When one has been abroad, in one way or another, as long as I have (it's almost the five year mark-or 1/6th of my life), one becomes more intimately aware of the common pitfalls of living in other countries. The trials and tribulations of culture shock become far easier to deal with; the local language, while not necessarily easy to pick up, will be easier than the first foreign language learned because one has already taken the time to separate precisely what is needed functionally and what is superfluous for surviving in day to day interaction; one realises that setting up a support network as soon one arrives in the country and not pissing off your colleagues is of fundamental importance.
One thing I'm yet to fully understand, on the other hand, is the way in which seemingly average foreign guys (myself included) can draw so much attention from the local hordes of women. I'm aware that it's much to do with the concept of the exotic, but still.
Now, don't get me wrong, I know I'm no George Clooney or Brad Pitt-I could stand to lose about 10-15 pounds, my nose is wonky at the bridge, I'm far shorter than the national average for the UK, my teeth are slightly crooked on the bottom row and I'm very privately ashamed by my hair-but I do have some redeeming features: I like to think that I can be relatively charming and most people like to be around me since they're guaranteed to have fun as I effectively flirt with everyone (male and female-and not in a sexual way, either). This, in the whole scale of things, matters far more than looking like a movie star but having the personality of a bowl of Rice-Krispies.
What annoys me is when you get your average Joe-Blow with absolutely no game whatsoever picking up chicks who, back home, would cross the street to avoid him. I'm not specifically against happiness for either party: for him, it's bound to be an ego boost; for her, an opportunity to do something out of the ordinary. The problem lies in the way that Joe-Blow starts acting afterwards. Having exceptionally attractive women figuratively hurling themselves at you, can blow ones ego out of all proportions, unless one is careful.
In all my travels, I've never chosen the easy way out despite the fact that I've had that option many times over; I hold the sincere belief that whilst mutual physical attraction can be important in the first stages of a relationship, it is in fact one of the least important in the long run. Looks fade-hey, even the Mona Lisa is falling apart.
On a related note, at the school I work at the directors have purposely hired a harem of beautiful women, much to my annoyance. Seriously-I have practically no male colleagues (bar Ass-hat) to share a beer with at the end of the week or to ogle these women with. You'd be hard pushed to find so many pretty, physically attractive women outside of either a fashion shoot or an upscale gentleman's club. Yes, you read that right: they constantly dress in a highly sexualised manner-one of the teachers even dresses a bit like a hooker, replete with knee-high boots, curled hair, inappropriate tops and excessive make-up. It's not that I'm complaining about the eye-candy that is on constant display, but when you have to eat prime rib steak every day, it starts very quickly to taste like tinned spam.
When these teachers flirt mercilessly with me and drop hints about my love life and what they can do to fix it, I can't help but suppress an internal yawn. Like I pointed out earlier in this post, it's not a secret that many men pick up foreigners with relative ease simply on the basis of being exotic/having a passport/having money. Now, I'd hardly call myself exotic (despotic, maybe?); my passport is not destined to return to the UK for a very long time; and I've got barely enough money for beer, computer games and pizza, let alone some Russian tart with a predilection for pricey fur-coats.
So what's to be gleaned from my meanderings here? Well, first of all, it's of minor fucking importance that Asstards can get themselves hotties whilst working abroad, so if you fall into this category, don't assume that you're a Lothario because you've managed to bed a couple of the natives. Secondly-women, give it a fucking rest, will you? I won't lie-it's great to be perpetually fawned over, but it means little when you do it to guys that make me look like Cary Grant in comparison. It sounds like I'm fantastically conceited (I am ever so slightly-but only in the good way), however I'm not just looking for some fucking barbie to hang off the end of my arm and burn holes in my pockets.
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"In fact I think that I could love...about a million girls."
-D.
One thing I'm yet to fully understand, on the other hand, is the way in which seemingly average foreign guys (myself included) can draw so much attention from the local hordes of women. I'm aware that it's much to do with the concept of the exotic, but still.
Now, don't get me wrong, I know I'm no George Clooney or Brad Pitt-I could stand to lose about 10-15 pounds, my nose is wonky at the bridge, I'm far shorter than the national average for the UK, my teeth are slightly crooked on the bottom row and I'm very privately ashamed by my hair-but I do have some redeeming features: I like to think that I can be relatively charming and most people like to be around me since they're guaranteed to have fun as I effectively flirt with everyone (male and female-and not in a sexual way, either). This, in the whole scale of things, matters far more than looking like a movie star but having the personality of a bowl of Rice-Krispies.
What annoys me is when you get your average Joe-Blow with absolutely no game whatsoever picking up chicks who, back home, would cross the street to avoid him. I'm not specifically against happiness for either party: for him, it's bound to be an ego boost; for her, an opportunity to do something out of the ordinary. The problem lies in the way that Joe-Blow starts acting afterwards. Having exceptionally attractive women figuratively hurling themselves at you, can blow ones ego out of all proportions, unless one is careful.
 |
| Hey baby, you ever made it with Paul Newman? |
In all my travels, I've never chosen the easy way out despite the fact that I've had that option many times over; I hold the sincere belief that whilst mutual physical attraction can be important in the first stages of a relationship, it is in fact one of the least important in the long run. Looks fade-hey, even the Mona Lisa is falling apart.
On a related note, at the school I work at the directors have purposely hired a harem of beautiful women, much to my annoyance. Seriously-I have practically no male colleagues (bar Ass-hat) to share a beer with at the end of the week or to ogle these women with. You'd be hard pushed to find so many pretty, physically attractive women outside of either a fashion shoot or an upscale gentleman's club. Yes, you read that right: they constantly dress in a highly sexualised manner-one of the teachers even dresses a bit like a hooker, replete with knee-high boots, curled hair, inappropriate tops and excessive make-up. It's not that I'm complaining about the eye-candy that is on constant display, but when you have to eat prime rib steak every day, it starts very quickly to taste like tinned spam.
 |
| Pictured: Urgh, not spam again. |
 |
| "What's that, honey? You want another fur coat? But then I won't have enough money for Mass Effect 3..." |
So what's to be gleaned from my meanderings here? Well, first of all, it's of minor fucking importance that Asstards can get themselves hotties whilst working abroad, so if you fall into this category, don't assume that you're a Lothario because you've managed to bed a couple of the natives. Secondly-women, give it a fucking rest, will you? I won't lie-it's great to be perpetually fawned over, but it means little when you do it to guys that make me look like Cary Grant in comparison. It sounds like I'm fantastically conceited (I am ever so slightly-but only in the good way), however I'm not just looking for some fucking barbie to hang off the end of my arm and burn holes in my pockets.
 |
| Now this on the other hand... |
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"In fact I think that I could love...about a million girls."
-D.
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