Finding love during the war: A speed dating adventure in NYC

I’m a single, 40-year-old Jewish woman living in Israel. I do not date. Do I like cats, you ask? Well, I really couldn’t tell you. I do have a couple of them, though.

I can trace my choice of not dating back to age nine, by which time life seemed to be difficult enough without chasing down a concept – romantic love – that I felt, and still mostly do, that if it exists at all, it does not last.

So I tell myself that I am doing just fine on my own and that I need neither heartaches nor headaches. I do not date.

Then again, “You idiot,” I berate myself just as soon as I am curled up in a blanket shivering with a fever, “Happy now?” before choking up a fur ball.

After leaving Israel for New York seeking a temporary respite from the war, I thought it might be a good idea to see what was out there, so I Googled Events for Jews in New York City.

“NYC Jewish speed dating (Manhattan) – males and females ages 30s and 40s” by a website called Jewishdatingnyc.com immediately popped up. The next event was to take place on a Thursday night at the Courtyard Marriott, right off Times Square. 

Tickets cost $38.

This sounded horrible, judging by my gut reaction. So, naturally, I signed right up.

Upon arrival, each participant received a name tag, a card with a letter on it, and a sheet of paper. On it was a list of first names with a space next to each one to jot down impressions during the evening and to circle Y for “Yes” and N for “No” after every encounter. 

The women received a sheet with the list of the men’s names and vice versa. 

We were told that only if both sides marked “Yes” on each other would the organizers then provide the one with the other’s contact information.

After some disappointments, “Oh my, it looks like there are more men than women here tonight!” and “Are you here for the speed dating event, sweetie?” a question an eager-looking coordinator directed at a woman as she walked through the Marriott lobby. 

The startled woman quickly skedaddled, a faint yet decisive “No!” trailing behind her. 

Carrying a portable microphone, the facilitator announced that women should remain seated throughout the evening in the booth marked with the same letter as the one on the card that they were given. The gentlemen would rotate.

One more thing: Participants had four minutes to talk to each prospective match. A 30-second countdown would be declared at the end of each round.

“And with that, let’s begin!” she cheerfully exclaimed.

IT SUDDENLY dawned on me that I must have gone insane. What on earth was I thinking, putting myself willingly into this nerve-wracking situation?

Besides, what have I ever been able to accomplish in four rushed minutes? Stub my toe, walk into a door, accidentally step on Cookie’s tail and get the full royal fangs-and-nails treatment, only to give up on account of the concussion and the need for a rabies vaccine and stitches. 

Meeting a bashert in four minutes flat? Out of the question.

Plus, there’s a war going on in Israel. My country is in danger. Don’t I have better things to do than waste my time on frivolities?

And what about my dignity? I do not date. Everyone knows that.

What if no one circles “Yes” next to my name?

“Don’t think of this experience as your chance to meet the one,” the woman holding the microphone said as if she could read my mind. “You are here to meet people, maybe have a nice conversation – that’s it. No pressure.”

The small but cozy space lined with high tables and two chairs facing each other on either side filled with a crowd of people looking confused as we all tried to locate our seats... and our partners.

“Table C?” The first man, bearded, balding, sweaty, and wearing a bright purple T-shirt, asked as he sat down. I came prepared with a conversational topic: As a Diaspora Jew, what are your thoughts about Israel?

Since I lived in the Jewish state for most of my life, I was genuinely curious to hear firsthand what others thought concerning the current ever-evolving situation in my homeland.

Also, I hadn’t a clue as to what I was supposed to talk about with a potential husband-to-be.

“You sound Israeli?” I tried.

Finding an Israeli among the crowd 

Yes, he was, actually. He just moved to NYC a couple of months ago for work. He loved Israel; he had some cousins in New York, but most of his family was back home, and would I mind very much if he could record a video of me for his friend?

“Sorry, what? I don’t know. I guess so?” came my response. I was too surprised to take a minute to contemplate. Anyway, two minutes were already up. No time.

He held up his phone, recording: “Say something in Hebrew for my friend.”

“Like what?” I pondered. So much for worrying about sitting in an uncomfortable silence.

“Yes, tell him how Jewish girls in America are very nice, like you. Tell him that he should come to a place like this also. You say to him not to be afraid, that it is good for him to come next time, but in Hebrew, yeah?”

