared at him, daring him to make just one more comment and I would release the bear fury, throwing his drink across the bar and into his pompous, arrogant face.

When Moroccan man decided to pull out a transcript of our entire text messaging history, to prove I had said I was going to call him, and didn’t, I got up to leave. Take me home, this is the end of the night. And still, he continued to argue that I had told him America is the greatest place in the world (obviously did not) and that I had, in fact, told him I was going to call him and didn’t. When he pulled out the conversation transcript AGAIN, I got out of the car and walked the rest of the way home.

When he called the next day, I told him I did not want to see him again, and that this was not going to go any further. He proceeded to text me random things for the next several days.

Cultural difference or weirdo? Who knows? The only things for certain is I never want to see him again.

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