2006-01-03 - 4:38 p.m.

Okay...I admit it. I have a thing for foreign accents. I grew up fantasizing about Marcello Mastroiani, Giancarlo Giannini, Gerard Depardieu, Jean-Paul Belmondo, Alain Delon, Jean-Pierre Leaud, Michael Caine, Dirk Bogarde, Alan Bates, Albert Finney�to name just few. Today, I have total crushes on Colin Firth, Liam Neeson, Jeremy Irons (even though he seems so gay�well, except in �Damage�), and Alan Rickman (though I wish he�d get his teeth fixed). Hell...I even love James Dyson, the inventor of that damn vacuum cleaner. In his TV commercials�whenever he talks about �constant suction,� I find myself saying, �I got �ya constant suction right here, baby..!!�

As a native New Yorker, I�ve always shunned guys who sounded as if they were �from the boroughs��the dese, dems, dose types from the Bronx, Queens, Brooklyn or, god forbid, Stagnant Island. I�ve worked really hard to get rid of my own Brooklyn-ish, Jewish-ISH accent, though it often comes out without any warning��Oh my gawd, get outta heah..!!� ��OY, I�m shvitzing..!!��.�Whaddya tawkin� about?� You know, like that.

People often tell me I don�t SOUND like a New Yorker. They ask if I�m from Philadelphia (what?) or Baltimore (huh?) or Canada. Well, I was married to a Canadian for six years, and I do come very close to saying �Ooot� and �abooot��but that�s not so much from living with Ted as it is from my long-standing crush on the late, great Peter Jennings. In fact, Ted�s only "Canadian-isms" were occasionally referring to a napkin as a serviette and pronouncing the word �been� as bean�e.g.,�bean there, done that.�

Anyway, over the past several years I�ve dated many, many Europeans and other foreign-accented guys, in a quest for the exotic, the exciting�the UN-circumcised (just kidding about this last bit�though it seems to come with the territory).

The downside of dating Euro-sapiens is that very often they return from whence they came�and that kinda kills the momentum. Two things can happen. Either they�ll realize they can�t live without you and ask you to return to France, Italy, Switzerland, or the U.K. with them (almost never)...or you will experience trans-continental heartbreak and devastation. Occasionally, they become �friends� who ask you to visit them when you�re abroad�but they usually don�t mean it.

Of the Euros who stay put in New York�they�re usually so amazed and excited by all the beautiful, smart, successful, funny, balls-y American women, that they want to sample as many as possible�and you become one of many girlfriends. OR�the cultural differences become too much of a challenge for independent women with attitudes (well, ME, for instance). Euro-guys often don�t get your jokes or double-entendres�or your more subtle ironic musings. Even English guys sometimes don�t understand MY English. This can be frustrating. But even worse is when Euro-dudes try to tell YOU a joke�and you have to pretend to laugh as they struggle with lame punch lines in a French or Swiss-German accent. �Oh, ha ha ha ha, Marcel..!!�

My friend Gabi MARRIED the perfect Englishman (Edward) whom she met whilst taking sailing lessons on the Hudson River. Their wedding took place in the stunning centuries-old Salisbury Cathedral in Wiltshire, followed by a reception at the remarkable Trafalgar House in the English countryside. She left her Manhattan apartment (ta, ta..!!) and moved to London�and now she and Ed have an adorable baby named Charlotte. AND�Gabi NEVER has to work again!! Ahhhh�!! Plus�Ed looks like a grown-up Harry Potter and is totally adorable, so you just love when he says things like �SHED-ule� or �half-eight� (instead of 8:30). Just too cute.

But, these fairy-tale endings are hardly the norm. So, back to reality: here are just a few of my adventures with the foreign-born (names have been changed, of course�to protect their Euro-dentities).

..DENYS OF NEWCASTLE � he was really quite gorgeous and, at 6�4�, definitely met my height requirements. I loved the Newcastle accent, though some would argue it�s the British equivalent of a Bronx accent. We met online�and had our first (and last) drinks date at Caf� Loup. I thought things were going swimmingly until he told me about a woman he had been pining over for FIVE YEARS�a ballet dancer who broke his heart. So, Denys (rhymes with �penys� in my book) tells me he�s really only looking for a shag, since �Katrina was the ONE�the one-and-only ONE��and he�d �NEVER love anyone else ever again.� I told him to �stuff it..!�

Anyway, a few years later I saw him online again�and we got to chatting�and yada, yada, yada�we became �fuck buddies.� He had the most ENORMOUS� green eyes (gotcha!)�and a voracious sexual appetite. We never saw one another outside my apartment, which was fine with me at that point in my life. The reality is, Denys was pretty boring�when he wasn�t BOR-ing me(if you get my drift). He was a devotee of that cultish �Landmark� self-transformation program�and was constantly trying to get me to a meeting. But I thought it was totally wack�like maybe half a step above Scientology. The last time I saw Denys was just for drinks. He was in a major depression over some neuropathic condition that kept him in almost constant pain.

