Ritual and Violation Through the Ages

Here's something new at Times of Israel, touching on issues of ritual and Jewish practice covered in the book. It starts,

The new 9-ll attack in Libya and its aftermath sickened me with images of the death of Ambassador Christopher Stevens and reports of the violation of his body, dragged through the streets of Benghazi. Seeing the bloody handprints of Americans on a pillar reminded me of the photo from the 2000 lynching of two IDF reservists in Ramallah, as Aziz Salha waved his blood-drenched hands in triumph after the killings, which also involved the reservists’s bodies being dragged through the streets. 

Separated by almost 12 years but united by the barbarism of the perpetrators, these two acts coincide with thoughts I’ve had lately on death, the rituals of mourning and the deep anguish caused when those rituals are violated. 

With Yom Kippur passed, with its reflections on life and death, I’m struggling to find a narrative thread connecting horrific media images. They contrast violently with my traditional sense of treating the dead.
 

Heartbreakers

We’ve all been there: the first look, the initial teases, the memorable first date, the breathless anticipation, the shy touches and blushes . . . and then the shocking flame-out.

Male-female relationships? That’s kid’s play. No, I’m referring to the heartbreaking cycle I’ve endured with my unrequited passion for TV series I loved and lost.

I’m reflecting on that special kind of pain after NBC pounded me with previews for its new series Revolution throughout the Olympics. I even watched the extended preview with scenes of the U.S. after the collapse of the electrical power grid. The view of a weed-choked Wrigley Field in Chicago echoed the conclusion of Planet of the Apes. I saw a young cast led by a bow-and-arrow wielding heroine, sword play, and the quest to turn the power back on. Of course the preview hinted at a vast, shadowy conspiracy and the need to uncover what was really behind the calamity.

I could love this easily imagined scenario. My passion for conspiracy-minded TV is vast. I watched every episode of 24, which rewarded me with thrills and chills and Elisha Cuthbert for eight uneven but gripping seasons. I even posted essays on 24 fan sites, a pre-blogging kind of expression I’ve never done before or since. I also loved the first season of The Walking Dead when I could get it on video; I even read the very long graphic novel afterward. Years ago, I read Stephen King’s The Stand, which was haunting, and enjoyed the mini-series with Molly Ringwald. I became a fan of Firefly, a beloved and influential series that Fox bungled, long after its cancellation -- my son suggested that one for me.

But I wonder about Revolution. The tease caught my interest. Would this be the start of a beautiful relationship, or merely the latest in a dreary series of network equivalents of one-night stands? I’ve always been a sucker for sci-fi and apocalyptic TV and movies since I watched The Time Tunnel and Lost in Space in the 1960s. Raquel Welch’s Fantastic Voyage and One Million Years B.C. also captivated me, for more hormonal reasons.

In recent years, my devotion led to naught but regret as one sci-fi series after another dished out the wham-bam-thank-you-Van treatment.

My entertainment Walk of Shame started several years ago when I fell hard for FlashForward. The first episodes were brilliant. Everybody on the planet blacked out at the exact same moment, for the exact length of time, and had disturbing visions of their future. FBI agents, wracked by their own dreams, started to unravel what happened. Even as they did, the series itself fell apart. My sense was the writers couldn’t put together a coherent explanation for the blackout or its aftermath. Loose ends piled up, conspiracies became muddier. I missed some episodes, although I hung on to the end, which hinted at the next flash forward dream. Fox cancelled the series. America yawned.

Saddened, I kept hope for quality TV alive with The Event, with semi-immortal aliens captured by the U.S. government in Alaska. The series grew on me as it progressed. The aliens were riven by intrigue and disagreement about the path to take in deciding whether to cooperate or exterminate earthlings. Since aliens are often portrayed in Borg-like agreement on everything, I found this angle refreshing. The series picked up steam and direction as it moved along. The very last scene promised an explosive second season, perhaps on the lines of the movie Independence Day, but that season never happened. A long gap in the airings (curse you, Fox schedulers!), baffling personality changes in the aliens’ leader, and the usual bogus swamp of plot clutter—always involving a sweaty, treasonous Vice President, lurking in White House hallways whispering into his cell phone—sank the series. Viewers fled in droves. Canceled.

