Meet Cute: Can You Find Love at the Maritime Museum? Our Dating Columnist Is About to Find Out

The night before Valentine’s Day, I do something bold and deeply un-Vancouver: I show up on time and alone.

Tickets to the Museum Mate Meet-Cute at the Maritime Museum, organized by What the Frock Productions, are $35 each, and it’s sold out, which either means Vancouver is ready for love, or we all just want to be in a museum after hours like classy little raccoons (or Ben Stiller). The promise: wine and cider, trivia, crafts, drag and a private tour featuring “graphic, R-rated artifacts.” Translation: a singles event with plausible deniability. If you don’t meet anyone, you went for culture. If you do meet someone, you bonded over your pursuit of the arts. Either way, you sound hot and literate.

Check-in is easy. No name tags, bless, because nothing kills desire like “HELLO MY NAME IS KERRI” in Arial Bold. Inside, the room looks like a nautical Valentine’s Day party. Purple up-lights. Pink balloons. Chairs in a big circle, like a beginners’ improv class or a group therapy session (with the same amount of nervous, polite energy). A long table at the front, draped in shiny pink metallic cloth and dressed with rope and little relics like we’re about to summon love in a maritimey-themed séance.

Most people arrive in pairs or trios of women, though there are a few lone wolves like me. Everyone is shy but willing—Vancouver’s dating scene summed up in one sentence. I grab a local rosé at the bar and commit to it for the night. It’s steady, supportive and never once asks what I do for work. A perfect date. Which is good because there are only two men here, both clearly intimidated by the overabundance of women and looking like they’d rather walk the plank than strike up a conversation.

Early on, I meet the hosts: Phyllis Hull, drag queen and our maître d’ for the evening, and museum curator Ermen Dellicarpini. If I’m going to fall in love with anyone, it’s Ermen. She’s funny, warm and so knowledgeable I briefly consider becoming the kind of person who reads plaques for pleasure. I’m not sure how she feels about me, though, after I ruin the night’s big surprise finale five minutes into our conversation: spotting the museum’s full-sized ship, the St. Roch, I joke, “We’re obviously doing Titanic pics on the boat, right?” Her face falls. It turns out I am right, and the grand reveal of the exclusive opportunity to do an “I’m the king of the world!” photoshoot is deflated. Is this why I’m single? I slink away instead of unpacking that. This is a museum, not therapy, after all (despite what the chairs may have you believe).

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Thankfully, I don’t have to put my foot in my mouth again, since safe, non-surprise-ruining conversation starters are provided via prompt cards and a quick icebreaker. I’m not the only one who appreciates the crutch. Vancouverites are friendly but allergic to initiating: we need structure to thrive. Remove it and we find ourselves ducking into the bathroom on repeat to recover from the mental gymnastics of saying, “So… how do you know the museum?”

We don’t need to be too entertaining, though, because there’s already a lot happening “centre stage” (the floor in the middle of our chair circle). The gals and I gather ’round for a drag performance, a violin set by Zella Bones and, later, surprise burlesque (also Zella Bones). The crowd watches with that polite, faraway smile that says, “I support this,” and also, “When do we get to the boat stuff?” Then comes the tipping point, literally. Nobody brought cash (myself included, amateur hour), so we all sit there looking even more haunted than the wartime-era boat ghosts who are no doubt roaming the museum (and gift shop). Luckily, one woman had just returned from England and heroically produces a crisp £20, basically tipping on behalf of the entire room as we all apologize silently to Zella and Phyllis with our eyes.

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After the show, we briefly orphan our drinks and take a museum tour, complete with trivia and prizes (tickets to other museums) handed out with full Oprah energy. Then, we reunite with our bevys and the chair circle—this time, the long table takes centre stage, serving up the promised “graphic, R-rated artifacts.” Everyone crowds around the table, taking photos and whispering like we’re at a symposium titled “Horny Maritime History: An Inquiry.”

Ermen lays out a selection of sperm whale teeth, each of which has been engraved by long-ago seamen who were as artistically talented as they were perverted. One piece, entitled “The Bicycle,” stops the room cold. Because what’s carved into this tooth isn’t really a bike so much as it is a giant penis. I’ll let you guess what the wheels are in this contraption. A Victorian woman is riding it with calm determination, like she’s late for work. We all agree that the line-work is meticulous.

The tooth pornography collection may have sent the room’s phallus tally through the roof, but by that point, the only penises left are archival. The two men have already bailed. Now I am essentially at an extremely dweeby bachelorette party (and having a great time, to be clear). I don’t really blame the boys for jumping ship. Between the drag, rosé and nonstop playlist of Sabrina Carpenter, the vibe skews heavily Galentine’s. Yes, this makes the night feel warmer and less like a meat market, but the only thing most of us will take home is a sailor ornament from the craft corner.

And so, the night ends without the chance to say “ahoy matey” to a cabin boy and sail off into the sunset. But I’m not ready to go down with this ship. Because, boat puns aside, this is the only way love happens: you show up, you talk to strangers. Sometimes it’s a graceful dive. Sometimes it’s a full belly flop. Either way, hope floats—you just have to be willing to swallow a bit of water first.