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"It&amp;amp;#8217;s Monday night in Barcelona, the night after our tapas-bar introduction to Spain and a night out with a French curling team. Fiona and I have designated it &amp;quot;posh drinks night&amp;quot; at the W, the city&amp;amp;#8217;s most stylish five-star hotel. Isolated on a sandy peninsula that juts out into the Mediterranean Sea, and with the cheeky motto, &amp;amp;#8220;Whatever, whenever,&amp;amp;#8221; the W and its 26th-floor Eclipse bar offers just enough hint of scandal to inspire intrigue and justify a pricey cocktail. And, after all, the two leading ladies of Vicky Christina Barcelona&amp;amp;#8217;s little-known and completely imaginary sequel, Fiona Krystin(a) Barcelona, still haven&amp;amp;#8217;t found their Juan Antonio. Eclipse bar at the W BarcelonaFiona&amp;amp;#8217;s having fun narrating our trip as we walk into the W after a late seaside dinner: Krystin and Fiona enter the Eclipse bar, wondering if they&amp;amp;#8217;ll find their Juan Antonio. Krystin asks for the cocktail menu, wishing she were better acquainted with this more spirited world, one light years beyond her familiar one of plastic-cup rum-and-Cokes at a Midwestern state university. The girls order two Cosmos. It is, after all, a ladies&amp;amp;#8217; weekend. Eighty percent of the clientele are obviously guests and could have been throwing euros out the window without noticing a difference. This is their preamble to a night out. The other 20 percent are the gawkers, who watch the euros drift out the window with silent heartbreak. This is their night out. The bar grows more chaotic over the next hour and a half. Fiona and I find the people-watching incredibly interesting, so we order another cocktail. It comes in a champagne flute and tastes like everything that is good in this world. Most of the guests leave around 12:30 A.M. to continue their night out, but the young and posh dancing in front of us have moved on to new (bigger?) bottles of champagne, Tall Blond Man is now dancing with a cougar who looks like she might drag him back to her lair. I fear for his safety and his tomorrow. Into the chaos walks a man who immediately catches my attention. He leans against the bar with the self-assurance I&amp;amp;#8217;ve only ever seen men from mid-century films pull off, and a pink cashmere cardigan around his shoulders I&amp;amp;#8217;ve never seen anyone pull off. &amp;amp;#8220;You&amp;amp;#8217;re just checking him out because he looks French,&amp;amp;#8221; Fiona whispers. Well, he does. &amp;amp;#8220;But he is really attractive,&amp;amp;#8221; she adds. Well, he is. He&amp;amp;#8217;s older &amp;amp;#8212; maybe late twenties or early thirties. Curly light hair, the cardigan, a tailored white shirt with rolled-up sleeves and slim khaki trousers that all set off naturally tan skin. He&amp;amp;#8217;s not checking his phone, just having a drink. I admire this self-assurance. He surveys the scene in front of him, which apparently includes me. I survey the scene in front of me, which definitely includes him. I think we make eye contact, but I&amp;amp;#8217;m not entirely sure, so I smile anyway. He smiles back. Fiona and I continue chatting, each of us occasionally looking toward the bar. I&amp;amp;#8217;m desperately wishing I could fix my hair. The next time I look up, he holds my glance. He walks over. Fiona and Krystin exchange disbelieving looks. Is this the girls&amp;amp;#8217; Juan Antonio? The night, at 1 A.M., is young. Fiona twirls a strand of hair, wishing she&amp;amp;#8217;d had a blow-dryer. Krystin is wondering what a smile got/will get her into. Both girls realize the night is going to be more interesting than either had anticipated. &amp;amp;#8220;Do you mind if I sit? You girls are having fun, and I am alone &amp;amp;#8216;ere,&amp;amp;#8221; he says with a genuine smile and beautiful French accent. (Called it.) He sits down to my right and introduces himself&amp;amp;#8212;he&amp;amp;#8217;s been here for a friend&amp;amp;#8217;s bachelor&amp;amp;#8217;s party, and loved Barcelona so much he extended his stay a few days. The three of us immediately fall into a lively chat, bonding over the beauty of the city. Fiona, always the comedienne, somehow manages to be even wittier than normal. I&amp;amp;#8217;m scared nothing I say will be pronounced correctly, so I just try not to stare and occasionally emit sounds of agreement. We find out the Fox was born and raised in Algiers, then moved to Paris when he was 16. He lived there until he was 22, then moved to London to work at what he says is a &amp;amp;#8220;boring&amp;amp;#8220; finance job. He&amp;amp;#8217;s been there about eight years, he says. Fiona, a Londoner, finds out he lives in Mayfair&amp;amp;#8212;which, she tells me the next day, is a really posh area of the city (&amp;amp;#8220;Prince Harry goes out there!&amp;amp;#8221;). He&amp;amp;#8217;s nice, and comes off as incredibly genuine. It doesn&amp;amp;#8217;t seem like he went to the bar alone to pick up girls. The evening is progressing along in quite the French fashion: We happened to be here, and he happened to be here, and now we&amp;amp;#8217;re all having a good time, and that is all that is happening right now. The three of us finish our drinks. He asks us if we&amp;amp;#8217;d like another here, or do we want to go somewhere else? &amp;amp;#8220;Well, do you want to come with us?