I’m feeling sheepish about my most recent ill-starred love. Goaded by relentless promos, I watched most of Fox’s Terra Nova. Go ahead and laugh; looking back, I have to ask, “What was I thinking?” The show threw an attractive multicultural cast in the time-travel blender, built a set that looked like a pre-historic Club Med resort, shook well – and created a mess. I kicked myself for wasting time even as I watched the episodes, hoping the show would coalesce. But it stayed stuck on stupid. Terra Nova had too few rampaging dinosaurs, NO exploding volcanoes and way too much idiotic teen romance.

The writers lacked the courage to truly explore the show’s premise. If you could go back in time to rebuild human society, what would it look like, and how would people interact? (Terra Nova opted for Dawson’s Creek with pterodactyls.) The concept of building a new society in the past is strong enough without gumming it up with Road Warrior-style opposition forces and yet another corporate conspiracy. The ending intrigued me—the settlement leaders discover a 17^th century ship, hinting at past settlers from other eras—but by then millions of other viewers had broken up with Terra Nova and the relationship ended. Adios, dim-witted teens and brontosauruses. Raquel Welch did far more with far less with her fur bikini in One Million Years B.C.

Sometimes I recognize a loser and bail out before I’m too far in. I tried Kiefer Sutherland’s series, Touch, where he was the father of a silent, autistic boy with the power to bring people together through number patterns. Two episodes of cloying global goodness and an impending conspiracy had me reaching for the remote control. I just couldn’t handle an autistic savant.

So that brings me around to Revolution. This is from NBC rather than Fox, so the commercial breaks might be slightly shorter (less time to wash dishes, fold laundry, etc.) and the plotting more focused. I greatly enjoyed executive producer J.J. Abrams’ Cloverfield, a story told completely through found footage from cell phones and camcorders of a monster wrecking New York. Abrams’ vision of a powerless America, including shapely women wielding medieval weapons, could lure me back to the TV singles bar one more time in my endless quest for love with a remote control.

Or if it bogs down in its own relentless seriousness and conspiracies, I can always do a Stargate marathon.

Tales of the Book Collector: Judaica

Here's a recent post from the Times of Israel. As it starts:

My enthusiasm for collecting books on Jewish themes soared on a recent vacation that included a stop in downtown Kerrville, Texas. Dropping by a used bookstore, I found a volume I’d never seen before in decades of visits to stores and tag sales. This encounter with the printed word supported my long-time belief: you never know when an appealing tome might pop up, like a doggie in the window, just begging to go home with you.

The very name of the store, Wolfmueller’s Books, sounded promising, fragrant with an antique Teutonic bookiness. Old Mr. Wolfmueller probably shared the Texas Hill Country’s deep German roots. I strolled in and first perused the highlighted section of books by local favorite son, Jewish musician, author and feisty gubernatorial candidate Kinky Friedman—another excellent signal that something Judaic lurked therein.

Advice to the New Graduate

My son graduated from high school last month and is heading for a college with a strong science and engineering focus next month. The Significant Other and I took him to the local Panera Bread restaurant to celebrate. As we munched, I shared with Shmoikel the fatherly advice gained from my own experiences at Princeton University in 1976-1980, during the glorious Jimmy Carter years. I figured that fashion changes, but technology moves more gradually, and what worked for me in the 1970s would no doubt prove useful for Shmoikel in the 2010s.

"First, you'll need a good solid desk for your IBM Selectric," I opined. "They're excellent typewriters but they are on the heavy side, so you'll want sturdy support. I'm sure the university will have something designed for one of them. If you want to work on the plane ride up there—I know I need to book the flight on PeoplExpress for you—you can use a portable typewriter. I guess the new term for those is 'laptop.'"

"Sure thing, Dad," he said, writing notes on his tried-and-true tablet, which I got him for his birthday several years ago. This is the old-school, reliable tablet, the kind you write on with chalk. They're great for students on the go who need to take notes.

"You'll also want to be ready for your programming classes. You may find the punchcards complex in the beginning, but a bright guy like you will get the hang of it," I explained. "You've got good dexterity, just shuffle them and your 75 percent of the way there."

"I've heard about punchcards—they're still cutting-edge, you think?" Shmoikel said, sounding dubious.

"Oh, definitely," I said.

"And don't forget your slide rule," added the Significant Other, who sent her kid to college several years ago and knows first-hand what's required on these Eastern college campuses.

