Sex first, dinner later: what can singles in Oslo, Berlin, Paris and Rome teach me about dating?

My fellow Brits seem weighed down by endless swiping – I went to the Europeans for a fresh perspective

Last year, I went through a breakup and threw myself into internet dating. I started experimenting with mirror selfies, and spent whole evenings trying to take artful photographs of my own bum. I agonised over my three-line bio. I even put a notebook by my bed with the Hinge prompt “most spontaneous thing I’ve done” written on the first page, so if the answer came to me in a dream, I’d have a pen and paper handy.

I’d spent my early 30s trying to cling on to a failing relationship, which had made me feel stuck in a holding pattern. As if I was fated to have a slightly different version of the same argument every night until I was dead. The thrill of scrolling on Hinge, when I first started dating, was that it felt like shopping for an alternate future. I’d pore over pictures of men cradling small dogs and swinging tennis rackets, and get high on the thought of all the tiny dogs and tennis games we would enjoy together. I started hiding my phone in a cupboard in the kitchen before I went to sleep, because when I kept it in my room, I could feel all my new lives calling to me. Sometimes, when I got up to hide it, I had motion sickness from scrolling so hard and so fast.

When I went out on in-person dates, they weren’t always as fun as my fantasies. The flesh-and-blood men I met in pubs usually seemed smaller and less substantial than their 2D profile photos. I often got the sense I didn’t quite live up to the Hinge me, either. My real voice always sounded so much louder and less sultry than my voice notes. Once I asked a man whether I could kiss him, and he said, “I’m good, thanks”, as though I had offered him a crisp.

Another man asked me who else I had on my “roster” for the week – the implication being that we both had our own private harems of partners whom we wined-and-dined on rotation. And in a sense, I did have my own private phone-harem. Maybe if I’d been more relaxed and carefree – more like the Hinge me – I could have casually spent time with lots of different partners, without compulsively mapping out our whole lives together. But there is a voice in my head that talks to me about house deposits and declining egg counts. I am embarrassed by this voice, but I can’t seem to drown it out.

It has become a cliche to say that dating apps aren’t working. Almost 1.4 million people left the UK’s top 10 dating apps between 2023-4, and Hinge alone lost 131,000 users. I organise the Guardian’s Blind Date column, and every month I receive hundreds of emails telling me that dating apps are broken. Interestingly, many applicants frame the crisis as a peculiarly British problem. Recently, a woman wrote to me saying she couldn’t swipe any more because she had “completed the whole of England on Hinge”.

Perhaps part of the issue is that here in the UK we still place so much emphasis on finding a life partner. In England and Wales, more than 70% of people aged 30-64 are in committed relationships, so as a single person I feel abnormal. Finding a partner is also a financial necessity. The average person can’t afford rent – let alone a mortgage deposit – on their own. Since the explosion of Tinder in 2013, it has been possible to swipe through hundreds of potential partners in a single hour. Faced with so much choice, the rational thing to do would be to pursue many different short-lived love affairs in the course of one lifetime. But finding lasting commitment is still so central to what constitutes a worthwhile life in the UK that I keep swiping, convinced that my husband is hiding from me in the next Hinge drop – just one more click away.

In the interests of broadening my horizons, I have spent three months investigating whether other cultures might be doing love more successfully. In the UK, we talk about the hopelessness of dating as though it were some kind of foregone conclusion. But what if it doesn’t have to be this way? Curious about whether other European cultures might be more sophisticated – or clear-eyed – in their approach to romance, I spoke to anthropologists, sex therapists and dating specialists in Berlin, Paris, Oslo and Rome. The dating styles detailed below aren’t meant to represent whole cities. But by speaking to people from various countries, I got an insight into how things are done outside of Britain, giving me a much-needed fresh perspective.

‘Everyone is polyamorous here’

Berlin
A friend called me recently to say that if she ever wanted a monogamous relationship again, she would have to move cities, “because everyone is polyamorous in Berlin”. Interested in testing this theory, I contact the anthropologist Dr Fabian Broeker, who published a 2023 study of dating app users in the German capital. Broeker, who is a fellow at the London School of Economics, tells me his research suggests that in Berlin, dating is no longer “necessarily tied to the traditional understanding of finding a long-term partner”. Instead, it has evolved into a kind of “leisure activity” – something you do purely for fun, like taking an afternoon stroll. You might have sex with three different people in one week, with zero expectations of seeing any of your dates ever again. And this wouldn’t be seen as abnormal.

