30 - Cross-Cultural Studies with Benefits

When was the last time you met someone who wasn’t connected to your job, your hobbies, your kids, or your partner’s social circle?

For me, that was back when I missed my connecting flight to Paris in Frankfurt and ended up pressing my nose against the airport window with a group of equally stranded travelers.

And then came Tinder.

As much as I love to make fun of dating apps, in fairness, Tinder actually bursts our little social bubbles. And yes—it can even be educational. Especially if you don’t mind getting a little laid in the process.

I’d never met a Tuareg before. Sure, I knew it wasn’t just a Volkswagen model (and certainly not the best one for the desert), but beyond “nomadic people from the Sahara,” my knowledge would’ve ended there.

I’d also never met a German-born Cameroonian who’d never lived in Cameroon—but had lived in China and spoke fluent Mandarin. Two Tinder matches among many, but those are the ones that make me curious. They stimulate me—intellectually, and sometimes even sexually. They push me to learn, to see the world from new angles.

Since Giovanni entered my life, I’ve been learning Italian. Not because I have to, but because I want to—to show him I care about his roots. And, honestly, because Italian is much easier than French—which, naturally, annoys the mister to no end.

If you’ve been paying attention, you’ll know that I’m currently reading a book about the Sahara at the climbing gym—even though Amar, the French-born Tuareg I’m seeing, has never actually been there. Still, I want to understand where he comes from.

I’ve even picked Nietzsche back up—just to have something to discuss with the next naked poet during his creative breaks. Meanwhile, the hubby—who hadn’t driven a car in Paris for fifteen years—is suddenly zipping through traffic like a local. And that’s the beautiful thing about Tinder, if you’re willing to lean into it: it stretches you—in more ways than one.

One especially memorable encounter was a barbecue with Chloé and her husband.

I know what you’re thinking: Hot sausages, sizzling apricots, and the inevitable partner swap behind the grill, right?

Wrong. Everyone kept their clothes on. Even the apricots. Though yes—there were plenty of sausage jokes. Especially since Chloé’s husband got the leftovers from her “sexperiment” packed in his lunchbox the next day. He even claimed it wasn’t her worst culinary experiment. That man must have the taste buds of a saint. But he’s fascinating. Despite living with a very sexually active woman, he doesn’t sleep with her—or with anyone, for that matter. He’s asexual and finds nothing appealing about sex at all. Quite the opposite: he’s actually relieved that she takes her “sex aerobics” elsewhere while he runs over 100 kilometers a day. A textbook case of opposites attract. And honestly, I find it beautiful—how the two of them work so well together despite, or maybe because of, the complete absence of shared sexuality. For me—utterly unimaginable. But maybe that’s the real art: loving someone without constantly dropping your pants.

For all the erotic mishaps along the way, Tinder keeps reminding us of one thing:

the endless ways to love, to fuck, and to live.

Thank you, Tinder—without you, I’d never have learned how many kinds of intimacy exist.

Or how many kinds of sausage.