I fall in love every time I go somewhere new. Whether it’s a secluded beach with enchanting pristine water, rugged mountains that make my legs ache just looking at them, or a hostel worker who serenaded me at breakfast every morning: my heart is for sale whenever my feet touch previously undiscovered soil. I know it’s not a real kind of love, but a harmless game of make-believe and what-ifs to feed my overactive imagination.
When I think of all the places I have had the great fortune of visiting and of all the people I have met, it seems such a shame that they never knew that, however brief, our story has imprinted itself in my brain. A patchwork of random memories seemingly so insignificant in the moment that now I consider some of my most treasured possessions.
And so, the idea of ‘Lost Loves From Across The Globe’ started to bubble away somewhere in my consciousness. The concept of putting pen to paper and writing about all the magic that can be found in the minutiae.
But where to start? Perhaps with Melbourne, the city that stole my heart. Maybe Maré Island, with the most picturesque beaches I’ve ever laid eyes on. Or, what about the man who owned the taverna by the castle on a hill…
To the man who poured me a tiny beer
Kefalonia
It’s my sixth anniversary with my then-boyfriend, now husband. Which, to me, makes it the perfect day to fall in love with the idea of a life I’ll never have with you.
We set off from our hotel without a specific destination in mind and ended up chasing a castle on the horizon. It’s the hottest day of our trip and the air is sticky and dry all at the same time. My top clings to the sweat forming on the base of my spine and my throat is scratchy. It feels like heaven.
Exploring the decrepit castle grounds, we marvel at the vibrant spring flowers that have beaten through the weeds and exclaim as butterflies swirl around us, taking refuge on our sleeves before once more taking flight. The day is glorious and I am so full of love. And I haven’t even met you, yet.
As we meander back to our scooter, we scour for a taverna; like lions prowling for a watering hole, we must find beer. I spy a restaurant and admire how quintessentially Greek it is. Adorned with vivid green leaves of which I’ll never learn the name, budding beautiful orange berries and a spattering of pink flowers, it’s perfect. We amble up uneven steps, greeted by a very elderly woman sitting in a window. Later I learnt she’s your grandma and it makes me love the idea of you even more.
The tables are plastic with matching, cheap chairs. The surface is sticky and the menus are faded and brown with age. It’s the kind of place I’d never give a second glance at home but, here, it’s exactly what I was looking for. You don’t come over straight away, we’re on Greek time after all. We order beer in our best imitation of the language, my partner a large and myself a small. I emphasise my request with my finger and thumb, the international symbol for little.
Moments pass and our eagerly awaited drinks arrive. A large for my partner. A shot glass of beer for me. Our eyes meet and you laugh; you really laugh. One that reverberates through your belly and escapes your throat in a roar. You are the epitome of a Greek waiter and I instantly understand why hoards of women fall for men who serve them cold drinks and later leave them with a broken heart.
You tell us about your taverna and wave to the lady in the window, who I now know is your grandma. You explain she lives with you, having opened the taverna with her husband many years before, and since then, the restaurant has become part of the fabric of your family. I learnt about your wife, an English woman who came to Kefalonia on holiday 20 years ago, who visited your restaurant and never left. I can see why. It snowed once, not long after she moved in with you and you said she was furious. Incandescent with rage at leaving behind the cold, harsh English weather for a life in the Med, only to be greeted with more snow than she’d ever witnessed on her estate in the Midlands.
You are charming and kind, with a twinkle in your eyes that I only see in Greek men. You bring me a half pint of a beer with a wink and serve up plate after plate of mouth-watering food.
I imagine what a life with you might look like, perched atop this hill with endless, rolling views of the valley below. Would I like it here? I play out a vision in my head: of me serving tourists just like me with hearty dishes, of sharing my story and learning theirs, of watching the sun go down on this idyllic setting every night and marvelling at how wonderful the world can be. I think, in fact I know, I could love it here.
More customers arrive and our plates are cleared, signalling our time here has drawn to its close. Heart and stomach full, I stand and momentarily mourn the life I might have had before waving to your grandma and slowly descend the uneven steps once more.
As I leave you tell me it’s not really goodbye:
“Until we meet again!”
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