Being an ignorant Brit, I never distinguished between Americans from different places – heck, they were all just Yanks to me.
But one romantic evening with a Southern gent named Matt has opened my eyes to a world of charms beyond the hardened soul of New York.
Never has a guy shown better manners or been more attentive and complimentary.
After suffering through a Wall Street hot shot who yawned in my face during dinner and Mr. Uptight from Chelsea who criticized all my clothes, I’d almost forgotten what it was like to go on a decent date.
Readers of this column may recall Matt was recommended to me by a friend in Mexico. But, in an excruciating mix up when I tried to arrange a date with him, I accidentally sent risqué e-mails to the wrong person, a college lecturer named Matthew.
I assumed Matt had long left New York, but, as it turns out, he was skimming The Post last Sunday on the subway and nearly fell out of his seat when he saw his name in print.
On Monday morning he e-mailed me and we finally planned to meet for our long-lost drink.
At his suggestion, we met at a Lower East Side tapas bar called 1492. He turned out to be a tall, slim Missourian with a lilting Southern accent and more than a passing resemblance to Sean Penn.
Even before I got to the bar, he displayed good old-fashioned charm. I was 30 minutes late (due to cramming in a sneaky pint of lager after work) but he was more concerned than impatient – and called twice to check that I wasn’t lost.
When I finally arrived, he dashed across the bar to hold open the door.
During the evening, he showered me with compliments and addressed me by name in practically every sentence. When I got up from my bar stool to go to the ladies room, he leaped up, too.
He picked out the tapas he thought I’d like and (rather sexily) ordered them in fluent Spanish – then asked the barman to play Morcheeba, which I had mention in passing was my favorite CD.
Even after I relayed a tedious story about my high school days, he apologized for forgetting the name of my school, at which I burst out laughing. I pointed out that he was lucky I even remembered his name.
But he simply said: “Darlin’ what’s wrong with havin’ decent manners?”
At the end of the date, when I offered to split the check, he told me: “Honey, there ain’t nothing I would rather spend my money on.”
After I insisted on paying for dinner the next time around, he firmly told me a date with a lady should never be “tit for tat.”
Against my protests, he went a dozen blocks out of his way to walk me home – and stuck to the outside edge of the sidewalk, something only my father used to do for me.
What did I do to deserve such courtesy? He told me his “dear departed grandmama” had taught him a lady should be doted on – and is never wrong.
I went to bed that night feeling like a real Southern debutante. So why, then, did I have this nagging feeling that something wasn’t quite right?
Yes, I’d finally found someone who’d actually listened to my long-winded tales, but had he done so only because it was what his “grandmama” had taught him to do?
How many other girls had he made feel special with his manners and attentiveness? How could I tell if he actually liked me? Perhaps every woman taken out by a Southern guy is made to feel the same.
I consulted a colleague who spent four years at college in Atlanta and is an expert on courting south of the Mason-Dixon line.
She said that compared with the impatient, ambitious men in New York, Southerners treat ladies like dainty treasures, worthy of reverence – just like their moms.
But I wasn’t sure I wanted to be lumped in with all of woman-kind and put on a pedestal. Nor was I certain I wanted my date to treat me like his mother.
Also, if a woman is always right, what happens when she’s wrong?
Obviously, I’m no daughter of the Confederacy. I like being difficult and told to shut up. Like most tough New York chicks, I don’t want to be treated with kid gloves because I’m not a man.
But then again perhaps this city has made me so tough and independent that I’ve simply forgotten what it’s like to be romanced in a good, old-fashioned way.
Maybe a little practice is just what I need.