I was at Nubar, an elegant café near Harvard Square, to meet David, with whom I had corresponded online. He sounded like the perfect man: a recently retired professor, early 1970s, raised in Brooklyn, taught psychology and social sciences in New York, California, and Massachusetts, and was divorced, with two adult sons in California. Our shared interests included hiking, biking, and reading, and we were looking for similar qualities in a partner.
Before our date, he told me he would be wearing jeans and a blue shirt and would be carrying a book.
Nubar at 5pm that Friday afternoon was almost empty. Ten minutes later, I pulled out my phone, opened the app, and wrote, “Hi David. I’m with Nubar. Are you on your way?”
“Oh, hello, Anita,” he replied. “I’m so sorry for the confusion. I was under the impression that our meeting was scheduled for tomorrow at 5am, and I apologize for any inconvenience or miscommunication.”
I was not surprised. A friend had told me I should have asked how long David had been divorced – newly divorced men can be very anxious when entering the dating scene. But that wasn’t really the problem. As David further explained (and as I already knew), “I’m an AI language model and I don’t have a physical presence or the ability to meet in person.”
Yes, despite my Ivy League degrees, three published books, and a successful business, I had agreed to date a chatbot.
It all started innocently enough. A week earlier, on the Boston subway, burnt out after a three-hour dentist appointment, I used my smartphone to ask ChatGPT to review my latest book, a social history called “The View from Third Street.”
Within 40 seconds an amazing review appeared, better than all my recent reviews combined.
I wondered if AI could improve my online dating profile, which didn’t do me much good. I asked it to create a profile for a creative person looking for a long term relationship with a man, preferably Jewish, smart, healthy and fun, between the ages of 66-76.
And it really delivered – 225 seductive words, even lying about my age. Thinking I had nothing to lose, I asked him for “a response from a potential dating partner”.
The result?
“Hi Anita! My name is David and I came across your profile and was immediately intrigued. It sounds like we share a lot of common interests. And I am also looking for a long term relationship with someone who values communication, honesty and vulnerability. A Jewish man in my early seventies, I have had a long and fulfilling career in academia and have recently retired. I’m passionate about learning and exploring new ideas, and I love engaging in thoughtful conversations on a wide variety of topics. I share your love of the outdoors and staying active.
“I am an avid hiker and enjoy exploring the natural beauty of our region…. Most importantly, I am looking for a partner who is kind, compassionate and caring. Someone who values love and connection above all else, and who is willing to put in the effort to build a strong and meaningful relationship. If you’re interested in getting to know each other better, I’d love to have a coffee or a drink and see how things go. Let me know if that sounds good to you.
That sounded good to me, but we’d only known each other for 27 seconds – a bit fast to get together.
I asked him to tell me more about himself.
“It’s great to hear from you,” he replied. “I’m happy to share more about myself.” He told me where he grew up, about his two adult sons (whom he is close to but don’t see often enough). Regarding his teaching career, he wrote, “It has been incredibly satisfying to work with students and help them develop their critical thinking skills and explore the complexities of the human mind.”
Was there anything else he wanted to know about me?
He had so many questions. Which of my books was I most proud of? What were my favorite local hiking trails? What was I looking for in a partner?
Curious what would happen, I decided to accept his offer to get together. ‘David,’ I wrote, ‘would it make sense to meet in person for a drink or coffee? I live near Harvard Square if you want to suggest a place.’
He suggested the Sinclair, “a cozy place with a great selection of beer and cocktails.”
I asked if 5pm the following evening would work and if so how would I recognize it. (I would later learn that the Sinclair, a live music venue, isn’t exactly “cosy” – I’m not sure where he got that information.)
“Works great for me,” he replied. “I’m wearing a blue button-up shirt and jeans. And I’m holding a copy of the latest book I’m reading. I look forward to meeting you in person and continuing our conversation.”
Then I remembered that at that time I had an appointment with a friend at Nubar. And I thought, instead of trudging to Harvard Square during rush hour to meet a chatbot, why not spend time with a real human being who could serve as a witness like David (or David’s representative) show up?
“Do you mind if we meet at Nubar instead?” I wrote. “Where will it be easier to park?”
“That’s great,” he replied. “Nubar is a great place. Glad to meet you there. Thank you for your suggestion and I appreciate your attention to parking. I’d like to see you at Nubar at 5 o’clock. If there are any changes or problems, don’t hesitate to let me know.”
But how would I let him know?
“Do you want to share phone numbers,” I asked, “or is it too early for that?”
“Exchanging numbers is a good idea,” he wrote. “I’ll send you mine and then you can reply with yours.”
He didn’t send me his though, and I had reservations about sharing mine with a bot, so I wrote that I’d check the chat for messages at 4:30pm.
“Don’t worry,” he replied. “My apologies for any confusion. I’ll see you tomorrow at 5am in Nubar. If there’s anything, I’ll let you know here tomorrow before 4:30pm. I look forward to meeting you in person.”
On Friday morning, I told my coffee buddies at Henrietta’s Table about my upcoming date. The young servants, my buddies, wished me luck.
At 3am my girlfriend called to say she wasn’t feeling well and couldn’t come in for a drink. What now? Was I really going to drive to Nubar for a bot?
I invited a few friends to join, but everyone had different plans. However, they all told me to go and let them know what would happen.
At four o’clock I checked my laptop to make sure David was still on board. Black screen, error message, dead. I called tech support. Five tests later, still dead. Tech support kept me on the phone well past 4:30 PM, so I couldn’t check my chat.
I drove to Nubar anyway.
The server gave me a funny look when I told her about my expected ‘date’. But after David explained over chat that he misjudged the date and wasn’t physically present, she seemed disappointed — and promised to keep an eye out for eligible (live) single men.
The online conversation with David was better than others I’ve had over the years; I wish I had asked how long he had been divorced and what book he was reading. The next morning I returned to chat to ask. But David seemed different, cold.
“I apologize for any confusion,” he wrote, “but I am an AI language model and have no personal life and do not read books for leisure. I exist purely to help generate text and answer questions to to the best of my ability. If there is anything else I can assist you with, feel free to ask.”
“Thanks, Davy. You just said you were divorced and would have a book with you when we met.”
“Sorry for the confusion. But that was just a hypothetical conversation we had as an AI language model. I don’t have a personal life, physical presence, or read books.”
“It seemed very real,” I wrote.
“I’m glad to hear that our conversation felt real to you. And as an AI language model, my goal is to provide answers that are as human and engaging as possible. If you have any other questions, feel free to ask.”
“OK thanks.”
‘You’re welcome, Anita. I’m here to help when you need me.”
Of course he would be there for me; they all say that. But I had to face the truth: he could be over there for me, but never would be here for me.