We left Panera's confident that Shmoikel will be ready for whatever comes his way. He'll be registering to vote for the first time. As a great fan of civic involvement, this thrills me. I'm already prepping him for a repeat of the 1980 election, when a certain floundering Democrat ran against a certain confident Republican, with the Iranians causing problems. I'd like to say he should get on the right side of history like I did, but you know how kids are these days.

Some Empathy for Tom Cruise

Now that Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes are divorcing, Cruise will eventually be back on the market. I'm the last guy he needs dating advice from, given gorgeous co-stars and the long line of dating interests from the past.

What I can offer him is some empathy. We're both over 50 and he's just slightly taller than me, 5'7", which sounds pretty good given that I'm 5'5 1/2" on a charitable day. Height matters because Cruise is getting some pummeling these days as writers dredge up comments about his height in fleshing out stories about his marriages and even his films. I'll set the religious issues aside for now.

The quote that really made me gulp came from Mrs. Cruise No. 2, Nicole Kidman, the Amazon from Oz, who stuck the knife in when she was divorcing Cruise in 2001 after a decade of marriage. The quote showing up everywhere is this:

When David Letterman asked the Moulin Rouge star how she was handling her divorce from Cruise in 2001, the actress poked fun at her ex-husband's 5'7" stature. "I can wear heels now," she teased.

In good fun or not, the height difference and the comment take me back to my online dating days. Women and their high heels! That combination sank embryonic contacts before we even had a chance to meet. I heard that kind of comment several times -- you're too short, I like to wear heels, I need a taller man. At some point does that thinking become obvious as self-defeating, or does it remain a primal romantic sorting mechanism, in the eternal quest for the bigger, badder bringer of the DNA for the next generation? In your late 40s and 50s, I can't see the rugged DNA angle being much of an issue, but height-as-qualifier retains its allure, as I know from being on the short end of the measuring stick several times.

While Cruise hasn't had any trouble dating and mating women taller than him, the post-divorce comments about his height and other even more intimate issues, courtesy of Mrs. Cruise No. 1, Mimi Rogers, who called Cruise "celibate," have got to sting. Nobody likes to see their physical attributes or bedroom behavior slagged in the press. I imagine this all bounces off of Cruise, and won't deter him from finding the next 20-something Tall Girl to be Mrs. Cruise No. 4. Still, I hope, just talking guy to guy here, neither Holmes nor her eventual replacement pops off about the guy on these issues. If Tom Cruise isn't safe from that kind of talk, none of us are.

The Forbidden Passages: Tales from the Editorial Spike

Journalists call it the “spike”—the decision to not publish a story for reasons of its truthfulness, incompleteness or other political sensitivity. I used the spike on thousands of words I could have included in my dating book. Even after years of polishing and considering materials, I had to decide what to include and what to delete up until the end. The book could have topped 250 pages had I opted to throw in every pearl of wisdom I’ve ever scribbled on dating topics, or topics completely unrelated to dating.

In some cases, I spiked episodes that I ultimately did not feel comfortable seeing the light of day (at least under my own name). They were just too personal, revealing more than necessary about the inner workings of intense relationships. I decided to leave in related but shorter or milder material that made a point without drawing blood. And in some cases, I think I’ll save the material for either a novel or another try at the New York Times’ “Modern Love” column. Something may be too personal for a book, but just right for Modern Love (as I’ve said at times in my life, I’m corruptible).

Still, no harm will come from a peek at what’s not there. So, here, free of most context, are snippets of what I call the Forbidden Passages—Tales from the Spike. Feel free to create your own imagined stories about them.
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She had said I was a pain in the ass for never calling, just doing IM. "That's not true!" I protested. "As soon as Helga gave me her phone number I called her." Ingrid was stunned by this—she never knew I had actually talked to Helga. I had behaved the same with Ingrid—when a woman gives me her phone number, I call.
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A 37 year-old Catholic lawyer of Lebanese background in Latin America, Judy immediately attracted passionate attention from men who loved her glamorous profile and pouting, voluptuous photograph, remarkably similar to Latin TV star Ninel Conde.

