I recently met a man while on a jaunt in the romantic city of Bruges, the Belgian town of quaint cobblestone streets, chocolate shops, and even a Lake of Love. I was delighted to meet an American guy who graduated from one of those ultra-snotty institutions frequented by the characters of Fitzgerald novels. He invited me to have a champagne cocktail, and before I knew it he was proposing an African safari trip for next month. I was willing to overlook many of my date’s bleak realities: his accent was so affected that it was of no particular geographical origin, he was a lawyer, he was living in the less than desirable city of Brussels, he was a republican.

But a few nights later he invited me to his apartment for drinks with his friend, and he introduced me as his “girlfriend.”He proceeded to discuss guns, bourbon, and the importance of learning business Chinese. When I told him that our two-hour relationship was moving too fast, he freaked out and accused me of being a liar. I made a mad dash back to Paris, and I have vowed never to drink bourbon. Or go on dates with lawyers. Or drink champagne cocktails that make dates with lawyers seem exciting.

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