"It's tough getting old, Linda."

Blimey...lighten up, mate..!!

..SANTORINI WEENIE � a Greek real-estate mogul (or so he alleged), Christos had a West Village townhouse (just two blocks away from me), a cliffside home in Santorini, a Hamptons estate and an apartment in�Beirut..!! He had dark hair and hazel eyes�and was cute and ultra-well-groomed but in a sort of embarrassingly metrosexual way. He wore too much cologne�Calvin Klein�s Obsession. He was OBSESSED with sex�but not with conversation. He never wanted to talk about his latest real estate projects, which I hammered him about in the hopes it could turn into a PR project for me. But he kept mum on the subject...except to tell me that he'd often been photographed with those inflatable non-union RAT-things at some of his construction sites. He told me he sent the pictures to his mother! Very shady. Anyway, he would just NEVER talk about his work...as if he thought I was a spy for Donald Trump. I knew almost nothing about him�and grew tired of asking. At one point, I actually fantasized that he was with the mob because he seemed to have all sorts of weird phones and security devices all over his house. We rolled around in his 500-thread-count sheets a few times, but he was a typical Greek �back-door man��which totally turned me off. PLUS...he was a "sloppy" kisser...tongue all over my face!! (yuck)

�Oooh, baby�I love the way you kiss.� (think Greek accent here) �You want more ouzo?...I get you whatever you want. You make me crazy!�

�No, Christos,I�m fine�actually, I have to go. No, stop, REALLY�I don�t like it that way.�

�Oooh, baby�NO�don�t say this to me. Don�t go. I make you breakfast in bed tomorrow.�

�No�I have to get up early�and, to be honest, I�m sick of this same Frank Sinatra CD�it�s been playing for like FOUR hours. Get a Tony Bennett or something, will ya?�

Inevitably, I�d leave in the middle of the night b/c I just didn�t want to wake up with someone I couldn�t TALK to. I tried to do the whole �take him for what he�s worth� bit�but it�s just not me. He kept calling me�for like a YEAR...but I wasn't interested. One time, I ran into him at an ATM machine�and he told me he had grown a fig tree in his yard b/c he always liked my fragrance �Premier Figuer� by L�Artisan. He wanted to show it to me, so I walked back with him�and, sure enough, there was a little fig tree with ripe figs on it. He picked a few for me�and invited me upstairs�but I said, �Σας ευχαριστούμε, Christos...and Καλός-νύχτα.

..SWISS SWINGER � Jurgen was a tall, fit Swiss bank executive from Basel, one of THREE Swiss guys in my repertoire. He lived on the Upper West Side and was cute in a clean-cut Swiss way. He spoke fluent Italian, which I found utterly charming. Again, there was the cologne problem...this time Chanel's Allure Pour Homme. He was fun to be with, but was not to be taken seriously because he was eventually returning to Switzerland�and because he liked to go to �swingers� clubs like LeTrapeze, etc., which is totally NOT my thing. Here�s the deal: You go to a club with a date�then get naked, and cruise other people, swap partners, roll around in a room with dozens of other naked people�you get the picture. (I guess the extra cologne came in handy in this type of venue.) Anyway, I wouldn�t go with him�though I�m sure other women did. Whatever turns you on!!

Jurgen and I did go to a Patti Smith concert at the Village Underground one hot summer night, then went back to my place for a sexy, raunchy romp all through the night..."BE-cause the night belongs to lovers."

We drifted apart after that�saw one another less frequently�until not at all. I presume he eventually went back to La Svizzera.

..MOSCOW ON THE HUDSON � Vladimir was a Russian �migr� art dealer who lived in a loft on West 15th Street. His online picture was appealing�all serious and intense�and, well, Russian. We met at a Middle Eastern restaurant on Carmine Street. Within two seconds, I was sorry I�d broken my cardinal rule of meeting ONLY for drinks�because now I was stuck with �Sad Vlad� for at least two hours. He told me about his Chinese wife, a political activist and would-be sculptor, who had committed suicide three years earlier. He said he was now very poor and living in room behind his gallery with a friend from Russia who was out of work but made good coffee.