&amp;amp;#8221; Fiona asks. &amp;amp;#8220;We&amp;amp;#8217;ve heard of the best jazz bar, and we were going to go there after drinks here anyway.&amp;amp;#8221; In the States, it seems like the Fox would have needed another friend, and the eight-ish-year age difference would probably have been off-putting, and two young women should never leave a bar with a man they just met. But it&amp;amp;#8217;s Barcelona, and his eyes say he&amp;amp;#8217;s trustworthy, and so all of this is completely fine and comparatively normal. The three of us take the well-lit elevator downstairs. The Fox turns out to be a Silver Fox! Though he definitely is around 30, he&amp;amp;#8217;s an early grayer, with peppery curls breaking up the rest. Fiona sees what I&amp;amp;#8217;m seeing. He steps outside for a cigarette, and Fiona and I head into the palace of the lobby ladies&amp;amp;#8217; room for some quick strategy. &amp;amp;#8220;He&amp;amp;#8217;s coming with us?! I bet he won&amp;amp;#8217;t be there when we go back outside,&amp;amp;#8221; I say. &amp;amp;#8220;Also, did you &amp;amp;#8212;&amp;amp;#8220; &amp;amp;#8220;Nah, he will be! Did you see his hair? It&amp;amp;#8217;s definitely not blonde.&amp;amp;#8221; &amp;amp;#8220;No. Definitely not. But, I mean&amp;amp;#133;&amp;amp;#8220; I say. &amp;amp;#8220;I kind of like it.&amp;amp;#8221; &amp;amp;#8220;I KNOW.&amp;amp;#8221; Krystin and Fiona climb into a hybrid taxi with Silver Fox. As they speed off into the Barcelona night, is it possible the girls have found their Juan Antonio? Fiona decides to run through her repertoire of impressions. The driver is distracted and gets lost. Silver Fox switches flawlessly from chatting with us in English to redirecting him in Spanish, then goes back to a brief chat in French with Fiona. The driver turns off the meter, finds the club and Silver Fox pays. We exit the taxi and go to find an ATM on La Rambla. His hand finds the small of my back, and we chat together while Fi takes her turn getting money. We return to the club, where Silver Fox pays our covers, and we go down a hallway, to pass through a curtain, where we find&amp;amp;#133; Nothing. Our much-hyped jazz club is empty. I remember the Guardian article was from 2006. We stay anyway&amp;amp;#8212;we&amp;amp;#8217;re the only ones there, we&amp;amp;#8217;re enjoying each others&amp;amp;#8217; company and our cover is paid, so why not? I&amp;amp;#8217;m better at chatting now than I was at the W, and he and I are having a great conversation. A man who looks like a well-dressed Tortuga pirate comes over and begins speaking with Fiona. We have another eye conversation, and I ask if she needs to be saved. She&amp;amp;#8217;s a martyr. I excuse myself to use the restroom, thinking Silver Fox might be able to swoop in and rescue Fiona from the Pirate. I spend an inordinate amount of time trying to salvage my hair situation. But when I walk out into the hallway between bathroom and bar, I run into the Silver Fox coming out into the hallway as well. We exchange jokingly polite hellos, and then, somehow, we wind up rather close to each other. We go back up to the bar after a kiss, and Fiona is looking a bit more concerned. The Pirate is likely attempting to plunder, and she (and we) will have none of it. Silver Fox quietly excuses himself while we talk about what to do. She&amp;amp;#8217;s tired, and I tell her I&amp;amp;#8217;ll be back well before she wakes up. Silver Fox and I are up until dawn. He talks about skipping his flight to stay longer in the city with me. It&amp;#x27;s delightful romantic chat, but I tell him not to put plans on hold &amp;amp;#8212; we barely know each other, and I&amp;amp;#8217;ve still got time with Fiona left. My name is in his Blackberry. I don&amp;amp;#8217;t expect anything to happen. But Silver Fox adds me on Facebook, and we message back and forth for few days. He&amp;amp;#8217;s in Paris for 24 hours, then heading back to Algeria to see family. He asks where I&amp;amp;#8217;ll be for the next few weeks. I respond with places but no dates. Silver Fox was just as charming and lovely as other European men I&amp;amp;#8217;ve met, so when I think about what was different with him, it comes down to his age: I usually go for guys who are much older than I am, but I&amp;amp;#8217;ve never broached the 30th birthday before. But there&amp;amp;#8217;s something to be said for older men: Silver Fox, in his years in Paris and London, had learned to be a chivalrous without being condescending, attentive without being hover-y and, no matter his intentions, always polite and incredibly respectful. Some college men are actual cavemen in comparison (&amp;amp;#8220;Beer! Woman! Cave!&amp;amp;#8221;). We&amp;amp;#8217;re still friends on Facebook, and I have a scrounged-for business card with an email address (had to stifle a giggle when I got that). I&amp;amp;#8217;ll be in London next weekend, and I&amp;amp;#8217;m thinking of dropping him a line, but I&amp;amp;#8217;m not sure if I should just leave it how it ended. What do you ladies think I should do? Have any of you ever dated an older guy? What did you find to be the best parts about it? More on dating older men: * The DOs and DON&amp;#x27;Ts of dating an older man * Is an older man right for you? * 5 funny things about dating an older guy Photo: Courtesy of the W Barcelona"^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
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