The Englishman

“I just ran 20 miles and I have no plans for the rest of the day, what should I do?”

I was lying on my bed in my Bed and Breakfast in London, ten days into my holiday, resting after a 3.5 hour run and very large meal at Five Guys right after. I was swiping through Bumble and trying my luck.

I was supposed to meet up with a man who used to be the resident manager for my student building when I lived in London in 2013-2014. We had been talking regularly for weeks about it, and then as of a couple nights before, he stopped responding to me, unfollowed me on Instagram and completely disappeared. But I was on Holiday – and damn it, I was not going to spend the night on my own.

George’s profile stands out to me, he’s in a UK military coat, but appears to be dancing around enjoying life in his main profile photo. (I deleted Bumble and George has kindly shared screenshots of his conversation with me for me to use so these messages are from his perspective).

George and I set a time and I set my phone aside, turn out the light in my room, set a quick alarm and take a nap. I ran twenty miles after all.

When I wake up about an hour later, I start to get ready for my date. Putting on Taylor Swift’s album, and getting out my Lily Dress – I only own a few Lily Pulitzer dresses, as they are expensive and bougie as f*ck. But from the pictures I’ve seen of George, he strikes me as someone who will appreciate the effort.

I look up the wine bar that he has chosen and it’s only about a half hour’s walk, so I decide to download a few podcasts and walk. In heels… A half-hour walk is not a half-hour when you add 3 inches to your height as you walk. Reduces your stride speed significantly.

London is dark and I am constantly checking the map as I walk along, accidentally ending up outside of the Chelsea Football Club stadium or practice centre. But that’s not where I’m meant to be and I eventually find my way to the wine bar. When I’m only about three minutes away, I pass a man who stops dead in his tracks in front of me.

“Fucking hell, you’re gorgeous. Are you an Angel?” I offer a tight, uncomfortable half-smile as I roll my eyes and speed up away from him. 

Well, I guess this means I did a good job with my make up, I think. As I approach the wine bar, I see a crisp white dress shirt with a red scarf casually draped around a neck, I can’t quite see his face, but I know it’s him.

I walk in and immediately stride up to the table, and he smiles as he stands, going in for the cheek kiss that I’ve come to expect from the English. I’m always hesitant, even when comfortable with the custom, as most people do both cheeks, but some do one and I never want to make the wrong assumption. After the first cheek kiss with George, I feel myself tense up to anticipate his movements, before my anxiety has time to manifest as he goes for the second cheek and I follow suit, feeling some of the tension release.

I remove my coat and take a seat across from him, he’s already poured me a glass of white wine. I generally prefer reds – but do enjoy some white wines.

“What type of white wine is this?” I ask, suspicion and apprehension obvious in my voice.

He thinks about it for a moment, his first glass of wine is nearly empty. “Sauvignon Blanc.”

I nod. “Ok…” I take a sip. It’s very dry and light – a fine wine for a summer day. But this is a cool fall night… “I usually drink reds, but this is fine.” I take another sip.

“Well let’s get you a red then,” I open my mouth to protest, something along the lines of ‘this is fine, really,’ but as I weakly protest, he takes the wine glass from me and promptly empties it. I’m not sure if I’m worried or impressed by this act.

We get up and he leads me over to a wall of wine. We read the tasting notes of the various red, I list for him the qualities I look for in a red: full bodied, a bit of spice, with those dark fruit flavours with a light earthy quality. Nothing aged in steel barrels.

For my 28^th birthday, my parents took me to five wineries, in the past year, I got a wine subscription to learn more and I’ve become very familiar with terminology, technology and the culture of wine. With George, I know I’ve met my wine match, when I bring up the terroir and he not only knows what it means, he knows that it’s just one step above basic wine knowledge to sound impressive without meaning very much at all.

I may have met my match.

In more ways than wine. While I enjoy each glass slowly while we talk, he is downing them quickly and I’m trying not to take it personally. On the second glass of wine he brings up getting a charcuterie plate. A man after my own heart: wine, cheese, cured meats – these are my love language.

I let him choose the assortment for the cheese board, giving him free reign to order whatever he likes. While he goes up to place the order, I allow my mind to wander and assess how things are going so far. He’s physically attractive, very smart, an accent that could cut glass and a very charming demeanor. This is not a man, I could every see myself running into naturally, I do not think our politics would match, but he did vote remain and I like him so far. I decide that I’m not going to make a decision about how this night will end. I’m enjoying it so far.

