Last weekend, with the same pride I feel gripping my python Alfano clutch, I toted my new Latin beau out on the town. After much pleading turned encouragement, my bestie dug up a Rico Suave of her own, and defying all warning, we proceeded to dine in Hell’s Square. Our third party joined us with a British boy toy, and a mid-supper bar trip yielded two of my Latin beau’s French buddies and their dates, who soon joined our party. Using any excuse to put my lips closer to his curly locks (well, let’s be honest, his face), I leaned over and whispered in his ear, “All of these guys are with American girls.” Without turning his head, he nodded twice, and I continued, “American girls rock.”
He turned his head towards me and answered, “When they’re with European guys.” Well, I’m one of them, so I wouldn’t dare beg to differ. It did, however, uncover a repressed hypothesis that has often crossed my unconscious: In New York, American women are disenchanted with American men. The scary fact that your banker could turn out to be a Ponzi-scheming prick to the constant complaining about the market, the publishing industry, and even multiplying Disney sell-outs richer than thou, American men are starting to be big whining babies. We laugh, but who really wants to be a DABA girl? Instead, you can have yourself a sexy, accent-sporting European guy who didn’t lose all his money in the Lehman brothers collapse or an Australian guy who might not even have a portfolio but constantly calls you darling. Or better yet: BOTH.
And thankfully, there seems to be an influx in the expat dating pool. See also: They’re everywhere. Maybe it’s Nolita or their flourishing euro in our economy. If you’re stuck in WASPville (AKA Saturday night @ Dorian’s) or Jewtown (AKA Saturday night @ Aspen), you be missing them. Just because you don’t see them, doesn’t mean they aren’t there. They are there, er…here, and layering Manhattan with mouth-watering accents and skinny suits.
I’ve dated about half of them, but don’t let that stop you. They love American pop culture, aren’t embarrassed to buy US Weekly or lift ten pound weights at the gym. They wouldn’t dream of having you pick up the check. These expat experts frequent MOMA then shamelessly purchase cheesy art, which they actually intend to hang, from Urban Outfitters. They can be spotted spontaneously buying sunglasses off the street, wearing them to Sunday Funday at Felix, losing them after too much Champagne, and repeating the entire saga the following weekend. With their worries safely stored in their office and pants too tight for the poles that some American men have stuck up their boot-leg Rock & Republics, these men truly let loose. End result: F-U-N.
They have dance moves that they’d rather bust out than sit out, and for that, I am in love. They come in different shapes, sizes and forms. I took to the Aussies in 2007, had a long run with a French posse and most recently found myself bouncing in bouts of laughter with a music-loving Mexican. Recession aside, America remains the land of opportunity. My advice: Go claim yours! And beso, beso ladies.
Posted by Emma Dinzebach at 02:19 AM
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