All of Mexico City was at the mercy of the rain. Meanwhile, I was captive on the crowded commuter Metrobus, cursing the crawling speed of traffic and my habitual tardiness. It was almost 8 p.m. and I was supposed to be at the restaurant already, eating with strangers and ideally charming them to be my friend.
To avoid utter isolation and spiraling loneliness — something that affects much of the world now, even post-pandemic — I forced myself to “put myself out there.” I attended numerous meet-ups and the occasional party, and I tried to get close to friends of friends. But I realized the polite, shallow friendships that might suffice in college no longer resolve the loneliness of adulthood: I craved true connection and intimacy. So when I saw an Instagram ad for Timeleft, a dinner party to meet new people and potentially form real connections, I decided to give it a try.
Timeleft promised to curate your dinner party with someone you may hit it off with, removing some of the anxiety of approaching a total stranger. Each of the 50,000 users worldwide takes a personality quiz, and Timeleft reserves roughly six of you a place at a nearby restaurant to meet.
My dinner was scheduled for 8 p.m. at Trattoria di Nabucco, a cozy Italian restaurant. As the Metrobus inched along, I imagined the other guests and what they’d be like — say, maybe the kind to forgive a person for arriving late? Would the algorithm put laid-back (read: tardy) people together? I felt skeptical that an app would lead me to the deep friendship I desperately wanted.
Still, the possibility was intriguing. Timeleft doesn’t tell you the names of the people you’re meeting, but does throw out a few general facts about the group the night before. I saw our astrological signs spanned the gamut, and most attendees were Mexican and I was the sole American. The industries we work in also varied. Could the finance person and I, a journalist, forge a strong friendship? The techie? My mind flashed weeks ahead, imagining a life with a new best friend. “We met at a Timeleft dinner, actually,” we’d say when people asked how we met.
By 8:15 p.m., I finally arrived and put myself on autopilot to deafen the thoughts suddenly screaming for me to avoid this potential rejection and run. I spotted my table immediately, aware of the three people simultaneously smiling at and appraising me.
“Cómo estás?” They asked me. Timeleft offers dinners in multiple languages, and that night mine was in Spanish, in which I’m advanced.
“Fine, and you guys?” I replied in Spanish, hoping I signaled how totally cool and normal and friendly I was.
A man wearing glasses and who had flower tattoos introduced himself as Ahuitz, and playfully furrowed his brow. “La americana?” He ventured. Yes, I sheepishly admitted. The American.
The decision to leave behind San Francisco, the place where I grew up, shocked everyone I loved. It was a dramatic move to a place where I knew no one. Before I left in February last year, friends and family constantly peppered me with questions — the most common being what scared me most. “I think I’m going to be really lonely there,” I admitted.
By 8:30 p.m., our table was full: Marcela, Ahuitz, Benito, Fernando, and Alejandra. Then came the nerve-wracking moment to discover if we had chemistry.
The two diners who had used Timeleft multiple times before, Fernando and Ahuitz, gracefully shepherded us through the night’s conversation. They first asked why we all came.
I learned in a high school psychology class that relationships are built on concepts like intimacy, attractiveness, proximity, and similarity. While Timeleft employees claimed a tight-knit dinner was best for facilitating intimacy — no loud club music, ample opportunity for intentional conversation, and a universal appreciation to eat — chemistry depends on the group dynamics. Our table hesitated to broach any topic beyond small talk. Divulging our deepest childhood humiliation to people we just met? “It’s too early for that,” Marcela said with a wink.
Instead, in good humor, we searched for similarities. When Alejandra said she baked — yes, conchas, too — Fernando’s face lit up like a child’s. I jumped in, adding I loved to cook also. We half-heartedly planned a potluck where Benito would cook steak, and Alejandra would bring pastries, and I’d make sopa azteca. To everyone’s delight, I shared my favorite Mexican dishes.
Pleased with our pasta, we wondered if we should go to the “after party” location, an optional bar meet-up open to all Timeleft diners in the city. I was torn; I was yawning and my social battery was draining. Still, maybe there was excitement to come. I hadn’t made the spark yet, and I needed a push. We went to a place called Bar Felix, a dark and noisy spot in Roma Norte. Frustratingly, our polite but stilted small talk continued. Then I ended up next to Ahuitz, who’d lived in the United States half of his life and spoke fluent Spanish, English, and French. He glanced at me conspiratorially, lowering his voice. “We can speak in English if you like,” he said. “When I lived in France, I remember feeling so tired after speaking French all day.”
I politely declined, although I felt moved by this kindness. Sensing his desire to flex his English, I started talking about where he’d traveled in the States, occasionally switching between the two languages. For the first time that night, I felt a potential friendship growing.
I realized the Timeleft dinner wasn’t enough to form an immediate close friendship — that would be up to me to follow-up and share. Still, I was grateful that it opened up the possibility of meeting new people. Later, Ahuitz drove Benito and I home. As we drove I realized we started off that night as strangers, and by the end, whizzing through our darkening city, we joked like we had known each other forever.