Since the fall of the Berlin Wall, the city has been associated with sexual freedom. Klaus Wowereit, a former mayor of Berlin, famously called the city “poor but sexy” in 2003. More than half of Berliners live in single-person households, according to data from 2024, which means that being single puts you in the majority, unlike in London, where coupledom is the norm. Maxi Wallenhorst, a Berlin-based cultural critic, tells me that Berlin’s hedonistic approach to intimacy is made possible, in part, by its rental market. “Even though the housing crisis is escalating here, too, there is less pressure to fall in love in order to save rent.”

Some, like my friend, can find the city’s determinedly casual approach to dating frustrating. TikTok is awash with (mostly British) expats posting about how impossible it is to lock down a boyfriend. But Wallenhorst points out that even though Berlin is a “capital of non-monogamy”, it “doesn’t necessarily mean that it’s impossible to find commitment”. Commitment just has a different meaning in Berlin. When you want to have a baby, you might decide to do that with a best friend, rather than a partner. Or you could become part of a “power quadruple” and have three different, equally devoted boyfriends. In Berlin, you don’t need to find a partner to be seen as complete, or to make yourself financially solvent – romance is more like a nice add-on to an already fully functioning life.

‘The most romantic thing you can have? Great sex and intellectual connection’

Paris
Berlin might be the capital of non-monogamy, but in Paris, “polyamory” is a dirty word. I call the author Alice Pfeiffer to ask whether her city’s reputation as the home of the ménage à trois is justified. She tells me that using the word “polyamory” is considered gauche – not because Parisians are faithful, but because it robs infidelity of its transgressive thrill. “People cheat; they just don’t talk about it,” Pfeiffer explains. “Cheating is a national sport.”

The journalist Barbara Krief tells me the Parisian attitude towards monogamy is part of a larger cultural emphasis on passion. She says that among the 30- to 40-year-old Parisians she encounters, many see infidelity as something that can improve your marriage. “I can’t speak for the whole of Paris, but the people I know wait until the kids have grown up a bit, and then they seek passion outside their relationship.” You don’t stop having sex with your husband or wife when you start an affair – your marriage ticks on as usual. It is just understood, without needing to be explicitly expressed, “that you can have flings or crushes and it doesn’t jeopardise the relationship”.

UK statistics suggest that men cheat more frequently than women, but Krief tells me that sexually, “Parisian women seek romantic pleasure in a way that is associated with the male sex drive.” My experience is that in London, the woman still expects to wait until the second or third meeting to have sex. If I’m really honest with myself, I wonder whether I still think that by having sex with a man I am giving away one of my limited assets, and making myself too vulnerable to being hurt. Krief says that among her circle of friends, no woman will ever deny herself sex if she wants it. “They would say that not sleeping with a man they want to sleep with just because it’s the first date is wasting their time – because they like sex and they want to get their pleasure.” Krief, who is queer, says all the lesbians she knows think nothing of having sex on the first date, too. “We always see these British women in Paris wearing tiny dresses and we think – are they not cold? But I bet they are not as promiscuous as French women. A French woman will be wearing sweatpants, but she will go down on you on the first date.”

Perhaps the Parisian dating style can be explained in terms of French art and culture, in which marriage isn’t necessarily seen as a happy ending. “Our movies and books do not end with marriage,” Krief says. Marriage and partnership is conceptualised as one part of an evolving story, rather than a crowning achievement. “French movies give us the sense that the most romantic thing you can have is not marriage – it’s great sex and intellectual connection. And not just with one person. You can have it with more than one!”

‘You try to keep an exit door open’

Oslo
In Oslo, sex tends to happen more quickly. According to Julien S Bourrelle, cross-cultural expert and author of The Social Guidebook to Norway, sex is seen as much less intimate than having a dinner date, or even going for coffee with a love interest. “You meet in a bar, go home together, and then meet again in town the next weekend and have sex again.” Only after people have had casual sex a few times might they start to consider taking the next step and going on a date. “It’s the inverse of the romantic American or Italian way, where, as a man, you would try to court the woman with coffees and dinners.”

Bourrelle puts Oslo’s dating culture down to an emphasis on independence. You never want to make anyone feel indebted to you, so you try to “keep an exit door open” for yourself and your lover during the early stages of a relationship. “If I were to pay for your coffee, then subconsciously you would owe me something – so in order to preserve that independence, we will refrain from paying for others,” he says.

Bourrelle doesn’t see this insistence on an “exit door” as commitment-phobic, but as a sign of Norwegians’ excessive empathy. He said Norwegians are reluctant to “inflict pain”, so are careful to avoid making their sexual partners feel trapped, and conversely, try not to lead their lovers on, because they fear inflicting the “pain of rejection”.