When Vlad smiled, which was hardly at all, he had a gold tooth right in front�and a big gap where some bicuspid or something oughta be. If you know me even SLIGHTLY�you know I have a thing about �teeth��namely that you have to have a full set of them�and that gold ones can only be located in the deep dark recesses of your mouth, e.g. molars. This was going to be a VERY long evening.

Happily, it was a Saturday night, and the restaurant featured entertainment in the form of a lively and exotic belly-dancer who stopped by our table several times�thrusting her hips in Vlad�s direction to signal that she expected a tip. He ignored her�and I felt terrible because she was literally workin� her tail off. I put $5 in her G-string, and Vlad gave me a dirty look.

�Let�s get the check,� I said.

�Not yet�I�m too depressed to move. Order dessert.�

�NYET!, Vlad baby!! I don�t want dessert, and I don't want to spend one more second with you. I left my violin at home tonight, вы понимаете меня?�

..THE PERFORMANCE ARTIST � Rupert was English�also from Newcastle. When I first encountered him online��Englishman Moving To NYC�� he was living in Nottingham, having just left a professorship at the U. of Nottingham because he had always dreamed of living in New York. He was a performance artist, which was a vague enough profession to be intriguing. He was cute, funny, sexy and clever�and we had a lively e-mail rapport before he even arrived in the city. He loved New York and I thought, �This could be interesting.� However, in further discussions he revealed that he�d never actually loved any woman enough to be faithful to her (he�d been married and divorced twice). I told him that I couldn�t deal with that, but that we could be pals and drinking buddies. I was not about to get involved with a known player.

We had a few fun evenings (okay�including a few that ended up in bed...he was a machine in this department!), but, the more we hung out, the more I realized that he was actually an alcoholic, a total narcissist and deeply disturbed. It turns out he had tried to commit suicide THREE times�THREE times..!! (talk about �performance art�). He was on the highest dose of Celexa that a person could take without going into a coma. A former girlfriend of his was an English academic, now working as a dominatrix in a New York dungeon. Lovely..!!

Rupert had tattoos of shooting stars all over his body�part of a life-long performance art project. And, here�s a funny twist. Rupert started seeing a woman whom my other Newcastle guy (Denys) knew from that sick-o Landmark program. She�s an older woman, a wealthy photo dealer who has a thing for �Geordies.� She began showering Rupert with expensive gifts and trips in exchange for the occasional "mercy" shag. Ultimately, I told him that he exuded too much negative energy for me�and that I couldn�t hang out with him any more.

ARE YOU ALL STILL WITH ME..?? EXHAUSTING, ISN'T IT??

..QUELLE IDIOT � Ooh la�the French have always been a big mistake for me. They�re so �puffed up� and full of crap. But recently, a good friend of mine married a wonderful, sweet, adorable French guy�Jean-Claude (Jewish no less)�so I thought I�d try une plus de fois.

I agreed to meet Paul for a drink at Bistro Cassis here in the Village. However, when I arrived, Paul was seated at a table, not at the bar as we planned, and he had asked the waiter for dinner menus. This would have been okay�except that I was instantly NOT attracted to the guy�and the feeling, I know, was mutual. He was over-dressed in a silly double-breasted silk suit, banker-type shirt with white collar and cuffs, pinky ring, but, alors, SCUFFED loafers (a real no-no in my fashion checklist). I was wearing rolled up jeans, cowboy boots, a tweed blazer festooned with brooches, and a kooky striped scarf (very Village casual). Paul looked at me as if I were from another planet!!

He was overly tan (ick!)with a really hoarse voice�and a LISP, which made his French accent plus impossible a comprendre. The tan, he told me was from a recent sailing holiday in Nice. How nice!!

�I love zee adventure.� (think French accent). Even when I was a leetle boy�I say to my fozz-air, �Dah-di�I want to see zee world. I don�t want to go to universi-tay. Pleeze, pleeze, dah-di�let me TRAH-vell.'�

�Uh, huh�so where have you lived?�

�Oh, every place you can zink�Barbados, Brazil, Argentina, Yugoslavia, Tahiti, Africa, Australia�'le monde entier'."

