Who knew that thirty days in Europe would change my life? I entered the continent with hopes of delicious food, breathtaking sights, and a needed break from dating. Well, I certainly achieved the first two. However, romance seems to follow me, even when I travel across the Atlantic.
In my first stops, I learned about the dating cultures in Spain, Denmark, Hungary, Britain, the Netherlands, and Austria. On Bastille Day in Paris, I sipped from a few too many bottles of champagne and made some poor life choices. I picked up a Dutch and Canadian boyfriend, speeding through all the aspects of a longer relationship – exciting beginnings, unrequited L-word use, and then a tough break-up when my obsession turned to repulsion (doesn’t it always?).
I wrote a lot as I traveled, learned seven important life lessons along the way, and hope to share them with you here on WSK. I suppose my most shocking discovery, however, occurred around day twenty of my trip: perhaps two isn’t always better than one. Perhaps, finding a husband need not be a priority in my life. Perhaps… perhaps… perhaps I lead a damn good life on my own, alone.
But first, let’s back up to the evening of my regret-filled Bastille Day Eve. You need a little background before reading the next few posts, written on my worst day traveling, with shaking hands, a pounding head, and a nasty hangover under the shadow of the Arc de Triomphe.
Each neighborhood firehouse hosts a party from about 8pm to the early hours of the morning on Bastille Day. Parisians across the city celebrate with music, dancing, and champagne, in support of their local firefighters. I planned my entire trip to Europe around seeing the fireworks behind the Eifel Tower and partying with the French.
I befriended other travelers (Marie, from Canada, and some Californian boys), and convinced them to come to the local party with me. Marie had been hitting on and flirting with one of the Californians, Anthony, for a few days. She planned to make a move at the party. I, in turn, wanted nothing to do with any of the traveling Americans, but played wing woman and talked to his unattractive, rude, and arrogant friend, Arthur. Before we entered the crowded party, I told her that we should stick together and promise to leave together. She agreed, and we decided that worst-case scenario, we’d at least meet at the front door if we separated.
Five or six bottles of champagne later, I realized that I lost Marie. Arthur was also missing, so I just assumed they were dancing somewhere nearby, and I’d find her later. Later came and went, and no Marie. I looked for her near the front door unsuccessfully. An hour passed – no Marie at the front door. Another hour passed, no Marie.
Stuck listening to Arthur jabber on about his own intelligence and belief that the east coast has nothing valuable on it, I drank more champagne. Marie missing, Arthur and I continued on with the champagne-drinking Bastille Day tradition, and my ability to find Marie declined. In fact, my ability to think clearly disappeared. I couldn’t remember – was it alcohol that lowers your inhibitions? And increases your chances of making regrettable decisions? Or was that something else? The evening became a blur and (as usual) only one thing could hold my attention any more: dancing.
Before I knew it, Arthur and I made out on the dance floor. I hated Arthur.
The next morning, I discovered that Marie, Anthony, and all of Arthur’s other friends were in on the plan to go to the party with me, ditch me, and hope that Arthur could get me drunk enough to make out with him. What lovely friends I had made in Paris.
When Strangers Kiss 