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April 7, 2006
Finding serendipity at last
Dozens of dates and scads of advice lead to one perfect match.
DAVE GORDON
On my mother's seder table, the Cup of Elijah was a tall, thick-rimmed
glass, painted with colorful swirls from a child's hand. It was
tucked away all year long like an heirloom, emerging each spring
along with the seder plate, the Haggadot and the inevitable dust
bunnies. I had painted the cup one day after kindergarten class.
My mother resolved to use it for the seder table until the blessed
day when I was to break it at my wedding.
Throughout my 20s, Elijah's cup served as a persistent and unrelenting
reminder that, yes, I was indeed still single. And sitting there
each Passover, filled to the brim with wine, it seemed somehow unbreakable.
I was raised in a Conservative family and because I became observant
on my own, I was not automatically funnelled into the Orthodox dating
scene. I did everything to find my basherte (intended, soulmate)
from frequenting smoky bars to marathon speed-dating. I tried the
Internet, became entangled in Shakespearean love triangles at synagogue
singles events and even attended Jewish conferences.
Following the lead of some of my "frum from birth" friends,
I decided to seek out a shadchan, or a traditional matchmaker.
Placement on a shadchan's list took only a phone call to my rabbi
and a few other friends who were already in shadchan rotation. When
I contacted a shadchan, she would invite me for an interview or,
in some cases, a Shabbat meal. To my great relief, none of the matchmakers
were babushka-clad women with bad teeth and impenetrable eastern
European accents. Tauba, the first of the six shadchans I engaged,
was a stay-at-home mom. She answered the door of her three-floor
suburban home in bright green flip-flops, an ankle-length black
skirt and a Yankees baseball cap. She frowned when I told her I
was a writer. "Well, you'll be a difficult sell," she
informed me, thumbing through her list of Jewish girls, all of whom
had presumably placed their orders for doctors, lawyers and accountants.
Shaindy, my second shadchan, was more grandmotherly – a small,
pleasantly plump woman in her mid-60s, with a knit turtleneck and
a sheitl (covering) over her hair. But rather than question me,
she spent half the "interview" opining endlessly on the
state of the Jewish day-school system. As I was saying my goodbyes,
her 400-page binder came loose, spilling its sheets all over the
floor. My stomach turned to see so many of those pages yellowing
with age. I pictured each of those singles in their laundry-strewn
apartments with microwave dinners on solitary plates before them.
Maybe some had cats, I hoped, only slightly easing my queasiness.
Each of my shadchans alerted me to certain "rules of the game."
I was to speak about my dates with no one. In fact, I was to take
each date somewhere out of the way, so as not to bump into people
who knew us, as the goal of Orthodox dating is to spend time alone,
to really get to know the other person's qualities and ambitions.
At the same time, with impeccable Orthodox logic, we were to remain
in the public eye. Off-the-beaten-path coffee shops were popular
venues for this purpose, as were hotel lobbies, where we could shmooze
over sodas and pray the maître d' wouldn't boot us out for
loitering. Total seclusion treads on thin halachic ice, since the
natural course of events can lead a couple somewhere they aren't
supposed to be.
Sometimes this oxymoronic alone-but-not-secluded formula went horribly
awry. Such was the case with the lovely Chana. I was 25, she was
20 and tall, with a round pink face and a bright smile, a curvaceous
brunette who could've made a roomful of yeshivah bochers
(boys) slam shut their Gemaras.
The date began a bit awkwardly, as do many first dates. There we
were, in a hotel lobby, poised ramrod straight on plush sofas, sipping
diet Sprites and rooting around clumsily for conversation. Chana
told she was a skydiver, jolting me out of my anxiety and helping
me to feel at ease. At least until a family of six – and their
two-week supply of luggage – plopped down on the two couches
opposite us. The mother thought nothing of squeezing in next to
me on our two-seater and shouting at her family about her jetlag.
Were it not one of the coldest Toronto nights on record, Chana and
I would have left in search of another hotel or a coffee shop.
Instead, we wandered self-consciously up and down the hallways –
our hands safely shoved into our respective coat pockets –
provoking suspicious looks from the hotel staff. It wasn't long
before a guard approached us demanding, "What are you doing?"
Staring at each other in fear (of what, I'm not quite sure), we
responded in unison, "We're on a date." The guard insisted
that we leave, so we called it a night.