After repeating the message verbatim (“30 seconds!” The woman holding the microphone boomed), I was enthusiastically shown a photo of his friend, followed by “I look forward to continuing our conversation” before he rose, while the voice armed with the mic reminded us to be sure that we wrote something on our sheet about the person and the encounter we just had. 

“Otherwise, this will all become a blur, and you’ll have a hard time remembering later who was who and what was what,” she gleefully warned us.

I found the correct name on the sheet and circled N.

“Excuse me, but was that guy filming you?” the fast-approaching, bespectacled, neatly dressed young man who looked 10 years my senior gently inquired as he gingerly sat down on the bar stool across from me. His pleasant smile and calm, good-natured demeanor made him instantly amiable in a pal-like sort of way. We both, I could tell, felt the same.

“Yes, he was.”

“You know you can say no, right?” he kindly pointed out.

We had a delightful conversation about the things we’ve done and seen in New York City lately, deciding that he ought to see the Broadway musical Six, whereas I’d need to see Back to the Future.

“What are your thoughts on what is going on in Israel?” I suddenly remembered to ask.

“What happened was horrible,” he said, referring to the October 7, 2023, massacre by Hamas. “Someone, answer me this: How is it that it’s okay to tell Jews that we are not allowed to have even one country of our own? Not even one? Look at every other collective, every other group – no one questions their right to have a state. But Jews? No, not Jews. How does that even make sense? Of course I believe that we must defend the only place we ever could call home.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you look like a young Tobey Maguire?” I shot at him as he rose from his seat. Time was up.

“Yeah,” he smiled as he walked off. “I get that a lot.”

I circled N, certain that the moment we shared was of friendship, of kin bonding with kin (a suspicion that was later confirmed), but added, “Nice guy; would make a great friend.”

“THERE, THERE now – take your time,” the person who presented himself next purred just as I looked up and realized that he was already seated across from me, his intertwined hands resting lightly on the table, an amused expression on his face. The clock was ticking. 

Scribbling down comments was shaving time off the minutes we had to talk to the next person, and perhaps I was coming across as rude.

Matters did not improve much when the rosy-cheeked, clean-shaven, silver-haired, smooth-talking banker, wearing a plaid suit with a bright yellow tie, regarded me as one would an adorable yet silly little kitten. 

“No, dear,” he politely answered my question regarding Israel. “Although I am Jewish, I don’t have much of a connection to the place. I visited once; stunning views and excellent cuisine. That’s about it.”

Was he afraid of showing his Jewish identity on the streets of New York these days?

“Of course not. That’s ridiculous. It’s perfectly safe here for Jews. Don’t let what you see on social media or the news scare you, darling,” he replied.

After he moseyed off into the maze of couples and drinks in the warm, softly lit space, having shaken my hand with a polite but indifferent “It was nice to meet you, dear,” I wondered if I had stepped into a time machine.

An acute memory of my grandfather, Brooklyn-born and raised, wagging a finger at me when I was around 15, warning me that I must “marry a rich man and soon” suddenly surfaced.

It was quickly chased down by another memory of my grandmother whispering to my mother when I was in my mid-20s that if “Audrey doesn’t catch one soon, all the good ones will already have been taken.”

“I am in this situation because it was my choice,” I reminded myself as I peeked over at the panicked, flushed face reflected back at me from one of the hotel’s windows.

THE MAN who sat down next, wearing a simple gray T-shirt and looking at me with a deadpan stare, had me checking around for the exits while restoring my faith in my life choices.

No, he did not feel an affinity for any particular location, Israel or otherwise. No, he never stayed anywhere for too long. No, he did not know any city well, given that he was constantly relocating; he told me that a second ago, was I even listening to him?

No, he was not close to anyone in his family and so no, he did not have much to say about the places that they lived in. What was his profession, I wanted to know. Well, let’s just say he was in the landfill business if I get his drift.

“Serial killer/mafioso,” I scribbled down when he got up. And then, to my relief, a 15-minute break was declared.

A woman sitting at the table to my right swiveled around.

“I’m an agent,” the attractive, blonde, 42-year-old, with eyes reminiscent of Cleopatra, informed me. “I’ve been listening to you all evening. You give off Bette Midler vibes. If there was a casting call to play her in a movie about her life and you were in the lineup, you’d win. I know her. You could play her easily. Here’s my number. Call me.”

What were her feelings concerning Israel?

