I've always been attracted to a certain kind of man... men with an artistic streak, whether they be musicians, poets, writers, artists, jugglers or whatever. Creative people living just outside of societal conventions. Either that, or they're politically active in a very alternative sort of way... naturalists, environmentalists, animal rights activists, vegetarians, advocates for the underdog. Their attitudes toward love and relationships fall outside the norm as well. They are free spirits, roaming the earth in search of truth, adventure, and life itself. They want to experience every moment to the fullest, and that includes experiencing the people that they meet along the way... and then moving on.
There's a certain look that often goes along with those creative personality types (with some exceptions). You know the type.... they're usually thin with long hair, sometimes in dreadlocks. They almost always have facial hair, and they've got a certain style of dressing... soft, flowing clothes... bright colors with African or South American patterns... natural materials... stand-up collars or open necks. If they wear jewelry, it's not flashy. It may be made of wood or pewter or some other close-to-the-earth material. Pendants often hang from their necks from strands of dark leather.
I can spot guys like this in a crowd from a mile away, and I just gravitate toward them. So, I've been asking myself lately, why it is, that pretty much none of my boyfriends have ever fit my "type." In fact, if I walk down the street past a guy like this, he's extremely unlikely to even notice me.
I think it's because I don't project the same type of image that they do. They'd be amazed to learn how much we have in common. Most never get the chance because we never speak to each other. Guys see me walking by, and they automatically peg me for a librarian, schoolteacher or nurse. I know that for a fact, because when I was in my late teens and early twenties, and guys were still trying to pick me up on a regular basis, they always asked me if I was a nurse. Oh, and they guessed "secretary" a lot, too.
Those kind of assumptions always infuriated me, because I had gone to great lengths to explore careers that were anything but run-of-the-mill.... at least for my time and place and gender... from graphic artist to geologist to proprietor of a language school, to finally just bailing out and living in Mexico. I shouldn't say finally, because much to my chagrin, I am now actually working as a teacher, but that's just what I do and not who I am.
But my image hasn't changed at all over the years, even though I've become less and less conventional in both my views and my lifestyle with each passing year. And those artists and activists still don't notice me. Nope... most of the guys I've been involved with have included blue collar workers (there's a group of guys that are strangely attracted to "smart-looking chicks"), technical workers, scientists, engineers (god forgive me... but I used to work at an engineering college), and even a chiropractor. Most of them have had extremely conventional views on life, and look the part. Needless to say, most of these relationships never had a prayer in hell of working out.
Amazingly, I never really noticed this disparity between the type of guy that I'm attracted to and the type of guy that I tend to attract until one day last summer. I was hosting a friend from the Hospitality Club... a Sri Lankan guy, and we were walking home from the restaurant at about one in the morning. There was a group of guys walking several meters ahead of us, and my friend said to me,
"Hey, did you catch that guy checking you out?"
I looked at the group of guys, and they were all big guys with their heads shaved... neo-Nazi fashion. Cripes! Just what I needed. I was not happy to be getting attention from that type. Yeah, yeah, I know I'm generalizing, but what the hell... I have a right to generalize when it comes to personal taste, don't I?
Anyway, that got me to thinking about my history with guys, and you already know the conclusion I came to. So, I was lamenting this fact with my friend, Lolita, while she was visiting me from Spain last month. I wondered out loud if I should change my image somehow, and whether that would make any difference.
Lolita confirmed my assessment of the situation. She said that, when she had "rastas," (the Spanish word for dreads), she attracted a whole different type of person. Guys with similar hair came up to her all the time, whether it was on public transportation, walking down the street, at the beach, at a pub... because she fit in with their image. They were looking for someone like them.
Intrigued, I asked her how to go about making rastas. She explained to me that you have to separate your hair into strands and knot them together and then rat it all. Sounds kind of permanent. I don't know that it would go well with my new job, but my personal life is more important to me than that.
So, I'm thinking about it. I just wonder... once you make the rastas... if you change your mind, can you get them out without shaving your head? I'd really like to try it just for the summer. But then, in the fall, I have to go back to teaching. Hmmm, maybe by then, I'll have established my teaching credentials so much that my hair won't matter. Or maybe I'll think of something else to do for a living. (I hope). Does anyone know how to get dreads out?
Or maybe I should just go for cornrows. I had that done just before I left Mexico, and it looked pretty good. In fact, the U.S. Immigration official at the airport greeted me as Ms. Derek. When I looked at him questioningly, he said,
"You know.... Bo Derek.. 10?" Okay, I didn't really look that good, but it was definitely an ego booster (but then again, that was an immigration officer... not an artist... not an activist). Sometimes, if you're going to make a statement, you have to go all the way, or your intention gets lost in all the vanilla.
So, while I was pondering all this over the last few weeks, my new flatmate, Fanny Farmer, and I went out for a walk one Sunday night in search of a cafe. We found a cute, little country store with all kinds of teas for sale, whimsical books and knick-knacks, and a couple of ice cream parlor tables where they served vegetarian dishes and a very nice selection of wines.
There were a couple of guys seated at one of the two tables, so Fanny and I sat at the other without taking much notice of the guys. We proceeded to have a wonderful conversation about almost everything. At one point, I was telling her about some experiences that I've had while reading Paulo Coehlo. She thought his philosophy was a bit simplistic and that he spoon fed it to the reader. Said that she preferred to read philosophers who make you work your mind a bit to get the point.