As we start on a third glass of wine, the bread, cheese, and cured meats arrive. George brings up his interest in psychology and the science of interpersonal relationships, professional relationships, communication and management styles. As he’s speaking about this, I can’t help myself, I admit that I have no idea what my personality type is (E or I or whatever those four letter acronyms are that people put in their profiles), so I ask him to make a guess.

He is putting a slice of cheese with a piece of prosciutto upon a slice of bread as he looks at me critically. “You’re definitely an extrovert, and quite independent and spontaneous. I brought up the idea of drinks and you responded with, ‘Yes in a few hours.’ You’re traveling alone, that’s not something many people feel comfortable doing.”

I thought about what he was saying, “Yes, now that you say it, I suppose it is a bit unusual. I never really thought about it like that; I always just thought, this is what  I want to do and whether or not other want to join me is not going to stand in my way.”

“There is this one way of describing personality types, using animals. There’s Drivers or Lions, those are natural leaders, I am a Driver – other types include Expressive Monkeys, Owls Analytical, and Amiable Doves.”

“I think I would be more analytical – I’m a Ravenclaw, after all.” He furrows his brow at this comparison, so I explain “Ravenclaws are pursuers of wit and wisdom, Gryffindors are Lions, and they are brave and reckless, while Slytherines are cunning and clever, while Hufflepuffs are kind and good-natured, but perhaps not the most perceptive.” This is the main problem I have every time I find myself on a date with an older man - lack of Harry Potter knowledge, and George is eleven years older than me.

“From our conversation I think you may be a Lion, but let me just read off these qualities” I nod and he continues, “The Driver or Lion working style is: exacting, efficient, determine, direct and decisive.” I wince. Early I had spoken about how when I manage people, I’ve learned that I have to show more compassion, even if all I care about is the work…

“The Anaylitcal Owl is precise, careful, reserved, and logical, the Expressive Monkey is energetic, creative, open, optimistic, and a fast reactor. The Amiable Dove is warm, accepting, patient, co-operative, and friendly.”

“I’m not an Amiable Dove,” I say with a sad smile, shaking my head, three glasses of wine in and very honest.

“So how others see the Driver Lion personality is autocratic, critical, demanding, insensitive and domineering.” I wince, this description hitting extremely close to home from the annual review I had just underdone at work, where the main criticism I received was that I just wasn’t very nice.

I placed my head in my hands, “Oh no… I’m a lion” I look up at him. He smiles, and leans in, smiling, “I am, too” he assures me.

We speak about how by recognizing the personality types of those that we manage and work with, we can adjust our behaviour to better suit the personality types and working styles of those around us.

I love speaking about relationships and the study of interpersonal connections that I am completely wrapped up in everything he is saying. He starts to speak about how he’s worked to shape his company’s culture. He is large believer in mentorship and he has a mentor for many different aspects of a his life: a professional mentor, a religious mentors, personal mentor, etc.

We finish our wine and he suggests a bar across the street for a whiskey. I agree, I don’t want to finish this conversation, not only am I attracted to this man, but I also feel like I’m receiving free professional development advice and career coaching as we talk.

But it is at this bar where I get to shine for once. I spent the last eight days, traveling Scotland and Ireland, touring whiskey and whisky distilleries, attending a ‘Scottish Whiskey Masterclass’ in Edinburgh and taking the full tour and tasting at the Jameson Distillery in Ireland. And as a woman who works in a bar on occasion, I am very particular about how a bartender presents their alcohol.

In this bar, we’re talking to the bartender and I’m staring up at the line of whisk(e)y displayed above. I furrow my brow, “Why do you have an Irish Whiskey in the middle of a row of Scotch?” The bartender looks behind him, grabs the bottle of Jameson that was wedged between a highland scotch and an islay and puts it firmly on the other side.

I laugh and apologize “I’m sorry, you didn’t have to move it…” George smiles at me and the bartender waits for me to order. “Can I just get a Laphroaig?” And George also orders a scotch.

We move over to a sofa in the corner and continue our conversation. While my mind is a little fuzzy from the alcohol, I’m noticing another feeling creeping into my gut. Desire. I am attracted to this man, and that is rare for me (well not in England, let’s be honest). When we finish our scotch and he suggests a very good bottle of red back at his place, I don’t even think twice.