Oy Gevalt! A Goy Goes Speed-Dating

With a reporter’s notebook surreptitiously tucked into my bag, I trekked down to Hillel on Saturday night to infiltrate its first ever speed-dating event.

I got there a little after 9, and the line to get in was out the door. (About 100 to 130 people showed up, according to an unofficial count.) Crowded in with the other latecomers, I jotted down some of their reactions:

“Look, there ARE guys here!” Surprisingly, there were. The ratio of guys to girls was pretty balanced, although most girls showed up much earlier than the guys.

“We have to pay to get into this?” Yes, each attendee was charged 3 dollars, which all went to the Harvard Square Homeless Shelter.

“I guess everyone is desperate.” Lucky for the homeless shelter.

Finally, the speed dating began. Each of us had a nametag with a number, and a sheet of paper to write down the names of the people we met and whether we wanted to see them again. I soon discovered that I would need to shout the entire time because the room was so loud. At least I didn’t have anyone take advantage of this as an excuse to invade my personal space. Some girls (see photo) were not so lucky.

Ultimately, the guys I met fell into the following three categories:

1) The awkward but affable undergrads. They were either from Harvard, BU, or Northeastern. Some wore yarmulkes, some not. Most were from New York or Boston and were studying economics, science, or math. A few tried to start with jokes, but unfortunately, none of these were memorable enough to be repeated here. They smiled a lot and asked me why I had left California to go to school at Harvard. None of them asked me if I was a Jew.

2) The unexpected grad students. Apparently, the age limit was 26, which I suppose I would have known had I read the email invite more carefully. Some of them looked old enough to make me feel kind of weirded out. Definitely not kosher.

3) The frat pledges. I was informed by an anonymous source to look for these, but really, they were easy to spot. They were too slick for Hillel, too self-congratulatory and full of freshman bravado. They also had name tags that read “Dirt” and “Mango.” When asked, most good-naturedly admitted to being there facetiously. One, though, denied it and instead waxed BS about his love for girls’ feet. In response, I asked him what he thought of his own feet. He didn’t have a good answer for that.