Within a couple of days it was off and then back on before it had even started.
Christian was wearing leisurewear when I arrived in Stockholm on Friday. It was clear he wouldn’t be taking me to Oaxen Krog for dinner. There was an awkward kiss on the cheek before he took me to Pardiset to shop for breakfast. He asked me about my preferences. Perhaps things would be okay…
‘What are we doing for dinner?’ I asked.
‘Good question. The football is on.’ He looked me up and down, ‘Do you have anything more casual to wear?’
There ensued my first experience of an Irish pub outside of Ireland. All heads were turned towards us while I self-consciously ate a house salad and knocked back a glass of sauvignon blanc while sitting beneath a large flat-screen.
Saturday started better. He dressed well and as we headed out, he suggested I meet him at the store of a brand he holds a senior role at while he headed back to change into a warmer coat. Perhaps he was going to treat me to something… But the store’s staff provided an opportunity for Christian to show off his professional standing.
As we wandered around the shops I moved my hand towards his and he subtly pulled away. ‘I’m not a very tactile person,’ he said, matter-of-factly. ‘My daughter uses her free hand to wrap my hand around hers.’ For lunch, he suggested a local coffee shop chain; I suggested the food market.
After lunch, the makings for a simple one-course supper, including a cheap bottle of pinot grigio, were bought from the local supermarket. As we walked back to his, I nipped into a wine shop to upgrade to a chablis…
‘I’m sorry but your flight is overbooked. You’re on standby,’ the lady at check-in said, the following evening. I started to well up. ‘No, you don’t realise how bad my weekend was. I need to go home,’ I pleaded. ‘I wanted to be swinging from the chandeliers but instead I got two Woody Allen movies back-to-back yesterday; I spent this morning alone while my host got his blinds fixed; and when we met for our final couple of hours, he was dressed like a homeless person, hadn’t shaved and told me about being the most popular guy at school, his modeling days, showed me images of “beautiful” women who apparently fancy him and let me pay for lunch. And my “veggie burger” consisted of the trimmings without a burger,’ I wanted to say.
But then I met a 20-something-year-old Australian musician, who had also been booted off the flight. We chatted about music, technology and culture over our Hilton hotel restaurant dinner and I felt okay again.
