Paulo worked on reception at the hotel in Portugal I stayed at on a family holiday. With his tanned skin, dark, wavy hair and puppy dog eyes he was easily the best looking boy my 16 year old self had ever seen. I used every excuse possible to go to reception to speak to him. My persistence finally paid off when he invited me to go to the local disco with him one night.Nektarios was the owner of the straightest, nicest teeth I'd ever seen. One flash of his pearly whites as he served me a drink on holiday in Rhodes, and I was smitten. As seven years his junior, when he pulled me up to dance with him on the bar in front of all the other customers, I felt just like Baby with my own Johnny.
Diego and his brother joined me and my friends while we sunbathed on the beach in Spain. He was tall, dark and moody. I thought he was lovely. My ardour was only slightly dampened when I saw him that evening working as a waiter, accessorising his uniform of white shirt, black bow-tie, black trousers and black shoes with white socks. Yes, you heard me right. White socks.
Anyway as you have probably gathered, I used to have a thing for foreign men. With their exotic, dark, looks they just seemed to represent everything that was important to me in my late teens - holidays, sunshine, travel, fun, cocktails, tanning, partying. As I got older though my priorities changed (what do you mean it doesn't seem like they have?!) and I realised that just finding someone easy on the eye wasn't enough. Other things are quite important. Like having shared values. And being able to communicate in other ways aside from body language.
Don't get me wrong though, I was still quite excited when working abroad this summer and a lovely-looking Spaniard asked for my phone number. (Remind yourself about Lanza Man here.)
Not so excited that I answered though when my phone rang with an unknown number. For a start I was far too busy working. Plus I suspected it was him, and a girl doesn't want to come across as too available. Shortly after my phone beeped with a text message.
Hello, honny a'm the one from hotel.
Ok, it wasn't exactly the best of texts. Didn't really give me much to go on. His use of punctuation was certainly creative though. And he may have used an unusual way of spelling 'honey', but perhaps 'honny' was the Spanish way? To be fair he also didn't know my name so what else could he call me? I realised that I also didn't know his name either. That needed to be rectified. I sent him a message.
What is your name Mr Mysterious?
He replied.
Love, my name is Eddy.
Eddy eh? Not as exotic as I might have liked, but easy enough to pronounce. And yes, you could say it was slightly odd that he didn't seem interested to know my name but I was happy with either Honny or Love. What girl wouldn't be? I was just pondering how to reply to him when another text came through.
I need to see you tonight baby. tell me when and where.
Yep, Baby was fine too. Honny, Love or Baby. I wasn't really fussed. I was more excited about the rest of the message. As someone who hadn't been on a date for ages (unless you count the time when I asked the guy handing out copies of the Manchester Evening News if he also had the free magazine, and he said meet me here same time tomorrow and I'll give you one) I was pretty flattered to be asked out on a date never mind that someone needed to see me...
I told my cameraman that I couldn't go for a drink with him after dinner that evening as I had a hot date. I also asked for his advice for suggestions on where to meet Eddy, explaining that it would have to be somewhere not too far from my hotel so I could make my own way home easily. But it also couldn't be too close cause I'd want to have the option of getting a taxi rather than let a stranger walk me home.
Cameraman noted that I seemed a bit apprehensive.
"Well yes of course! I'm going on a date with a guy that I know nothing about in a country I don't know."
"Why on earth are you going out with him then?!"
Hmmm he had a point. I realised that 'cause he asked me and he's nice looking' weren't good enough reasons to go out with someone.
So despite telling you in the previous Lanza Man post that I very often do things purely for the blog, I crapped out of it and instead texted Eddy to say I was busy and wouldn't be able to see him. I'm sorry if I've disappointed you. To be honest though you aren't the ones that have to live with the fact you may have let the man of your dreams slip through your fingers.
As for Eddy, he seemed to take it well. Unless you count the five phonecalls in quick succession at midnight that night, none of which I answered followed by the text saying...
Please answer me baby. Please!
I was just relieved that I'd given him my Spanish number rather than my English one, so don't have to contend with him calling me to invite himself over to Manchester for forever.
