The Hallmark Vacation
I’ve never been a big drinker, but Solvang—a quaint town in the Santa Ynez Valley, known for its many
vineyards—holds a special place in my heart. Dave had suggested we visit there our first winter together:
two Jews frolicking through Danish windmills, Hans Christian Andersen statues, and Christmas tree
lighting ceremonies in the “Tijuana of Denmark” (a backhanded term of endearment, bestowed by my
friend’s mom). We had a blast, and have made it our go-to drivable getaway spot ever since. Now, four
months after our embryo transfer fail, a trip there felt like a great idea. We’d be able to decompress, spend
time together, and block out the rest of the world. At least that was the plan, but as we drove into town, I
thought of Kent’s winery, which was only twenty minutes away. “I’ll give you the VIP experience,” he’d
promised once, but I wasn’t sure I wanted our romantic trip to get hijacked by another lesson from Kent on
grape cultivation, or more questions about Natasha. Kent resurfaced recently, almost two months following
his sudden disappearance, and I was pleased at how quickly we resumed our usual dynamic. During our
“catch-up session,” as he’d called it (he was still reluctant to use the
word “coaching”), he’d bragged that he was busier than ever, between dating a new woman he met on
e Harmony and gearing up for his new movie—but the lack of feedback from his dalliance with Natasha
had been gnawing at him. He’d asked whether I’d gotten any more specifics from her, and I was cagey. I’d
told him she hadn’t shared anything constructive, which was mostly true. I didn’t want to betray her trust,
and I figured in due time, Kent would bring up his premature declaration himself so I could address it more
organically. “She did say your interaction was passionate.” I’d chosen the word deliberately, silently
willing him to come clean. But perhaps he felt embarrassed after all this time, given that he didn’t take the
bait. “That woman wouldn’t know passion if it were grabbing her in the rain outside a rowboat in South
Carolina!” Kent had sputtered. After recovering from his Ryan Gosling reference—He’d seen The
Notebook? What else didn’t I know about him?—I’d sighed, maybe a little too loudly. You could lead a
horse to water, but the only beverage Kent seemed interested in drinking was his own Kool-Aid. I
redirected the conversation, inquiring about a woman he met online. “You hate that I met her on an app,
don’t you?” He’d chuckled, referencing what he viewed as my “competitor.” I’d let the comment slide,
especially given my suggestion that he try online dating in the first place. He’d told me that the woman
initially pushed for an upscale dinner for their first date, but that he heeded advice I’d given him previously
and convinced her to try tapas instead. I was floored. Had Kent just acknowledged he followed my
guidance? I knew he had before, based on some of his dates’ feedback, but today was the first time he’d
given me direct credit. (I didn’t need it, but had to admit it felt nice.) I prefer drinks or tapas in lieu of
formal dinners, at least for first dates, because it helps people get out of their heads. In a formal dining
scenario, people are more likely to assume their “Dating Personas”—a term I’d coined for identities people
take on when they’re nervous. When butterflies kick in, the rare breed can st ep up their game and turn on
the charm, but the rest of us tend to show up as less desirable versions of ourselves. Anxiety may cause us
to act restless or tense, and those muscular reactions
trigger different behaviors or defense mechanisms to try to self-correct. Kent was a “Babbler,” someone
who talks way too much (in his case, often about himself) in front of someone else they find attractive. At
a formal dinner where there are fewer distractions, this behavior can tank a date, but if your body can move
and react to things around you—when strolling through a farmers market, visiting a museum, or
experiencing multiple, natural interruptions of new plates during a tapas meal—conversation can flow
more naturally. Kent had shared what he’d learned about this new woman as a result. “She’s into
gardening, which I couldn’t care less about.” (I wanted to point out to him that gardening didn’t seem all
that removed from his love of harvesting grapes.) “But your ridiculous suggestion about acting like a talk
show host worked. I asked who turned her on to gardening, what she’s growing... I even asked if there’s
something else she’d enjoy cultivating in an alternate climate.” I’d felt a twinge of pride as he’d described
putting my tips into practice. Curiosity may have killed the cat, but it usually saves the courtship. It must
have been difficult for Kent to practice waiting for the Gardener to speak before chiming in with a story of
his own, but by biting his tongue along with his patatas bravas, he made a connection with her—and
learned fascinating tidbits by doing it. “So how did you leave it with her?” I’d asked eagerly. “Is she going
to give you a taste of one of her homegrown tomatoes?” “As a matter of fact, yes. We’re planning a second
date for next weekend.” And there it was! A possible sign of growth! “So,” I’d continued, my interest
piqued, “gardening aside, what do you like most about her?” “Well, she was very Plain Jane at first, but
she got prettier as we talked. She had this little twitch in her lips when she spoke. Maybe from nerves or
regret from being there with me.” (He then dismissed any possibility the latter could be true.) “It was cute.
She also agreed the institution of marriage might be flawed. Or at least, she pretended to agree. But she
point-blank asked if I own firearms. Which I do.” Despite this complication, his re cap sounded mostly
positive. I’d asked where he planned to take her next, and true to character, he protested the geography.
(She lived in West Hollywood to his Eagle Rock. Like many LA residents, Kent typically allowed distance
to play a major role in his dating life, despite having his own driver.) He’d then shared his intention to
cook for her. “So you’re gonna make her drive all the way to you then?” I asked, trying my best to reserve
judgment. “I’m cooking, so it only seems fair.” I’d reminded him that it wasn’t only about fairness, and
wondered whether the drive was some sort of test he was posing to her. (After all, he could just send a car
to pick her up, as I’d known him to do before.) “No,” Kent had answered, visibly irritated. “Why would
you ask that?” I’d given him a knowing look. “Maybe if she drives to you, it will demonstrate she’s willing
to do her fair share of the commuting in the relationship,” I’d theorized. “Or, maybe if she’s too willing, it
will subconsciously turn you off.” “Why would it do that?” “Because you’re looking for someone
confident—someone who doesn’t feel the need to make herself overly available to you. Maybe if she
drives to you this early, you’ll wind up writing her off as overly eager.” “That’s stupid.” His eyes had
twinkled. “How well you know me, I mean.” “Let’s not test the Gardener so soon then,” I’d recommended,
trying to stifle a smile. “I like her for you.” I meant it, but was he going to st ep up his game with her, or
resort to making up excuses once something “inconvenient” arose—an inevitably in any longterm
relationship? Kent was a successful, good-looking guy who was also playful and intelligent. But he was
also cocky, stubborn, and impatient. To ultimately connect with her, he was going to have to get in touch
with his more modest, sensitive, and tolerant side—something I was finally starting to notice. “Oh, and
Kent?” I asked, before logging out. “Yes?” He’d raised his eyebrows, as if he knew what was coming. “No
more disappearing on me, okay? I’m in it for the long haul.”
The weekend away was exactly what I needed. I felt restored, both in my connection with Dave and in our
continued commitment to expand our family. We also decided to switch IVF clinics. I had been willing to
give our doctor a second chance, but she provided little hope or comfort that she intended to approach our
case any differently moving forward. If a client’s needs weren’t getting met in a relationship, they
expressed that to their partner, and their partner had no intention to address it, I would encourage them to
leave that relationship. Ultimately, I realized I shouldn’t hold our fertility doctor to a lesser standard. The
idea of starting from scratch elsewhere felt scary, but the unknown had to be better than the constant
anxiety and disappointment I would inevitably feel by not taking action. The new plan gave me hope, and
sometimes that’s all that’s needed to change the course of your life for the better.