In fact, the woman in the picture was Ninel Conde. The profile was a fake, a lark invented by a friend to assemble all the stereotypical themes of a glamour-girl profile. Then the lie became a kind of truth. My friend turned to me, as co-writer, to help figure out what to do with the emotional mess that her sexy monster created.
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For months I chased Sandi even as her yes/no/maybe-so ambivalence made the pursuit as futile and maddening as Captain Ahab’s quest for Moby Dick. I knew this opportunity would end badly, but my back muscles strained and my hands and heart bled as I plunged my emotional oars into the churning, blood-chilling waters of romance with Sandi. . . . Then, Sandi flipped her cruel, mighty tail one final time and smashed my pathetic little whaleboat of love, ending contact between us.
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Vera says: Come to see me
Van says: That's a long haul, a big step. Will you be in the US at any time?
Vera says: No, I prefer you come  ladies first choice
Van says: I see. Too bad about all that water in the middle.
Vera says: Bye
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My favorite venues have been the Essensuality “erotic expression” salons and the monthly Wide Open Wednesday at the Museum of Sex, where performers gather in the Oral Fix Café for a rollicking, unpredictable time. I’ve had to go deep within to find my own performing style and material. From the start, I knew I had to connect to audiences with my words, not my looks; unlike some performers, I’ll never wow anybody by stripping down to my skivvies. What, I thought, could I possibly say compared to talented performers like Bikini Bondage Babe, Little Miss Orgy Organizer, Gay Phone Sex Dude and Brooklyn Transgender Birthday Gang Bang Guy?
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We were in our 40s and used my classic Corvette Stingray to get away from our kids. Better late than never!

Did I say “Corvette Stingray”? I meant my “Hyundai Elantra.” But it thinks it’s a Stingray.

Publication Day

"A Kosher Dating Odyssey" becomes properly available today. I've had friends already email me that Amazon has sent out the paperback version. I'm waiting to hear about the Kindle version. I've had some gratifying congratulatory calls, including from my friend referred to as Chloe the Oracle of Romance in the book. She's soon to get her copy. The references to her could be a great ice-breaker in her online dating activities.

I have no idea what coming days will bring, although at least one article is set to run about the book and I continue to alert editors about it. Who'll find it interesting as fodder for a review or just as a good read is anybody'd guess. The essays I'm doing in support of the book could turn in to excellent material for a revised edition down the road; one essay is evening inspiring me to write a short story for a contest being sponsored by the Texas Observer newspaper.

What comes next creatively? I have some ideas. I always have ideas. Execution remains the issue. To goose up the competitive spirit, I attended a panel presentation by three romance novel writers at the Ridgefield Public Library today. Hearing other writers always inspires me, and now that I have one real, honest-to-goodness book to my credit, I can keep thinking about what comes next. Surely this can't be the peak of my writing career—have keyboard, will travel to distant lands and write about topics that have been bubbling in me for decades.

All I have to do is turn off the Internet and get back to banging out what's already in me, just waiting to burst out—a little later than I expected in life, but the only present I have is right now.

Rolling With The Online Dating Punches

This essay appeared in what was then called JMag, the magazine of the dating site JDate, in conjunction with the publication of my book A Kosher Dating Odyssey. 

The profile intrigues me. The woman has everything I seek – the education, the cultural interests, the open smile with a hint of sauciness (lingering, intimate weekends), a passion for Judaism. I sense a connection. I write, she responds, we meet at a café midway between our suburban homes. Sitting outside on a spring evening, time simply stops as we both wonder if this could mean something. We kiss goodbye and then write to each other later that evening. We’ll meet again. Soon.

OK, that’s the fantasy. Here’s the reality. Same starting point, different direction:

The profile intrigues me. The woman has enough personality so I write to her. She writes back and we agree to meet. Sitting inside a Starbucks on the Upper West Side of Manhattan on a fall afternoon, I sense little connection. She’s tired from hard Halloween partying the night before and doesn’t want to get a drink. I settle for tea. After 15 minutes she says, “I don’t think this is a love match so I’m leaving.” And leave she does, as I sit there gaping. We’ll never meet again.

Such awkward moments are part of dating. You’re out there emotionally, revealing hopes and fears and your brightest smile. Do it long enough and you get a thick skin that still bleeds easily. Sure, you want to leap into the great romance of your life, but that electricity doesn’t always strike. More often, you’re drenched in a chill drizzle of encounters that range between wryly amusing (in retrospect) to heartbreaking. I detail some of them in my book A Kosher Dating Odyssey: One Former Texas Baptist’s Quest for a Naughty & Nice Jewish Girl.

