And then there were three. Or so it would seem. Tomorrow night, I’m going to dinner with “my friend” Date #6 but it’s been over two weeks since we first kissed, and a lot can happen in two weeks—especially when you’re insane enough to think you can juggle not one, not two, but three eligible bachelors at the same time.
Mind you, I can’t juggle to save my life and (I’m okay with two balls, but whenever I decide to add a third into the mix, I end up lobbing it into the ceiling). I also have no idea what to expect from my night out with Date #6 because now that we’ve finally kissed, we’ve entered that awkward “yes, we’ve hooked up, but we’re not going to talk about it” phase.
A million years ago, when I was young and cool and backpacking through Europe, I met a rather gorgeous Austrian boy at a hostel in Madrid. The hostel bar sold sangria by the liter so obviously I ended up convincing said Austrian to join me in my search for a suitable discoteca; by 5:00am we were lip locked on a bench outside the Prado and he was canceling his trip to Portugal to remain with me in Madrid.
Even though we’d shared many a küss during our late night trek, I had no idea what to expect the next day. I knew only that I had come to Madrid to see the Prado—as in by day, from the inside, where actual art is kept—so I dragged myself from my bunk as soon as I was able and stumbled back to the museum. Martin, the Austrian, had agreed to meet me after I’d had my fill of culture for the day, so as I was sitting there contemplating Bosch and Velazquez and the rest of the paintings that seemed to spring to life from the very pages of the art history textbooks I’d studied over the years, I kept thinking about him.
Would he kiss me hello? Would he hold my hand? Would he even remember that we’d agreed to meet at the front gates of the museum? Or would I be left standing there on my own, waiting for the Austrian I’d kissed the night before when in fact he’d already left for Portugal?
To my great surprise, this particular hostel hook up had a happier ending that most. He was indeed waiting for me at the gates, and he did indeed greet me with a kiss. We rented a row boat in the Parque de Buen Retiro, drank frozen lemonades and spent the next 48 hours touring, picnicking and soaking up everything Madrid had to offer.
When he walked me to the train station at the end of my stay so I could catch my flight to London, I actually found myself crying. I really liked him, and for several months (until I found myself enamored of approximately nine dozen Oxford boys), we kept in touch.
Moral of the story? It’s like I’m back in Europe, standing outside the Prado wondering if the boy I kissed the night before is going to kiss me again.
Of course now, it’s a bit more complicated: what am I going to tell the Wedding Date if he does? And what am I going to tell Date #7? More importantly, what am I going to tell the man himself? Hostel hook ups were way easier than serial dating… especially as I don’t have the luxury of simply hopping a train to a foreign country this time around.
- MADRID: the elegance of Art collections (ilgiardinodeibucaneve.wordpress.com)
- A Page from the Nice Guy’s Playbook (katrichterwrites.wordpress.com)