Well, Mr. Adventure now sells French reproduction furniture out of a showroom on Lexington Avenue. He has three grown children and an ex-wife who lives in Rio. He lives in a small apartment in Murray Hill. He never asked even one question about ME. Quelle nerve..!

Our dinner took exactly 42 minutes�then it was �Au revoir, Paul. Ne me telephonez pas..!!�

..THE ALPINE BANKER � Let�s call him Paolo�the second in my trilogy of Swiss guys�and, really, a book (movie, mini-series) all by himself�but that�s for another time. He was an EVP in the New York office of a foreign bank. He traveled CONSTANTLY�in fact, it took two months of phone calls and rescheduling before we actually met�at the Rose Caf�which, like this relationship, no longer exists.

At this first meeting, I wasn�t attracted to him at all. He had a moustache, which I hate, and his hair was WHITE and stiff with hairspray and looked like �anchor-man� hair. He was also wearing too much cologne, Boss by Hugo Boss. Euro-dudes drown themselves in the stuff..!!!

He had told me his hair was �blonde,� a simple lie... the first of hundreds of much bigger, more complicated, more INSANE lies to come.

He was incredibly handsome, flawless in fact, if you don�t count the moustache...though Elizabeth thought he looked like a cross between Dick Van Dyke and "Captain Kangaroo"..!! He was 6�4� and had beautiful hands and amazing green eyes. He definitely grew on me. He was flirty and fun�and a world-class kisser..!! We kissed ALL the time�at the High Life on 72nd Street near his apartment�at the Tar Bar on First Avenue�at Madame X on Houston Street�at Battery Park�on street corners�EVERYWHERE. It was shameless. I remember thinking��Oh my god, this guy is SUCH a good kisser�the sex is gonna be amazing.� But, in the end, it was underwhelming and ordinary. I mean he had a huge bratwurst�but no "mojo." Sex was disappointingly lackluster and unimaginative. Very little foreplay; and he never went �down south," if you know what I mean. Totally SWISS sex. Nevertheless, I was so intoxicated by his delicious accent, his playfulness and his childlike curiosity about the world and his quest for adventure...das gesampt Paket.!! I found him irresistible, and I fell in love with him, despite dozens of doubts and "red flags" and the countless warnings of close friends who advised me to �Get out NOW..!!�

In a very large, grotesque nutshell�

It turns out that Paolo LIED to me about almost EVERYTHING. It was pathological. NOTHING he ever told me was true. It was right out of the movie �Gaslight.� I felt as if I were losing my mind.

--He told me he was divorced from a high-born Italian woman who left him for a prince. (He was actually still married�though separated...to a Swiss woman who grew up in Caracas.)

--He said he had no children (he has FOUR).

--He said he was a captain in the Swiss Air Force (never).

--That his father owned a Ferrari dealership (nope) and had a house in Siena (nein!).

--That his mother died when he was 5 (he was 19).

--That his father had a girlfriend named Katrine who was 35 years younger than him (nicht die Wahrheit).

--That he spent one Christmas in Rio with his father and Katrine�and that Katrine got attacked by thugs and had her nose broken�so they had to hire a private jet to fly them back to Rome so she could have plastic surgery (non e vero, ma che storia pazzesca, no?).

--Later in the relationship, he told me that during a business trip he had gotten a woman (a family friend) pregnant and was planning to marry her (not true, but truly PSYCHO, right?).

--That he was living in London (actually Arizona).

--That the woman he said he had to marry (and actually PRETENDED to be married to) tried to commit suicide (she didn�t even EXIST..!!).

You get the idea. And this is just the tippy-est tip of the Titanic-size iceberg. He played with my head and my heart like a pinball machine. It was brutal. It took years to recover, and it left me with a lingering inability to trust and a basic disdain for the entire male species..la, la, la.

Some time ago, I asked him why he had lied to me over and over again�and he said,

(think Swiss accent)

�But, LEENDA�everything I told you was somewhat based on the truth.�

�Well�no, Paolo�actually, all the things you told me were completely INSANE fabrications."

Writing this reminds me of the scene from �Something�s Gotta Give��when Diane Keaton asks Jack Nicholson why he lied to her about something or other. He says, �Well, it was all some version of the truth,� and she says, �The truth doesn�t have 'VERSIONS'�!!�

...'Nuf said!!

