A single man’s guide to courtship in Cuenca

There comes a time in every man’s life when he realizes he’s no longer a hunter but a retired park ranger. These days, even though I am living in the Garden of Eden, I’m more likely to be offered hibiscus flowers than ripe figs, yet I feel it’s my duty to pass on a few lessons before I power down.

Women, as far as I can tell, are a bit like Bluetooth devices. You can try pushing all the buttons you like, but nothing will happen unless they are in pairing mode. And once they are, you may get a connection, provided you don’t say or do anything gross enough to make them seek an instant reboot.

The first rule is simple: show interest, but never desperation. A compliment or two will do the job. Tell her she looks radiant, or that her montanera accent makes the word “gringo” sound like poetry. Then back off. Let her stew in her own juices. She’ll either think you’re mysterious or unavailable, both of which are far better than looking nerdy and needy.

If she shows signs of curiosity, invite her over to your place so that she can see whether you live in a hovel or not. Offer her hibiscus tea, colada de mora, or a glass of Canelazo. But for heaven’s sake, don’t make a kinetic move. Women in Cuenca are not impressed by lunges, especially from men with stiff knees. When you don’t try anything, she’ll go home wondering why. Ignore her for a couple of days, and then invite her out again. Keep the dance going, a little forward, a little back. It’s like learning to salsa or merengue: awkward at first, but smoother with practice.

Now, a word about language. You must speak at least some Spanish. Not necessarily the pluperfect subjunctive, but enough to order coffee, ask about her day, and tell her she looks linda hoy. If you rely on Google Translate, you’ll sound like a malfunctioning robot. On the other hand, if she speaks perfect English, be careful. It usually means she’s either a realtor, a tour guide, or involved in something mysterious to do with Bitcoin. All of these are interesting, but only one of them might want your phone number.

Ecuadorian women have finely tuned antennae. They can tell in thirty seconds whether you’re genuine or just looking for a local aventura. They’ve seen every model of expat: the dreamer, the retiree, the digital nomad, and the man who still calls WhatsApp “the Wasp App.” If you hope to connect, you must appear grounded. Help an old lady across the street, tip your waiter, and don’t complain about the bus schedule or when she arrives two hours late for a date.

When conversation flags, ask about her abuela. Every Cuencana has one, and she will talk for twenty minutes straight about how that estimada dama once cooked mote pillo for the entire parish. Listen attentively. This is Ecuadorian foreplay.

Alternative subjects for conversation include the names and ages of her children, if any. Failing evidence of fertility, ask about her cats and dogs, or possibly even a pet guinea pig. Avoid the topic of brothers and sisters, as she will probably have five of each, and this may be confusing if your memory is not what it once was and you can’t remember which one is in Nueva York and which one was killed in a motorcycle accident last year.

If all this sounds like too much work, remember there’s always Supermaxi. From time to time, an attractive Gringa may be spotted near the produce section, possibly comparing prices on imported brands of cream cheese. She’s probably married, but that’s no reason not to smile and make some harmless remark about the size of the avocados. Her husband will appreciate it too, once he finishes reading this column.

Avoid bragging about your General Motors or military pensions, your property, or your past conquests. The more you talk, the less you’ll be believed. Silence, on the other hand, makes you seem profound. Just nod occasionally, as if recalling something from a forgotten novel.

Finally, remember that seduction is not about conquest, it’s about curiosity. Even if you end up sitting side by side, sipping Cafe Oro instant coffee from Tuti mugs while watching the rain fall on Calle Larga, you’ve achieved something rare: companionship with a hint of mystery.

And if you worry about the language barrier, at a pinch you can always improvise. I once had a friend in Florida whose grandfather winged in from the Azores and didn’t speak a word of English. He somehow courted and married an American woman who didn’t speak a word of Portuguese. They lived together happily for decades, never once understanding what the other was saying, and perhaps that was the secret of their success.

If you must, think of courtship as a connection request accepted. Just don’t forget to unpair politely when the signal fades.