{"id":108946,"date":"2017-03-20T16:49:03","date_gmt":"2017-03-20T20:49:03","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=108946"},"modified":"2017-03-20T18:36:11","modified_gmt":"2017-03-20T22:36:11","slug":"first-date","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2017\/03\/20\/first-date\/","title":{"rendered":"Second First Date"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I had my first date when I was fourteen: a boy named Bobby Dublin asked me to go to a movie. My second first date was last year, and though I\u2019ve had almost half a century to work on my romance skills, the second was possibly worst than the first. At least the first one came with popcorn and a Nestl\u00e9 Crunch bar.<\/p>\n

Between these two landmark occasions, I was married for forty years. I met my ex-husband at grad school in the late sixties, and people then didn\u2019t date; they \u201chung out.\u201d We \u201chung out\u201d for two years before we got married, at which time I assumed I\u2019d never be called upon to do this again.\u00a0<\/p>\n

But I was wrong, and eight years ago my husband asked for a divorce. We\u2019re still friends, but being alone after that many years requires readjustment. In my case, readjustment consisted of being angry, swearing off men, and wishing I could marry my dog, Cecil. As this was not possible, my friends kept telling me to try dating sites. One of them had met a gorgeous man on Match.com who lived two streets away from her. He\u2019s a doctor and pretty much the total package; they got married and have lived happily ever after. So I signed up.<\/p>\n

I thought my profile was clever and compelling. No one else did. No one cared that I have great taste in music, read a lot, and am a good cook. I got a few responses\u2014not from anyone I\u2019d want to meet, except perhaps the horny seventeen-year-old who said he liked cougars. It was tempting, but I thought if I engaged with him the stress would give me a stroke or a heart attack.<\/p>\n

Then one man sent me a note. He was divorced, solidly employed, and had read a book or two. We chatted on the phone. He had an American accent, but he told me he was Indian, Parsi to be specific. We made a date for the weekend and I started getting ready for the big event.<\/p>\n

Now, here\u2019s why I\u2019ve decided that I\u2019m constitutionally unable to date: I forgot how to do it. All I could remember was that it was critical to keep the conversation rolling. So I went online and Googled Parsi<\/em>. The Parsis, or Zoroastrians, practice an ancient religion, and they\u2019re very much a minority in India, I discovered; there aren\u2019t many left. They\u2019re known for being highly educated and often wealthy. I should have left it at that, but I kept researching.<\/p>\n

I found a piece from 2012 in the\u00a0Wall Street Journal<\/em> about one of the Parsis\u2019 most pressing problems: the vulture shortage<\/a>. Traditional Parsis still adhere to a moving, beautiful practice called dokhmenashini<\/em>, a sky burial in which they rest their loved ones\u2019 corpses on high pillars in sacred Towers of Silence, and wait until birds of prey descend and leave nothing but the clean white bones. The mourning process takes four days.<\/p>\n

For centuries this has worked out quite well, but because of environmental issues, the vulture population is now dwindling. The deceased are left on their pillars to bake under the hot Indian sun. I won\u2019t go into detail, but it\u2019s not a pretty picture.<\/p>\n

When I read this article, I thought I\u2019d hit dating gold. I had a unique, distinctive conversation topic. All was well.<\/p>\n

But sitting across the table from my date at a drab restaurant near Hartford, Connecticut, I could tell we weren\u2019t a match. I knew he knew it, too. Still, I\u2019d studied for this, and I thought I might be able to add kindling to the fire. So I said, \u201cI am so sorry to hear about the vulture shortage in India.\u201d He looked at me like I\u2019d just grown a second head. He didn\u2019t say a word, so I pressed on: \u201cIf my mother had died and she was on a tall pillar and no one was eating her, I would be bereft.\u201d<\/p>\n

I took a long draw on my Tanqueray and tonic and waited for his response. After a long pause he said, \u201cI\u2019m sorry, but I have no idea <\/em>what you are talking about.\u201d To my surprise, American Parsis don\u2019t see the vulture crisis as a pressing issue. In fact, he\u2019d never heard of sky burial. \u201cMy father is buried at the Holy Name Cemetery in Wallingford,\u201d he told me, adding, emphatically, \u201cUNDERGROUND!\u201d And that was that. We left before we could even order entr\u00e9es. He looked nauseous, and I know I was.<\/p>\n

I\u2019m not counting on a third first date. But I still think the vulture situation is a wonderful conversation starter. Maybe Cecil wants to hear about it.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Jane Stern is the author of more than forty books, including\u00a0<\/em>Ambulance Girl: How I Saved Myself by Becoming an EMT.\u00a0She is the canine editor of\u00a0<\/em>Departures.\u00a0With Michael Stern, she coauthored the popular\u00a0<\/em>Roadfood\u00a0guidebook\u00a0<\/em>series. The Jane and Michael Stern Collection,\u00a0comprising forty years\u00a0of their research materials, is on permanent display\u00a0at the Smithsonian<\/a>.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Now, here\u2019s why I\u2019ve decided that I\u2019m constitutionally unable to date: I forgot how to do it. 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