Meanwhile, a dog wandered over our way, and I called it to me, but it went over to Fanny. She scratched its ears and I commented on how dogs always seemed to ignore me, even though I was the one calling it. After Fanny was finished scratching the dog's ears, he wandered over to the next table, to the guys who had been watching our interaction with the critter. I made some kind of a comment to one of the guys, sort of to the same effect as what I had said to Fanny about the dog. He laughed, and I took a good look at him for the first time. He was a short, thin man with long, dark rastas and a goatee. Very cute. My type. And he had kind eyes. Mmmm.
Fanny and I went back to our conversation, and by coincidence, we were ready to leave at the same time that the two guys were leaving. The Rasta Man asked me if I was from the States. It turned out that he was also American... from Seattle, and we chatted about that for a while. He asked me if he had overheard me talking about Paulo Coehlo, and we started talking about The Alchemist and the history of that story. His eyes sparkled with interest. I felt a definite connection.
He told us that he was a poet and a musician, and showed us the book of poems that he had just published. I took a quick look through the book, and although I'm not a big fan of poetry in general, these seemed to be the kind of poems that I can understand... the same kind that I sometimes write.
We talked about Prague and the creative community here. He asked about my creative endeavors, since I had mentioned that that was what was keeping me in Prague. I had to admit that I'm all over the board as far as creativity. I've done a little bit of a lot of things, and not too much of any one thing. I've dabbled in watercolor painting, interior design, furniture decorating, a photography project, music (violin), dance (tango), but mostly, if I had to say where my strongest creative talent lie, I'd have to say that I was a writer. But, I admitted, I've spent way too much time blogging, and not enough time with creative writing.
"Ah, yes," he agreed, "I've heard that blogging is bane to a writer."
I agreed. It's addictive... mostly because of the instant feedback (are you listening, guys? I'm doing this for the feedback.... don't go away without commenting! :)
Before we left, he told us that he and his band were performing on Tuesday night and invited us to come. We asked what kind of music it was, and he said folk rock. We were intrigued. I suggested to Fanny that Ms. L might like to join us, and she agreed. I explained to Rasta Man that Ms. L is also a musician, and that she was performing on Friday night. His eyebrows went up.
"Ms. L? Where's she from?"
"Ireland."
"I think I know her. What's her last name?"
I told him, and it turned out that he did know her through one of the guys in his band. I know a lot of Ms. L's friends, so I asked what his name was, and he mentioned a name that I definitely link with Ms. L. This guy was at that Irish Night party that Ms. L sponsored and sang Danny Boy so beautifully that we were all practically in tears.
We told him we'd probably come on Tuesday night. He shook our hands (with his left hand), gave my arm and my eyes a warm squeeze and then, we were off. I reflected, gratefully,, that for once, my "type" of guy was flirting with me....and I hadn't even had to get rastas. Prauge, I thought, is indeed, a magical place where anything can happen.
Tuesday night found us in a cozy, little concert hall. Rasta Man was beautifully dressed in an embroidered reddish, flowy shirt... just the kind of clothes I like on a man. He noticed us in the small crowd and greeted us warmly, just as he was warmly greeting everyone else in the place. Just before leaving home, I'd done a google search on his unusual name and found over 62,000 links. We settled into our seats in the second row, not sure of what to expect.
We were not disappointed.. Rasta Man's voice was powerful, and the lyrics grabbed me. I don't often take to songs that I haven't heard a million times before, but sometimes there's something new that comes along and speaks to me, and this was doing it... and not just because I was jonesing for the guy.
He caught us briefly on the way out after the concert to thank us for coming and say goodbye. With another squeeze on the arm, he handed me an invitation to a poetry reading that he's sponsoring on Valentines Day. I told him I might pop by, and resisted the urge to flirt.
On Friday night, after a long, hard week at work and trying to get settled into my new flat, I was tempted to skip Ms. L's performance, but Fanny talked me into going. We got there a bit on the late side, and had a hard time finding a seat. We ended up sitting in some high chairs off to the side of the crowded pub/restaurant, behind a table of noisy Australian tourists who were talking loudly enough to drown out Ms. L's sultry voice. I noticed Cabin Boy and Beowulf sitting at a table nearer the front and was tempted to crash their party, but for the moment, we stayed where we were.
Not long after our arrival, who should walk in but Rasta Man... with a friend in tow, a young Czech girl who had sung one song (that she'd written) at his concert just a few nights before. He spotted us immediately and came right over to say hello and introduce us to.... his girlfriend. Oh well. So much for that. At least I took comfort in knowing that the possibilities weren't necessarily stacked against me with my "type." Rasta Man's girlfriend is even more bookish looking than me...and oh, so shy. So, you don't have to be a tough, Patty Smythe - like woman to attract a guy like that. There is hope after all!
Rasta Man and his girlfriend found a couple of chairs at an occupied table, and Fanny and I eventually joined Cabin Boy and Beowulf. Later, we saw the Rasta Man and company heading out the door waving goodbye to Ms. L as she tried to subdue the noisy Aussies by serenading one of the men.
So, after this grand Rasta Man experience, I am left with the question... should I get dreads, or shouldn't I? If I don't, how else can I start to be proactive about drawing "my type" of guy into my life and keeping the engineers at bay? Any suggestions will be truly appreciated. :)