Privacy Setting

Date #3 with L. I get lost, in many ways. First, I cannot find the restaurant. I've lived in Portland for over three years and have yet to visit this nook near OHSU, Riverfront. It's composed of winding long, dark roads, leading to ultra-modern, new skyscraper types - a small, carved out neighborhood somewhere near the 5, Naito Parkway, and the river, and yet only a few streets allow entry into this spot. FYI, Market street is nice to know "goes through." I had moments of doubt and three phone calls to the restaurant for directions, arrived 25 minutes late and yet, was ecstatic to find it at all. L. had killed his phone and so I couldn't even text him to say I was running late. Actually, I did text him knowing he'd not get it, but needing to tell someone somewhere out there that I'd be late for something.

L. is understanding about my lack of promptness and we eat sushi, then visit his apartment and go to the 5th floor with our glasses of Riesling onto the eco-terrace. The eco-terrace and this whole neighborhood is as surreal as it sounds. I feel like I'm in an episode of the Jetsons. It's modern hotel-style living and riding in the silent elevator, for a moment I wish my whole life could be as straight forward and simple as this ride. Silently, I'm led from place to place. No decisions necessary. Each swift move as calibrated and direct as the design of this building, this eco-terrace, this strange land.

"Let me turn on the fire," L. says. And two seconds later there is the appearance of a fire, we're on the rooftop, sitting beside it, watching a woman silently exercise in the all glass room nearby. She's on the treadmill. I watch her legs scramble to keep up, her unforgiving pace.

"So Portland is small," L. tells me. "Really small."

I agree with this.

L. has a pained look on his face. "I found your blog."

The air inside my lungs is gone and I feel tears approaching but I'm able to hold them back, if I don't look directly at him.

"I'm sorry," I say, not wanting to look at L. I am mortified. "I think I should leave."

He asks me to stay. Once I catch my breath and find my voice I explain that it's really just for my friends to read and to stay in touch, and for me to reflect on my experiences.

"That's fine," L. says, and he couldn't sound kinder. He's nearly whispering and I can barely hear him, this has its advantages as I wish we weren't having this conversation. "Is this like a project? I don't want to end up in the New York Times."

Can't anything not turn to shit? I let this concern of his sink in. I assure him I didn't write anything negative about him. A large part of the blog was to provide a place to share my experiences with other people because I couldn't believe how challenging dating had become. I hadn't meant to hurt anyone's feelings.

"What's wrong with the New York Times?"

Finally L. laughs; it's a welcome sound. "I love the New York Times."

"You're definitely not a project. These are my experiences. I just wanted to write about them. To own them." I stop myself here because I can imagine as much as I feel my privacy violated, he must feel it much more so, "I'm sorry you read it and it bothered you. I can take it down."

L. says that isn't necessary but that I need to protect my privacy on facebook, so he doesn't feel tempted to keep reading it. I had thought I did this already. "That's fair," I say, "and I'll need to blog about this."

He says he's fine with this arrangement though I'm not sure how much I want to blog about it. Bad dates are one thing, but good dates and the hopefulness attached to them, are another.

We went upstairs, he picked the Your Friends tab under the Privacy Setting on facebook. There were some kisses and we discussed outfits for our Friday night date. I described what I was planning to wear: a sweater dress. It's a sweater but it's a dress and a dress and a sweater. Hence, casual. There were more kisses.

I found my way home on the 5. It was easy and right there all along.