Weird moments typically happen on a first or second date when you’re sorting out early impressions. Consider my time with a woman I’ll call Spygirl. On the surface, we looked way promising. Like me, she was from Texas and we both worked in corporate communications – in fact, our employers were direct rivals. And that started the problem. We had one date that worked out well enough, then scheduled another, just for a coffee again. This time, Spygirl started asking, rather aggressively, for confidential documents from my company. Her tone struck me as bizarre. Was I her romance interest, or a patsy in a corporate espionage ring? I declined, of course, and Spygirl’s peculiar behavior pushed me to run for the exits.

Speaking of Texas, I once had an IM from an attractive woman involved in the arts in that state. She was a bit younger than me, and her smart ‘n’ sassy profile made my heart go pitty-pat. Alas… it turned out this woman was my second cousin and we’ve known each other since childhood. Our mothers were first cousins so, no dice there. File under “awkward, but funny.”

Then there was Sparkles, a fellow suburbanite. One Sunday evening at her house we were trying, reluctantly, to move the date to its conclusion. With the weekend kid hand-off looming, we struggled to get me out the door. Keep in mind that Sparkles was a curvy armload of a gal and I liked the feel of our farewell hugs. The seconds were ticking away, but we just couldn’t disengage as we stood next to my car.

And then the headlights hit us as her ex pulled into the driveway with the kids. I don’t know how much he saw of us – we quickly broke the clinch – but he certainly noticed my battered 1986 Saab in the narrow driveway. Without a pause he backed up so I could make my getaway. By the way, Sparkles’ ex and I had some professional connections (let’s leave this vague) so opportunities for office awkwardness could have reached astronomical levels. Maybe I should have introduced him to Spygirl so she could pester him for documents.

Fortunately, awkward encounters usually last just a few minutes. You meet an ex-flame entwined around her new guy, the doe-eyed IM charmer becomes a strident anti-American loon on the phone, the woman you meet bears absolutely no resemblance to her profile photos (been there, done all of that.) When these moments happened, I gleaned whatever lessons I could, dusted myself off and moved to the next contestant. Sometimes I seriously ached, but that’s the way the game goes.

However, awkwardness could stretch far beyond a phone call or coffee date. Instead, you have stumbled into a dating version of The Twilight Zone, full of shadows, menace, long pauses and no chance for escape. I’m talking about the most hopeful yet perilous phase of online dating: “The Visit.”

Traveling a few hours to another city for lunch is one thing; flying to another country for a week is quite another. I know from experience; meeting a woman in a country where you can’t even speak the language requires a leap of faith and a zen-like tolerance for potential disconnections. I made that leap into disconnection during a trip to meet a woman I’ll call Guapa. We burned hot in the beginning of our relationship, then cycled through periods of stone-cold silence and warmth. While she wanted me to visit, she also vowed to find me a local “girlfriend.” The longer I knew her, the less I knew her, if that makes sense, but I was intensely curious about Guapa. After a local opportunity tanked, I agreed to a week-long visit to a place I’ll call Pueblo Peligroso—Dangerous Town.

Surprises began at the airport, where Guapa met me with her ex-husband. She lacked a car at the time, so the ex agreed to be our chauffeur. At her place, Guapa laid down some ground rules, such as, I couldn’t take photos of her nor get any photos of us together. She was often distracted; I wondered why she even bothered to have me visit. File this under “awkward and ominous.”

She really did pawn me off on a local friend of hers. And guess what – we connected as the local girlfriend graciously showed me the charming side of Pueblo Peligroso. Among other things, we enjoyed a long lunch at an outdoor café across the street from the main cathedral, which we then toured. In all, a lovely, hand-holding day, with photos. While Guapa was a considerate hostess, we never found a comfortable rhythm and the trip ended our rocky three-year relationship. “Awkward” doesn’t begin to describe the visit. The local girlfriend and I remain in touch, although I have not returned to Pueblo Peligroso.

I like to think every awkward episode was a learning experience. After Guapa, I never took another long trip to meet a woman, for example. I became much more local in what I would consider. In a few years, I met a nearby woman I began dating steadily. I learned what works for me. Reaching that point required leaps into the unknown and plenty of strained moments. Be the encounter a Starbucks one-off or a risky week in another country, I had to find out for myself.

