Arequipa, Peru

The American dating market is broken so I went to a different one

I take an Uber to the bus stop, to go to Boston, for a flight to JFK, to fly to Lima, Peru, then a third flight to the high desert city of Arequipa. 

“What are you going to do in Peru?” asks the Uber driver.

“I’m not sure yet.”

“Is there a specific reason you’re going?”

“Not really.”

There are a few reasons for the traveling. Avoiding most of the New England winter is one. But the main reason is that Peru is somewhere other than the American relationships market. The extent to which the relationships market in America is broken is not often talked about. Single people in America know how the dating market in America is — not good. 

I take two steps off the plane in Arequipa and I’m already glad I’m here. It’s refreshing to see new mountains. There are lots of people walking around, there are more workers than customers. Products and services are cheaper and slower. There are people walking around selling stuff, all kinds of stuff. In America, people just ask for money without selling anything. I suppose that doesn’t work here.

I’m staying in a private room at the Selina hostel in Arequipa.  I met a curious cast of characters today. 

Volcanic mountains, the start of Andes.

I start at the restaurant bar by the pool. There’s a woman on her phone who I’ve seen a few times around the hostel. She looks and sounds British. 

“I have a question,” I say. She looks up from her phone.

“What kind of cigarettes are those?” 

“The shit kind. It’s the only kind they sell here. And they were expensive.”

“I have Winstons, do you want one of mine?” 

“Actually that would be great because these flavored ones are shit.”

I pass her a cigarette. “Where did you get these?” she inquires.

I sit down next to her and show her the shop on the map. 

She is Rebecca, originally from Cape Town, South Africa. I tell her she resembles Elon Musk's mother who is also South African. She likes that. I tell her Elon used to be my boss. She likes that too. She shows me the scar on her abdomen from getting shanked while standing in line for a club in South Africa. 

“It’s survival of the fittest there,” she says.

The mention of Elon brings up Mars. She tells me that humans are from Mars and we ruined that planet and now we're here ruining this one. The supporting evidence is that we have the same circadian rhythm as Mars. She talks for a long time about her life in Africa and about her life in Nicaragua where she now owns a hostel.

I walk by Nina and Sebastian, who initiate a conversation about what I ordered at the restaurant. The two met last night on the bus from Cusco to Arequipa. Sebastian is a sunburnt German who comments on my Tesla shirt. “I quit working there,” I tell him. “They do make good cars though.”

“For American cars, yes.”

“That’s the most German thing you could say,” says Nina.

“Tesla makes cars in Germany, but they are not as good as the American-made ones.” I establish the dominance hierarchy. 

Nina is a 24-year-old, gorgeous woman from the Netherlands. Gorgeous.

“What language do they speak there?” I ask.

“Dutch.”

I tell her about living with the Amish, who speak Pennsylvania Dutch. I swear to god there’s a twinkle in her eye. She asks good questions, like why was I living with Amish people. I tell her my intention was to learn about Amish dating culture, but I forgot to ask about it, so now I have to go back. She likes that. 

It’s time to put my leftover food in the hostel fridge. I pass the library on the way to the kitchen and I see that someone is in there.

“Do they have good books here?” I say to the young woman on the couch in the library. 

“I don’t know, I haven’t looked,” she says with a European accent.

“That looks like a comfortable couch.”

“It is,” she says. She pats the adjacent cushion. Perhaps that’s my cue to sit. That’s cool. I pick up the antique phone and say “Hello?” She likes that. She is Johanna, from Poland. She wants to travel for as long as she can. We exchange stories about doctor’s visits. I tell her about my hip injury. She speaks perfect English and we exchange WhatsApp information for a possible lunch excursion tomorrow. 

“It was good to meet you...don’t tell me…Johanna.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Chris.”

“Puedes hablar en Espanol?” 

“Si puedo hablar.”

“Excelente, podemos practicar.”

“Estas aprendiendo?”

I give a thumbs up. 

“Que tenga un buen noche,” I say.

“Tu tambien. Gracias.”

This is more social interaction in two hours than the average American gets in two months. With new people, I mean, and not for business.

I check my phone. There are eight new messages from three local young ladies, each expressing interest in meeting in real life.

“I’d like to have a real date. Not really hang out,” Pamela writes. I don’t know what that means exactly but I’m definitely down. Attractive and kind women want to meet me. This might sound mundane, but for a regular young man in the American dating market, this is a revelation.

Earlier today, I met up with a girl I recently met via Tinder. She showed me around a large market and then helped me get an eSIM for my iPhone. To make this happen we visited six phone stores over three hours. Her translations were critical. 

I want people to know, especially young men in America, that South America exists. Traveling and staying at hostels is a great way to meet people. There’s no excuse for loneliness. It’s often dirty, loud, slow, and a little dangerous — but you won’t be alone.

A fire and jam session at the hostel

Sunset in Arequipa

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