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Friday, Nov 27, 2009
But I couldn't move towards it. This was not a simple travel romance. A one-night-stand was completely out of the question. This was different. He was going back to Europe. I knew I should let it go. Kissing him would only make it harder. Still, I felt languid in the tension between us.
The hot sun shone down, casting a million little diamonds over the surface of the brilliant blue sea. I was filled with the exquisite pleasure of feeling everything was perfect, that there was no place I'd rather be. "It's like a dream, isn't it?" he said. I nodded, silent in my contentedness. It was like a dream. And he and I, both well-versed in the metaphysical illusions of travel, should have acknowledged that with every dream there is a period of awakening -- a delineation between the unconscious and conscious, between vacation and the real world. But we were intoxicated by the illusion, by the moment, by each other in that beautiful space.
When he moved to kiss me, I didn't stop him.
We walked back along the beach, hand in hand, making plans to see each other again. I was going to be in San Diego for a day before I flew back to Seattle and he was driving through on his way to L.A. He asked me, in his very polite way, if he could see me, and of course I said yes.
On the 12-hour drive back to San Diego, I sat silently in the back of my friend's car, staring out the window as my friends laughed and blared music out the open windows. The cactuses blurred by and the late desert sky became enflamed with orange and pink. I turned Patrick over and over in my mind. I replayed every conversation, every touch. He'd said he was considering taking a job in L.A., so maybe a relationship wasn't entirely out of the question. Maybe this is it, I thought to myself, maybe he's The One. But you don't even believe in The One, I countered, and besides ... you've only known him for three days.
He called the next night, from a pay phone in front of a doughnut shop in San Diego. He arrived at my friend's apartment still unshaven and covered in sand and sunscreen. He glowed from the sun and saltwater, from moving along 1,000 miles of open road. I'd already read a newspaper for the first time in a week, showered and called home to check my messages. Despite our suburban surroundings, we smiled at each other intently, grateful for a few more hours together.
That night we lay next to each other on the single bed in my friend's guestroom and talked for hours. He told me he'd been thinking and had decided we should plan a trip somewhere together -- maybe Reykjavik in the spring, or somewhere warmer, India perhaps. The resplendent creature lying next to me was asking me where I'd like to travel with him, telling me he wasn't willing to say goodbye. My anxiety gave way to ease; everything seemed possible. I said goodbye to him at the airport the next morning, sad but confident we would see each other again.
And so I returned to reality -- to Seattle, to my cold, quiet apartment, to the rain falling silently on huge green trees, to my car and computer and my morning cup of coffee alone. And he returned to reality -- to cold, rainy Brussels, to a life I could only imagine based on the details embedded in four days' worth of casual anecdotes. Maybe I underestimated the power of climate. Maybe we never had a chance. Maybe a Seattle-Brussels romance was destined to mold.
The long-distance communication began. Instead of impromptu conversations on the beach, we were now relegated to the realm of telecommunication -- to e-mails and phone calls, to different time zones and work schedules. He called when he got back to Brussels and sent an e-mail shortly after. It read, "I miss you and wanted to ask: would you like to meet again?" I wrote back immediately, and said yes, I wanted to see him again. When? Where? We agreed we would meet somewhere halfway between us within two month's time.
I checked my e-mail everyday. If he'd written, I would write back immediately. From the beginning his e-mails were short and relatively impersonal -- not what I expected. He called me from work one day and aside from his accent, I hardly recognized his voice. He sounded so businesslike and formal. But he was at work, I reminded myself. But then another day, he called and told me he was sending me a package. He told me he hoped I'd be able to go to Ireland with him one day; that he'd received the photos I'd sent him from Baja and he was reminded of how beautiful I was. Then he didn't write for a week.