“That you’ve all gone mad. Tell your readers that Jews live in other countries. Remind them that we are all one people. What Jews do in Israel affects all of us in the Diaspora. Do you have any idea what it looks like, all of you marching against the government in a time of war? What is wrong with you?

“As a Jew, I’m afraid right now. These are scary times, and it’s the fault of the Israelis protesting against their government. That projects weakness – a society crumbling from the inside. I get it; I have relatives in Israel. I know about the hostages. I understand the situation. But what about us? What about Jews who don’t live in Israel? What the country chooses to do impacts all of us. Do any of you over there understand or consider that?

“Why do you Israelis have to protest now? You need to win that war; that’s what you need to focus on. Fight and win, then protest! You have lost your minds. Your actions are putting us all at risk,” she continued.“Call me,” she repeated as we were invited by our coordinator to get back into our seats. The break was over.

A social worker – tall, lanky, funny, no spark – came and left. “Nice but not for me,” I wrote.

Cute then sat down. Very cute, in fact. A simple white ironed shirt with a collar, long pants, and a neatly trimmed brown mustache and beard, the boyish-looking individual in front of me with the intelligent brown eyes relaxed into his chair, sipping from his drink. He commenced surveying the room with an air of unperturbed ease.

“Hi,” was all I could muster. Great. So much for my talking points.

“Hello,” he replied, glancing up. He looked bored.

“Are you okay?”

“Sure,” he sighed. “You know how it is. You need to make non-stop conversation with complete strangers for over an hour and a half. It’s exhausting.”

“Would you like us to sit in silence?” I offered.

“Yeah, sure, that would be great. Appreciate it.”

I knew then and there that this was a no-go on his end. My suspicions were confirmed later when he walked off into the glistening billboard lights of Times Square, a tall, fetching woman draped over his arm, and disappeared into the night.

Nevertheless, I scribbled, “Cute,” and circled Y on my form, even though we were told that the organizers at the event would relay all yeses, even if only one side gave the affirmative, to the other party in question, just to leave the option open for them to change their minds.

“Ya look like a movie star!” the next man, somewhat on the shorter side, slim, greasy-haired, and peppy, belted before oozing into his chair. After he shook my hand enthusiastically, he told me that he dealt in property, sometimes buying, sometimes selling, and often just managing it, loved Israel, had never been, felt a strong connection to Jews, didn’t really know any, and, if my suspicion was correct, he was most likely Italian.

“I look forward to continuing our conversation. Ya look like a movie star!” he echoed when time was up.

“No dice,” I jotted down next to his name.

The well put-together, nicely built, good conversationalist who then walked over seemed pleasantly surprised at the sight of me. 

He was delighted to have the opportunity to speak in Hebrew. After all, his mother was Israeli. Yes, I was impressed with how well he spoke it. He was glad to hear it; he hadn’t spoken the language in a long while. He missed speaking Hebrew.

He was a practicing doctor in New York. He liked that I had a master’s degree. Yes, of course, he cared about the State of Israel, literally and figuratively speaking; he was following events with concern.

 No, he would not be opposed to moving there some day. He lived in the North for a year early in his career. It was great.

We both circled Y.

“Why can’t a man walk up to a girl on the street anymore and just ask her out?” the final contender, appearing out of nowhere, demanded to know. Bright red T-shirt with a personality to match, he didn’t bother sitting down. 

“What are your thoughts on Israel?” I asked.

“What’s that got to do with anything?” he shot back.

We each circled N on our sheets, coupled with the word “crazy.”

THE FINAL step of the evening was to go over our forms one last time, keep the section we used to write our comments on, and then turn over to the organizer the part where we had marked our choices, to be sorted through them.

We were to expect to receive an email later that night informing us of those whose feelings were mutual – that is, if both sides circled Y, followed by another email letting us know who had chosen us, even if we did not choose them. Contact details would be given out only when there was a match.

The guy who filmed me, the supposed Italian, and the doctor all circled Y. The latter contacted me soon after. 

Once I learned his full name and Googled it, I decided not to take things further. It will suffice to say that feedback about this practitioner from his patients’ reviews regarding his bedside manner convinced me to steer clear.

All in all, this was an experience I would recommend trying once. It was interesting and, at times, entertaining. And who knows? Maybe you could become the next Bette Midler.

This is still a love story – just not for a person but for a place.