He called me a puttana and told me never to write again. I promptly blocked him. I hadn’t answered his call the other day and was reaching out. We are on massively different timezones and I was at work. Being in with the cow when my phone started buzzing I needed to make it stop before it made the cow angry or startled. Anyways, I want to tell the back story on this guy because despite the harsh parting it’s magical.
I had a storybook meeting and date in Italy. Picture this, will you? I’m on a local bus in my beach wrap, hair plastered with salt, and face probably a bit too red from a day of independent snorkeling on the coast. I spot a very handsome man with a cast on his right arm. I’m sitting there thinking to myself, I wish I knew more Italian. And, damn, he must have a girlfriend. I’m bisexual and more attracted to women then men, but lordy was this guy HOT. He was playing with a fidget spinner in his left hand and somehow managing to look effortlessly perfect. I decide, like the brilliant person I am, to attempt and use my brand new Italian lessons to start a conversation. The first thing I say very loosely translates to: no good, I am sad (as I point at his cast.) He looks surprised, but happy and amused. He and his friends chat along happily in Italian to me while I mumble that I, in fact, speak only a tiny bit of Italian. I was learning. Somehow he tried to teach me to use the fidget spinner and the bus knocked me into him like a good romantic comedy. His friends thought we were hilarious, BUT he asked for my number. That night he texted me. He wanted to see me right away. When could we go on a date? Now my logical brain was like, okay chica you do not know even a fraction enough Italian to go on a date with a non English speaker. Thank goodness I can translate his texts on google. The other half of my brain says, why the heck not!? So, after some slight hesitation and telling him that he could not take me out the very next day because I had work…. we set a date.
We met at the train station. As a solo traveling woman I knew telling an almost stranger who’s suddenly obsessed with you where you live is not a fantastic idea. Somehow his sporty sweats and white shirt looked incredible. We navigate through the terminals and wait for the train- all the while learning just how incompetent my Italian is. Somehow though it’s really nice. He is looking at me like there’s no one else remotely as fascinating. His blue eyes, bleached European hair, sharp cheek bones, and perfect tan gazing at me with adoration. He is tall, athletic, and has beautifully muscular arms. I navigate asking him if he’s married. There was a ring and, despite the language barrier and me freaking out because I can’t understand his explanation for the ring, I eventually learn (google translate) that it’s from his dead family. His mom, dad, and sister died. Suddenly the poor guy is moody and sad. I learn that his hand is in a cast because he got in a motorcycle accident (ridiculously common in Italy.) He takes me to one of the smaller, beautiful, colorful beach towns. He buys me lunch at a beachfront cafe. We both laugh and coo at the baby next to us. We lay on the beach. He uses his very limited English and google translate to ask me about music, what I like, if I study, what I do for work, and about my family. I use every word of Italian I can muster. He says he knew from my eyes and not my words that I was a good person. Not very many people are like this, he says. He wants to visit America. He is beautiful in the sun without his shirt on. We play soccer in the sand and swim in the ocean like fools. We stop talking less and just look at each other. It’s mostly silent and it’s nice. We put sunscreen on each other and make little piles of sand on our bodies. After our very long full day, the longest first date I’ve ever had, I make up an excuse to go home. I’m exhausted. We walk along the cliffs back to the train station and he says something I don’t understand in Italian. I catch the drift though. However I play innocent and tease him. What? I don’t understand. Please explain. He turns bright red and eventually confesses he asked me to kiss him. Now we are in the tiny train station with the cables above the track and the colorful apartments rising above and I’m laughing hysterically. Mostly because I feel uncomfortable, but also because of the absurdity of the situation. Somehow we place my discomfort into me being very close to his body, we hug long and hard, and he starts to whisk me around the train station. We are dancing. We are dancing in a tiny town in Italy and suddenly there are a few more grown men gathered around for the train. We are dancing and he is twirling me and we are smiling like idiots and he dips me for a kiss and they cheer.
We ride back on the train. He is calling me beautiful and perfect, he is so happy, and he’s holding my hand with his uninjured one. It’s cute and precious. My Italian is expanding quickly out of requirement. He is asking why he can’t join my plan with friends and I am saying he simply can’t. (I made it up. Safety not to have him walk me home. Exhaustion.) We part ways. He tries several more times to see me again after seriously professing his love. I gently explain we probably want different things. I do not want to sleep with him. I only have so much time before I leave Italy.
I see him one more time. My friends from Italian lessons urge me on. It could be true love! How romantic and perfect. But, my logical brain wins out. Things aren’t adding up. I only have so much time in Italy and I don’t want to be swallowed into a bubble of love that may or may not be based on lies. I want to see art, beauty, plants, and the ocean. I want to make new friends and do whatever I want whenever I want to. Here’s the real reason I don’t see him again. He begins to scare me. When he asks me where I am one night at midnight I explain I’m with friends. He demands to come over. I say no. He argues why not. I explain, gently, it’s late and he hasn’t been invited. Eventually I’m upset with his pushing/anger and point out he should ask not demand. He doesn’t know I’m with two of my friends in a beautiful apartment overlooking the city with a giant ballroom. One is Canadian and the other Filipino. We have had a little too much wine and everyone is dancing around with themselves. We are stupid, and silly, and tipsy on the beauty of our lives. We decide it’s a perfect time to order Indian food. We sit on the floor of a mirrored ballroom eating with plastic utensils and talk about true love.
He isn’t so sweet anymore. It isn’t polite or gentle. I don’t know if it’s cultural or the language barrier, but he seems pissed I tell him no to anything. It seems I have broken his heart. He wanted to go to America with me. I am the love of his life. I wonder how that is so when we could barely hold a conversation. I was sad I hurt him. I wanted to have storybook love. I continued to try and help him with his English and dreams to come to America until he decided I was a bitch. Love can be complicated. I want something deep, trustworthy, and authentic. I am grateful for our fleeting storybook moment none the less.
findingmyownpath 