Oh, yes, you can judge a book by its cover.  Sure you can.  If you’re observant, if you’ve managed to let a few of life’s more obvious lessons make it through your thick skull, you can certainly make some accurate snap judgments.

A colleague and I were on business in a trendy European city.  Meetings done, it was time for food, drink and other diversions.  The hotel concierge offered an enthusiastic recommendation for a restaurant-bar that featured music and dancing, and that would be happy to take our expense account Euros.

I didn’t know Phil well.  He didn’t work for me, but had been assigned by his firm to the project.  I did know he was bright, however, and I’d been impressed with his insights over the course of the week.  He was a few years younger than I, and clearly going places.  It would be interesting to see how he handled himself outside the boardroom.

When we met in the lobby, we were both pretty charged.  Fun is fun, and we figured we’d earned a little.  As we headed to the cab stand, I noted that while I’d dressed down a tad, to a blazer and button-down, he’d dressed up into an even better suit and brighter tie.

Nobody eats early in Europe, so that means time at the bar, and you’d better pace yourself.  I ordered a pilsner.  Phil ordered a single malt that cost as much as a pair of deck shoes.  Really?  “Yeah, man.  Don’t worry, tonight’s on me.”  Fair enough, Phil, but that wasn’t my worry.

An hour later, the music was up, I was finishing my second lager, feeling good.  Phil was starting his fourth Scotch, smelling like a peat bog, and feeling great.  I made a mental note to pick up dinner, so he wouldn’t face a stern talk from his firm’s partners.

In walked two attractive young ladies, nicely dressed.  One was tall.  In her high heels, she’d meet us at eye level.  Blonde hair fell about her bare shoulders, touching the top of a rather stunning cocktail dress.  She looked as if she’d just stepped off a yacht.  The other was slightly below middle height, in lower heels.  She was wearing a business suit with a skirt.  The suit was nicely cut, of good material, but not bespoke.  Her blonde hair was in a ponytail.  She looked as if she worked for a living.

I didn’t have to wonder if Phil had seen the new arrivals.  He made a low sound that spoke volumes.  He made to rise from the bar, but I put a hand on his arm.  “Just wait a bit,” I said.

The girls didn’t make it to the bar before they were accosted by a multinational mob of hopefuls.  Phil looked impatient, but managed to make small talk with me until the first shift had exhausted their efforts and drifted back to their groups, or had been seated in the restaurant.

As the crowd thinned, we could take a closer look at the ladies.  The tall one said little, but her eyes were always moving around the room.  Every few minutes, she’d peer intently at her phone, sometimes thumbing a sentence or two of text.  The shorter one talked and gesticulated, shared a laugh with the barkeep, touched her friend on the arm when making a point.

Eventually their eyes came our way.  Phil smiled and so did I, raising my bottle and nodding.  Out of the side of his mouth, Phil said, “Okay, I’ll flip you.  Loser gets the fat girl.”

Now that was interesting.  He’d seen a prize and a “fat girl”.  He was wrong, of course.  I have better vision.  I saw a boring, expensive waste of time, standing beside someone I’d like to meet. 

The tall one was skinny alright, with emaciated arms and no muscle definition.  Party girl.  Hard, restless eyes that darted to the roll of bills Phil produced to settle our bill.  The shorter one was a little rounder, built like many women of Central European ancestry, with a small waist and fuller bust and hips.  A line of visible muscle ran down her calf.  Her eyes were open and friendly, scanning our faces.

“No need to flip, Phil.  I’ll take the fat girl.”  He shot me a grateful look and pounded me on the back.

Next morning, in the car to the airport, Phil was in a bad mood.  Scotch hangovers are tough, and I sympathized.

We’d had dinner with the two young ladies, then paired off for the rest of the evening.  Phil and his date had hit a succession of loud clubs.  He’d generously bought rounds of drinks for Darina and the numerous friends she bumped into at each bar.  He’d dragged himself back to the hotel as the sun was rising, very much lighter of wallet, his libido-driven fantasies unfulfilled.  When I asked, he couldn’t tell me what Darina did for a living, her hobbies, or a single thing of substance about the woman.

Alena and I had gone for a walk along the river.  She’d engaged and entertained me with a loving account of the city’s long history.  Smart girl.  She works for a senior official in her country’s government.  She’s on a rowing squad.  Collects old books when she has some money to spare.  We’d ended the evening drinking minibar liqueurs, laughing about international politics on my balcony, before I handed her into a taxi home. 

I hadn’t fulfilled my libido-driven fantasies, either.  But I’d had one hell of a fine evening, with a fine woman.  I flew home with a phone number and an email address I’d look forward to exercising.  I love the anticipation and promise of exciting things to come.

Don’t feed me facile lines about books and their covers.  I know better.  There’s a lot of useful information on the cover, if you know how to read it.

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