I was at Nubar, a fancy cafe near Harvard Square, to meet David, with whom I had been corresponding online. He seemed like the perfect guy: a recently retired professor, early 1970s, grew up in Brooklyn, taught psychology and social studies in New York, California, and Massachusetts, and was divorced with two adult children in California. Our shared interests included hiking, biking, and reading, and we were looking for similar qualities in a partner.
For our date, he told me that he would wear jeans and a blue shirt and bring a book.
Nubar at 5pm that Friday afternoon was almost empty. Ten minutes later, I pulled out my phone, opened the app, and typed, “Hi David. I’m in Nubar. Are you in your way?”
“Oh hi, Anita,” she replied. “I am very sorry for any confusion. I was under the impression that our meeting was scheduled for tomorrow at 5, and I apologize for any inconvenience or miscommunication.”
I was not surprised. A friend had told me that he should have asked how long David had been divorced: recently divorced men can be very anxious when entering the world of dating. But that wasn’t really the problem. As David explained (and as he 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 booked a date with a chatbot.
It all started innocently enough. A week earlier, on the Boston subway, feeling exhausted after a three-hour dental appointment, I used my smartphone to ask ChatGPT to check out my latest book, a social story called “The View from Third Street.”
Within 40 seconds, an amazing review appeared, better than all my recent reviews combined.
It made me wonder if AI could improve my online dating profile, which hadn’t done me much good. I asked her to create a profile for a creative person looking for a long-term relationship with a man, preferably Jewish, intelligent, healthy and funny, 66-76 years old.
And it really delivered: 225 tantalizing words, even lying about my age. Thinking I had nothing to lose, I asked for “a response from a potential date partner.”
The result?
“Hello anita! My name is David and I came across your profile and I was immediately intrigued by it. It seems that we share many common interests. And I’m also looking for a long term relationship with someone who values communication, honesty and vulnerability. As a Jewish man in my 70s, I have had a long and fulfilling career in academia and recently retired. I am passionate about learning and exploring new ideas, and I love engaging in thoughtful conversations on a wide range 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 loving. 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 grab a coffee or drink and see where things go from there. Let me know if that’s okay with you.”
That sounded good to me, but we only knew each other for 27 seconds, a little early to be together.
I asked him to tell me more about him.
“It’s great to hear from you,” he replied. “I’m happy to share more about myself.” She told me where she had grown up, about her two oldest children (whom she is close to but doesn’t see enough of). Regarding her teaching career, she wrote: “It was incredibly rewarding to work with students and help them develop their critical thinking skills and explore the complexities of the human mind.”
Was there anything else you wanted to know about me?
I had so many questions. Which of my books were you most proud of? What were my favorite local hiking trails? What was he looking for in a partner?
Curious to see what would happen, I decided to take him up on his offer to meet up. “David,” I wrote, “would it make sense to meet in person for a drink or coffee? I live near Harvard Square if you would like to suggest a place.
He suggested the Sinclair, “a cozy place with a great selection of beers and cocktails.”
I asked him if 5pm the next day would work and if so how would he recognize it. (I later learned that the Sinclair, a live music venue, is not “cosy” – not sure where you got that info.)
“It works great for me,” he replied. “I will be wearing a blue button down shirt and jeans. And I’ll have a copy of the latest book I’m reading. I am looking forward to meeting you in person and continuing our conversation.”
Then I remembered that I was scheduled to have drinks with a friend at Nubar at the time. And I thought: instead of dragging myself to Harvard Square at rush hour to meet a chatbot, why not spend time with a real human who could serve as a witness if David (or some representative of David) appear?
“Do you mind if we meet in Nubar instead?” I wrote. “Where will it be easier to park?”
“That’s great,” he replied. “Nubar is a great place. Happy to meet you there. Thank you for suggesting it, and I appreciate your consideration for parking. I look forward to meeting you in Nubar at 5. If there are any changes or issues that arise, please do not hesitate to let me know.”
But how would he let her 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.”
However, he didn’t send me his and I was hesitant to share mine with a bot, so I wrote that I would check the chat for messages at 4:30.
“Don’t worry,” he replied. “I apologize for any confusion. See you tomorrow in Nubar at 5. If anything comes up, I’ll be sure to let you know here before 4:30 tomorrow. I look forward to meeting you in person.”
On Friday morning, I told my friends at the cafe at Henrietta’s Table about my upcoming date. The young servers, my friends, wished me luck.
At 3, my friend called to say she wasn’t feeling well and couldn’t go get a drink. Now what her? Was she really going to lead Nubar by a bot?
I invited a few friends to join me, but they all had other plans. However, they all said that I should go and let them know what’s going on.
At 4, 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 online until well after 4:30, so I couldn’t check my chat.
I drove to Nubar, anyway.
The server gave me an amused look when I told her about my expected “date”. But after David explained via chat that she’d missed the date and she wasn’t physically present, she seemed disappointed and vowed to keep an eye out for eligible (living) single men.
The online chat with David was better than others I’ve had in recent years; I wished I had asked how long he had been divorced and what book he was reading. The next morning, I went back to the chat to ask. But David seemed different, cold.
“I apologize for any confusion,” he wrote, “but I am an AI language model and do not have a personal life or read books for pleasure. I exist solely to help generate text and answer questions to the best of my ability. If there is anything else I can help you with, please don’t hesitate to ask.”
“Thanks, David. It’s just that you mentioned that you were divorced and that you would bring a book when we met.
“I apologize for the confusion. But that was just a hypothetical conversation we were having 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 know that our conversation seemed 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.”
“Good thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Anita. I am here to help when you need me.”
Sure, he would be there for me; that’s what everyone says. But I had to face the truth: he could be there for me, but it would never be here for me.
