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“It was really a way to overcome my own problems,” he told the editor of at an event in London last month.“It was weird to me, to start a conversation [with a stranger].
It’s difficult for a lot of people.” After just one outing, I’d learned two fundamental lessons about the world of online dating: pretty much everyone has at least one decent picture of themselves, and meeting women using a so-called hook-up app is seldom straightforwardly about sex. We drank cocktails by the Danube and rambled across the city before making the romantic decision to stay awake all night, as she had to leave early the next day to go hiking with friends.It was just like the Richard Linklater movie – something I said out loud more than a few times as the Aperol Spritzes took their toll.When we met up in London a few months later, Louisa and I decided to skip the second part of Linklater’s beautiful triptych and fast-track our relationship straight to the third, , which takes place 18 years after the protagonists first meet in Vienna, and have begun to discover that they hate each others’ guts.Which is one of the many hazards of the swiping life: unlike with older, web-based platforms such as or Ok Cupid, which require a substantial written profile, Tinder users know relatively little about their prospective mates.When I arrived at the appointed meeting place, she told me I was far more handsome IRL (“in real life”) than my pictures suggested.I was flattered and full of praise for the directness of continental Europeans but also thought sadly to myself: “If only the same could be said about you.” Anna and I became friends, at least for a while.
The date wasn’t a success in the traditional sense of leading us into a contract based on exclusivity, an accumulating cache of resentments and a mortgage, but it put me back in the game (an appropriate metaphor – people speak regularly of “playing” with the app).
According to Sean Rad, the co-founder who launched Tinder in late 2012, the service was invented for people like me.
The first time I met someone using Tinder, the free dating app that requires users to swipe left for “no” and right for “yes” before enabling new “matches” to chat, it was an unqualified success. I was newly single after five years in a committed relationship and wasn’t looking for anything more than fun, friendship and, well, who knows.
A few weeks earlier I had tried to give my number to a girl in a cinema café in Brixton.
I wrote it on a postcard I’d been using as a bookmark.
She said she had a boyfriend, but wanted to keep the postcard. My Tinder date was a master’s student from Valencia called Anna (her name wasn’t really Anna, of course, I’m not a sociopath).