..BRITISH YIDDISH � Roscoe was a 66-year-old bald Jewish Brit who couldn�t bear to be alone. On our first date, a dinner at Periyali, he told me that he ate dinner out EVERY single night, which I found very UN-appealing. How can you respect a person who can�t stand his own company? I think he was on Match.com simply to line up dinner companions.

He was a workaholic�something to do with pharmaceutical technology�for which he spent half the week in Connecticut (the other half on Park Avenue). He was a bit of a dead fish�boring and un-emotional�droning on and on. Even when he spoke about his children, it was in a very academic/intellectual way�about how they�d turned out or whatever. AND�he sat on the banquette side of our table, which I thought was rather RUDE�b/c that�s the unspoken �girl� side of the table...damn it!!

He told me he had a hard time connecting with women. �There are just so many out there;� he said, �how can you ever connect with just one?�

Good question, Roscoe�way to really win points with me on a first date..!! Anyway, quite unexpectedly and out of character, he leaned across the table and said, �You are dead sexy..!!,� a cheesy line used by Mike Meyers in the second "Austin Powers" movie. It was quite queer�coming from him. I actually laughed out loud. So, he said, �You ARE, darling, you really are,� which just made me laugh even harder. I was practically hysterical. Shalom, Roscoe�!!

..SWISS GOURMAND - Okay�this guy�s ad read: �French Golf Lover��but it turns out he was actually SWISS. Let�s call him Klaus. Born and raised in Zurich. Oh jeez, I can�t get a break..!! He was very tall and had good hair and wore just the right amount of J. Peterman Cologne. He had just moved to New York to launch a new gourmet food operation. We argued about truffles right off the bat. I told him I thought they tasted like DIRT.

�Oh, but Leenda, you must have eaten summer truffles. Zay are not so goot.�

�Summer, winter�I don�t want to eat anything a pig dug up�okay?�

Klaus was in the process of divorcing his wife of 25 years�with whom he stayed �just for the children (four of them)�and for appearances.� His wife was from a wealthy and prominent French family and, he admitted, he had married her for the prestige and the entr�e. EEeeewwww�!!

He also admitted to several adulterous affairs throughout his marriage, justifying them by saying��I would only meet them in town (Paris)�never near my family.� Oh, well�that makes it okay�NOT..!! I ragged on him relentlessly about how this was so lame and EURO. And the notion that you stay in a bad marriage for the kids or for image�is retarded to me. It's not as if American men don�t have affairs�but it�s just that damn �but, of course� Euro attitude. It�s NEVER okay, dudes�get it???

Then we got into an argument about legalizing �gay marriage.� I said,

�Why not?...if two people love one another. With all the chaos and hatred in the world�who could be against a couple wanting to pledge love and respect for one another for eternity?�

"Oh, no, no, no�Leenda, you are zo wrong. A marriage is a sacred bond between a man and a woman�punto!. (This from a multi-adulterous husband.!!) Next thing you know�you�ll want to legalize marriages between dogs and cats.�

I went only slightly ballistic at this last remark�because I didn�t want to make a scene.

A few weeks later, Klaus invited me to see some friends of his perform at The Bitter End. This was a much better date�because it involved a lot more alcohol and a lot less talking. We kissed across the table. Not a great kiss�but not terrible.

At dinner after the show�things took a drastic turn for the worse!! He asked what I was looking for in a man�and I said, �Someone who�s NOT a 'wife-cheater'.� He went all apoplectic and SWISS on me. �Ja�dat�s not funny. I told you before�dat bothers me when you say dat.�

�Well, you asked�and besides I was kidding.�

"Ja, but I don�t need you to remind me about this. I feel guilty enough. I don�t think we should go out again�because I think you are NOT kidding. I think you are a woman who resents a man like me who has lots of girlfriends while he�s married.�

"Achtung...sie sind korrekt, Klaus�I think it�s disgusting."

In retrospect, I guess we should have stuck to kissing�and not talking. But, then again, the kissing wasn�t very good (stiff lips, not enough tongue, not enough moisture�to be precise). And bad kissing is ALWAYS a deal-breaker.

So, thanks for joining me for my little international dating tour.

And, what have I learned from all this, you might ask? Absolutely NOTHING. Despite my New Year�s resolutions�and I�ve made a few�I believe people inevitably repeat the same mistakes over and over again. But, I�m definitely gonna take a break from Euro-sapiens for a while�or at least until someone who looks and sounds like a young Sean Connery comes along.

Please feel free to share your own stories about exotic foreign couplings with me...and leave in all the juicy bits!!

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