On shadchan first dates, there are no goodnight pecks: instead,
I would call the matchmaker. I told the shadchan I was interested
in going out with Chana again, but noted curiously that she didn't
talk much. Chana had told the shadchan that I talked too much. We
compromised. Chana and I had three phone conversations, each of
which was more interesting than our lone date. But in the end, Chana
told the shadchan I was a nice guy who spent "too much time
reading." I was disappointed, but I couldn't deny that we had
little in common. Chana was an athlete who loved to snowboard and
ski. In the unlikely event that I found myself at a ski chalet,
I would just as soon remain indoors, sharing a cup of hot cocoa,
watching a game on TV or playing a game of Scrabble in front of
the fireplace.
Often, I was the one to inform the shadchan when there were no fireworks.
I remember my night out with Shoshana, a girl who talked about nothing
but fashion. Catwalks, couture and fuchsia-aquamarine beaded sandals
were the only available topics of conversation. I surmised that
she was intentionally trying to worm her way out of a second date.
Needless to say, my report to the shadchan was less than enthusiastic.
She then told me I should have been more of a gentleman. I offered
to show her the bite marks on the rim of my Styrofoam coffee cup.
There were times when shadchans got pushy. After reporting a failed
date, I would hear, "Trust me. I spend a lot of time getting
to know people – thousands! – and you two are definitely
compatible. Try it again!" At best, I found this patronizing.
After all, I was the one trying to get married. But I reminded myself
that the shadchans had a vested interest. When a match leads to
a marriage, the shadchan is usually paid a "set-up fee,"
between $3,000 and $5,000. Most couples are happy to pay when the
shadchan gets it right.
Based on the many happy endings I have seen among my friends, I
can say honestly that shadchans can and often do succeed. Many a
passionate romance first sparked in a hotel lobby or a Starbucks.
Don't ask me why, but it took nine years of dedicated work by my
six experienced matchmakers before I finally questioned whether
or not I was the right candidate for shadchan dating.
As I neared Date No. 70, I began to dream of meeting my beloved
at an unanticipated serendipitous moment, perhaps in the frozen
food section of my local supermarket. I imagined striking up a casual
conversation, flexing my atrophied flirting muscles. Maybe destiny
would bring us together from the spaghetti sauce aisle to walking
down the wedding aisle. We would have a how-we-met story worthy
of family legend. I decided, finally, that I was a romantic who
still believed he would find the woman of his dreams by way of fate
and not through the meticulously assembled lists of matchmakers.
I met Karen entirely by chance at a friend's Chanukah party. She
was beautiful, with dark hair and a smile sweeter and more sincere
than any I'd ever seen – and after dating more women than many
a secular Casanova, I had ample basis for comparison. I was struck
by the way she beamed her full attention on each person who spoke
to her, as though every word he spoke was a golden nugget. I say
"he" because it wasn't at all surprising that she was
literally surrounded by male suitors.
The prospect of competition stirred my blood, but after a decade
of receiving dates on a shadchan's silver platter, I had no clue
what to do first. I floated around the perimeter for several minutes,
waiting for one of the guys to vacate his seat for a bathroom break.
When no one did, I did what any savvy man in my situation would
do: I "borrowed" a party guest's baby and made a show
of cooing at it adoringly. Alas, neither child nor beautiful girl
were the least bit impressed. So, enough tricks: I asked the host
for her phone number.
Our first date began typically enough over coffee, but soon we found
ourselves moving on to a comedy club, then to martinis and finally
to a walk along the waterfront boardwalk. We were together for eight
hours that first night, and not one moment felt forced or awkward.
We were too busy enjoying ourselves – revelling in our obvious
chemistry, laughing at each other's jokes, listening to each other's
most personal discoveries and experiences. Even our silences felt
full, captivating and comfortable.
We married a year and a half later, just a few short months after
my 30th birthday. As the rabbi handed over that then-infamous Elijah's
cup, I brought my heel down mightily, smashing it to pieces. Nine
months later, on seder night, it was oddly disorienting to sing
"Dayeinu" without my painted kindergarten cup sitting
beside the parsley. But that two years ago, for the first time,
there was something new and beautiful at the Passover table. My
wife, Karen.
Dave Gordon is a freelance writer whose work can be found
in the Baltimore Sun, Toronto Star and National Post.
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