The relationship didn't go anywhere, as my father might have warned me if I'd told him about such things. I will admit to needng a little romantic assistance. Since moving here a few years ago, I'd hardle describe my dating life as successful. There was Sadakat, the half-Finnish, half-Pakistani barrister from London who slept most of the day and worked most of the night writing a book on criminal justice. Circumscribed within this schedule, our dates would begin at midnight. Once I fell asleep on the bar during the middle of one.

Then there were the ones who simply never called again. The boy from Minnesota who imported women's leather clothing from Brazil, the Cockney songwriter, the French dot-com millionnaire. Perhaps I didn't want to marry these men, but I certainly wanted to see them again. I began to feel baffled by Western norms of dating, what one Indian friend calls "dating for dating's sake."

Last summer, Alex, a handsome consultant I'd met at a party, invited me to his apartment for dinner.It was our first real date, and I was flattered—and encouraged—that he was already cooking for me. Soon after I arrived, we were drinking an Argentine wine I'd brought to go with his vegetarian lasgne, hewing to my restored dietary restrictions. Then, during dessert, Alex started talking about his long-distance Japanese girlfriend. I spat out my espresso. Not done yet, he also sought my advice on how to ask out the cute girl from his gym. Was it something I did? Perhaps I should have brought an old-world wine? Dating for dating's sake indeed.