At my age, I’m limited from ever having a date or two with a young attractive girl from other cultures. They are everywhere these days, TV news, movies, on city streets, sporting venues and workplaces, etc.
They are from East Asia, West Indies, Middle East, North and Southern Africa, the Northern Hemisphere and South America, Europe (both Western and Eastern) and wherever!
If I was only an eligible bachelor like I was once, there would be more dating possibilities than time might permit. The colour of her skin wouldn’t be an obstacle nor would religion or ethnicity for that matter – just variety. Lots of variety.
When I was that age long ago, there was one choice only that barely came close to fitting the profile. It was a French girl from the other side (Quebec). My friends and I would inhabit Saturday evenings in Coulonge where the fairer sex would frequent a popular bar. Things being what they are and our group without the flair to flaunt considered ourselves lucky to get one dance occasionally. As always, the local guys or the cool ones from Pembroke had their choices – which included all of them.
One night a table of newbies caught our eye, girls we hadn’t noticed before. I couldn’t take my eyes off one of them but couldn’t catch her attention either. My months of companionless frustration drove me to act out of character. I nonchalantly rose, strutted over to her table and sat down on a vacant chair as if my name was embedded onto it.
She was a beauty with long dark hair supplementing her hazel-green eyes. I soon realized she had little command of English making a potential conquest more daring and inviting. One of her friends began functioning as the interpreter. After the usual awkward preliminaries over with, we were on the dance floor, cuddling and whispering sweet nothings in two languages into two ears.
We met again at that same nightclub for further romantic evenings strengthening our resolve to be together. By then we were communicating in pig Latin or was it botched English? It was clear enough for her to ask if I would pick her up at her father’s home. Another big step in our relationship.
Winter had set in bringing two snowfalls during the week. Saturday came and I thought I was prepared. Her address was a road off Rte. 148 between Davidson and Fort Coulonge. The road headed north into the Laurentian Hills, very steep, narrow and long. Hers was the 3rd house (large gaps between them) which took a good half-hour to reach.
Finally I was welcomed by a large family contingent, more relatives than could possibly have fit into the house, seeming more like a family reunion, just to get a peek at the new boyfriend.
I sensed a whiff of pressure when the ‘church’ was mentioned in passing. Or maybe by intention as I was raised Protestant. Back then it was always a worry for parents when a couple dating were not from the same denomination.
Now picking her up on Saturdays was more stressful and extra planning because of wintry road conditions. On one occasion upon leaving her place on the way down that unforgiving hill, the car slipped off of it into the ditch. There was no hope of getting it out of there. It wasn’t too long before an uncle of hers came along. After analyzing the dilemma he drove home to bring back a team of horses to pull my car back onto the road. We continued on to the hotel for dancing but somehow without the usual fervour. A chill had set in.
Our dating had somehow crested and it was progressively downhill from there until we were out of touch. She wasn’t out of my thoughts though despite the passing years. I remember her smile, her tender touch but not her name. She was my “French Connection.”
In today’s world there are so many combinations of cultures dating or married it is wonderful to see. I only wish that I was young enough to be part of the new mix. Maybe I would have found an Asian girl to date, or a Caribbean black one, a middle eastern Muslin or an Indigenous gal from northern Ontario. It’s nice to dream.
