Lost in Translation.

It is my firm belief that if you read the ‘Romance’ section of the Lonely Planet’s Brazilian-Portuguese phrasebook in one sitting, you can perceive the shadowy form of an entire self-contained narrative behind the latticework of chat-up lines, rejections and sexual instruction. And here’s the rub: the narrative is a tragedy – a perfectly condensed, miniature tragedy of misunderstanding, frustration and disappointment.

Here are the salient points, redacted for your pleasure (all italics are direct quotations).

Thing start out well enough for the two lovers.

You look like someone I know.

Would you like a drink?

You’re a fantastic dancer. 

But storm-clouds soon appear on the horizon.

I’d rather not.

I have a boyfriend.

Excuse me, I have to go now.

However, forgetting trifles like FIDELITY and SELF-RESPECT, things are soon back on track.

I like you very much.

You’re so beautiful.

Can I kiss you?

Can I take you home?

Clearly this night was never going to end with a demure kiss at the front door. That’s why the next question someone asks is:

Do you want a massage?

Of course, that is a totally normal question for a first date. Afterwards, it's not surprising that things get a little bit heated.

Do you like this?

Mmm, you’re great.

Heavy petting ensues.

Touch me here.

Do you like that?

Oh yeah!

Faster!

Oh my God!

It’s time to go for broke, cards on the table, pants around ankles.

I want to make love to you.

But wait! There’s a snag.

Do you have a condom?

Come on, surely that’s not too much ask? Apparently so.

Let’s use a condom.

Yeah, man, don't be a dick! You can hear how much this means to her. Why won’t you just get some condoms? I’m sure the petrol station’s still open.

I won’t do it without protection.

Get the message, you chauvinist prick. Oh, no, too late. Now she’s realised you’re an asshole.

I don’t like that.

I think we should stop now.

And then, out of nowhere, the bomb drops.

It’s my first time.

Woah! I absolutely did not see that coming. Cue the awkward disentanglement, the shamefaced apology, the stilted attempts to restore normality. And then someone, god knows who, comes up with a totally normal way of saving the situation.

Don’t worry, I’ll do it myself.*

Oh no you didn’t! Jesus Christ, you did. OK, well, it’s the next day now and, forgetting the fact that I had to sit and watch you finish yourself off, which I really can’t forget, in fact I may never be able to forget about it, I still really like you. I know: human nature, right? And yet something’s different. Maybe it was watching you frot yourself to a frenzy, but I’m afraid the serpent of doubt has entered the garden of our love, clutching between its fangs the bright, juicy apple of paranoia.

You’re just using me for sex.

Are you seeing someone else?

We can work it out.

I don’t think it’s working out.

It’s all over now, apart from the goodbye. Ah, parting is such sweet sorrow – or in this case, such a huge relief.  

I’ll keep in touch. (He won’t). 

I’ll miss you. (She won’t).

* Even taken out of context, this surely is an unusual phrase to include. Specifically, when the hell are you meant to use it? Is the assumption that you’re a girl and you’re with some selfish prick who’s just sorted himself out so you decide to sit there with a relative stranger, rummage in your handbag for the phrasebook, consult the index and then haltingly recite this exact phrase before knuckling down (forgive the pun)? I mean, if you have to go through all of that, I imagine the moment’s already gone. Surely it would be better to wait until you’re back at the hotel. Light a candle. Take a bath. Put on some music through those crappy speakers you bought at the airport. They really make Al Green come to life.