Lesson 5: Don’t Fall For the Accent

Accents are sexy. But so are 5-inch stilettos. They’re both dangerous and bad ideas. And trust me I know. As a reformed Francophile and general Europhile (and clutz) prone to falling deeply in love with anyone who I couldn’t understand, I know too well the needless drama involved with dating men of mystery.

Here’s the first thing that I always resented: They know they’re hot. So they automatically have an edge over you. And the thing is, you’re pathetically helpless. So as you’re drooling over him during your dinner of salad Nicoise, Frenchie knows you want him. The Spaniard calls you after three weeks of unreturned calls and you drop everything to meet her. The Italian cheats on you, makes up a story about pity sex with his ex and you forgive him. The whole thing is just unbearable. When did an accent become a reusable get-out-of-jail-free-card?

You may be asking yourself how different is a Swedish hottie from the Texan-accented sweetie? Loads. The Swede has a whole other life in another language that you will probably never know—even with years of dedication to Rosetta Stone. Never. Which might be fine and sexy for a while. But in the long run, the meatballs get tiresome. And well, Tex, at least, you can pretend to kind of understand when you’re drunk!

I’m not saying that there’s no chance in having a good relationship with foreign-accented guy/girl. Of course, it’s possible. You just have to step back from the relationship and see if it’s just the mystery, or accent, that’s keeping your weak self from dumping her.

At the tender age of 24, I was very much in my francophilic years. I had just come out of a tormenting relationship with a psychopathic Parisian actor and after a long recovery, I went back to Europe, looking for a replacement. I was traveling through French-speaking Switzerland when I met a sweet Swiss-French/Spanish boy, Miguel. Miguel did not speak a lick of English. To no one’s surprise here, it was love at first sight. With my high-school Spanish, we tried pathetically to communicate as we traveled through Spain together. He would whisper something about potato omelettes in my ear and I would swoon. Eventually, I went back home to New York but a couple miserable months later, I decided to move to Geneva to be with him and work on my even-more-sorry French. Despite everything I’ve said about people with sexy accents, I don’t totally believe sexy accent = bad people. Miguel was actually a lovely person. But the funny thing is that as my French language skills improved over six months, I found him less and less attractive. We broke up. After learning a painful, prolonged lesson about accents, I went home to date more boys with accents.

So who am I to tell you what to do? I was suckered for years and years. Until I was over it. And now I date a Southerner I can mostly understand: ) Anyhow, date as many accents as you want. Get it out of your system. Just don’t get too distracted to recognize that dog doo in francais or espanol or italiano is still dog doo.