Norwegian culture is fiercely egalitarian. Men and women receive equal pay and are expected to perform similar roles in the home and in wider society, but interestingly, women seem to have the power when it comes to dating. Bourrelle tells me it is typically the woman, not the man, who will hold her partner at arm’s length until she is “100% sure she wants to commit”. The woman is also more fearful of being too effusive when she first starts sleeping with a man, because she doesn’t want to hurt his feelings if she changes her mind further down the line. I still expect the man to make the first move, or send the first text after we have gone on a date. If I really dig into it, I suppose my assumption is that being a man, he will be somehow inherently stronger and less easily wounded by rejection than me – but in Oslo’s dating culture, it is the man’s feelings that need to be protected.

In Norway, they have even developed a specific mating ritual to ensure the “exit door” remains open. Bourrelle tells me it is typical for a woman to identify a man she finds attractive in a bar and then pretend to bump into him. So instead of saying hello directly, or offering to buy the man a drink, she will gently shoulder-barge the object of her affections to get their attention. If you don’t find one another attractive at close quarters, you just apologise for the “accidental” knock and walk away. The thought of shoulder-barging someone in a London pub sounds rather appealing. The woman makes the approach, but you both have plausible deniability. No one has to get rejected at all.

‘Couples on a first date always look elegant’

Rome
In Rome, the dating culture is much more formal. Donatella Fiacchino, a psychologist and clinical sexologist, tells me it is still routine for a woman to get her hair done and maybe even buy a new outfit before a date. “I can usually tell when a couple are on a first date, not just because they seem nervous, but because they will look very elegant and the woman will be wearing full makeup,” she says. Typically, the woman will get a wax in advance of the big day. “She will even wax her forearms.”

Fiacchino is careful to stress that “Rome is like an onion; it has layers”, so attitudes towards dating can vary drastically between districts. The southern parts of the city are less conservative, whereas in the north, there are “very stereotypical gender roles within straight couples”. The man is expected to pay the bill, or at least offer, and to make the initial approach. In London, it is extremely rare to have a stranger ask you out in the street or at a bar, because we’ve outsourced the pursuit of love to apps. Intimacy is now something we look for privately – and often frantically – in the dead of night on our phones. But in Rome, according to Fiacchino, it is still common for singles to ask each other out in public, although the onus is on the man.

The man is expected to take the initiative when it comes to sex, too, Fiacchino says – but because singles in Rome tend to live in multigenerational households, finding a place to have sex can be rather complicated. Almost 70% of 18- to 34-year-olds live with their parents in Italy, according to 2023 data, and rents are rising in Rome, making independent living more difficult. Fiacchino says she treats many patients who live in multigenerational households and have developed sexual dysfunctions, such as an inability to reach orgasm, that are partially related to the lack of privacy.

Sexual constraints aside, Romans do seem better than the British at savouring romantic moments. Marina Iakovleva, who specialises in cultural differences and hosts the YouTube channel Dating Beyond Borders, tells me that Romans place emphasis on choosing a “romantic place” and creating a “beautiful environment” during a date. Whereas in London it is typical to down three pints not for pleasure but to cope with the pressure of a first date, Romans will meet for an “aperitivo” and drink moderately. Stefano Petrella, a gay Roman journalist I speak to, says when he dates in other European cities, it is typical for men to ask to meet him directly at his hotel, so they can have sex immediately, but that “would never happen in Rome; you would always have aperitivo”. Even the most casual encounters have a sense of occasion.

* * *

Recently, I met someone I like, and I can already see myself behaving in a way that feels horribly British. I wait for him to text first, because I am frightened of putting myself out there. In the very beginning, I would have a minimum of four drinks every time we met up, because I wanted to drown out the nerves. I am also having difficulty stopping myself projecting decades into the future. I’m fantasising and also panicking about the next 25 years, rather than just living in the moment.

It probably isn’t fair to blame my problems on my nationality, and I should take responsibility for my own neuroses. But there is also something freeing about seeing my dating habits as culturally determined. If the way I pursue love isn’t some kind of innate, inevitable quirk of my personality, then maybe I can change. If I could cherrypick from other European dating styles, I would like to be able to assume I have the power, like the women in Oslo, and learn to savour the moment, like the Romans. Most of all I’d like to try to be more French, and stop thinking about marriage as some kind of perfect happy ending.

It will never work. I reckon I’m too far gone. But it feels good to imagine