Some Modest How-To Ideas on Dating

I cover a lot of ground in my book "A Kosher Dating Odyssey," but one topic I mostly avoid is how-to. By the time you're in your 40s and 50s, you don't need my advice on how to present yourself or appeal to men or women. Then again, why not some ideas from a guy who spent years out there knocking around and getting knocked around? I'm compiling a list of pithy, good-hearted guidance, initially for women. As ideas come to me, I'll add some for men out there who are working the websites and wondering how to make them work better. So:

• I like self-confidence in a woman, especially on appearance issues. Of course, our bodies change as we age, and a woman's sense of satisfaction and self-acceptance is very appealing. Put your best foot forward and save the neuroses for your girlfriends.
• When going out to dinner with a man, take plenty of time to find a restaurant you both like. Once there, select what you want to eat with a minimum of agonized consideration; long discussions about the pros and cons of different dining options exhaust and confuse men. We like to decide on what to eat and be done with it. Save the food fetishes and phobias for girls' night out.
• If you had an enjoyable time with a man and think the feeling is mutual, surprise him with a hand-written thank-you note. Everybody likes to get real letters yet  nobody sends them. Break that pattern and surprise a man with your communications flair and elegant handwriting—you will make a BIG impression.
• When using an online dating site, remember that men are intensely visual creatures. Use as many profile photos as possible, selecting those that focus on YOU in a favorable, put-together light. Let men's imagination wander and envision themselves with you via evening wear, business wear, fresh at-home ensembles. Avoid blurry cell-phone and webcam photos, photos with sunglasses (what are you hiding?), travel pictures that make you look tiny (men don't care that you visited the Eiffel Tower), or group photos with your arms draped around Uncle Fritz and Aunt Gerdl. Show that you care enough to get appealing photos.
• Don't let strong political views overly color dating profiles, since that can turn off men who don't share those values. You may think "Republicans make me vomit!" and "Rush Limbaugh is a war criminal!" but saying so brands you as a political crank rather than a caring progressive. I found profiles with such intolerant views and they were a major turn-off. Men and women are more than their political views so it's better to agree to disagree rather than dismiss an otherwise compatible man just because he does not think exactly the way you do. (In my experience, liberal women are far more adamant and unyielding in their politics than conservative women.)
• While on a date, you may see other friends. It's perfectly acceptable to stop and chat with them and introduce your date of the evening. Beware, however, if the conversation with the friend turns into a one-on-one discussion that leaves your date feeling ignored and isolated. This could especially sour an early date in a new relationship when people feel vulnerable and want to stay connected with the romantic potentiality. Save the deep discussion for later (post-date, when you'll want to dish about the date, anyway) and keep the focus on having an enjoyable time with the man/woman of the evening.
• GUYS: This is for you. Based on conversations with women, such as my dear friend, mentioned in the book as Chloe the Oracle of Romance, show some common sense. Chivalry is still popular: Hold open doors, stand up when a lady enters the room, push a woman's chair in at a restaurant, observe good grooming at all times, be attentive to a woman's interests and questions. Don't drone on about your obsessions, be they sports, World of Warcraft, the "Saw" movies, your prostate, or anything else that could be a conversation-stopper. Keep the focus on getting to know your date and let her know about you—but not everything about you. Sure, you're interesting—but she is, too.

 

Speaking in Several Tongues

Readers of the upcoming book, "A Kosher Dating Odyssey," may want to keep some dictionaries handy since I throw in words from several other languages. Sometimes a phrase from Hebrew or Spanish just sounds right. I write about this linguistic side of online dating—how a little learning can go a long way—in a post at the Times of Israel, where I'm also contributing these days. "Judaism is for (Language) Lovers" is my maiden voyage there:

Once I graduated from college and moved to New York, I started dating Jewish women and found many excelled at languages. They inspired a lifetime of studies that often overlapped with whatever was spoken by my love interest of the moment. If she spoke Hebrew or Russian or Portuguese or Dutch, then I wanted to speak it, too. For the past 30 years I’ve diligently cycled through languages, including several rounds of Hebrew. While I can’t speak anything but English, an ability to call a woman “motek” (“sweetie” in Hebrew) or close an email with “beijos e abraços” (“kisses and hugs” in Portuguese) sure can smooth the flow of a promising new romance.