In light of the recent holiday of love, and of my proclivity to reflect on past experiences way too much, I’ve decided to bestow upon all readers the privilege of reading a story about some of the worst decisions I have made on the road. And these decisions have nothing to do with missing out on great deals, losing my passport, or finding myself in a dangerous situation. No, I am talking about boys.
That’s right. We’re about to delve into the deepest, darkest, scariest moments of my love life. Hang on, it’s going to be a bumpy ride.
One of the most appealing fantasies people seem to have about traveling is finding someone that you really gel with, that you can talk to for hours, who doesn’t know anything about you except for your carefree, nomadic attitude. You can be however and whoever you want to be. These are often some of the most passionate flings there are (or so I’ve heard). I have run across incredibly successful social media influencers plenty of times, couples that met abroad and have the most romantic stories of their courtship. Who doesn’t want a romantic story like that? I certainly did.
But the catch is this: having all the pieces like that fall into place is rare. Incredibly rare. And most of the time, trying to continue a relationship with someone you met abroad is just an absurd idea (believe me, I’ve actually done it twice, but I at least quickly came to my senses the second time once it was clear that we had left our chemistry back in Asia).
So here is my story of finding love abroad and the hardest lesson my heart ever had to learn.
London, 2014
After college graduation in 2014, I was naive, I was chubby, and I was ready to start my real life. But first: Europe. A big trip to Europe was something I had wanted to do once I was finally done with school for a long time, and I was finally going to get the chance to spread my wings. College in central Pennsylvania does not turn you into a cultured young adult, no matter how many Spanish classes you might take. I needed this time to break out of my comfort zone. As a shy, timid little girl, I decided to go on an organized trip and meet some new people.
The first day, in the courtyard at my London hostel, I first shook the hand of the guy who would become my whole world/the bane of my existence for the next couple of years. Let’s call him Rick. His name isn’t really Rick, but it only seems appropriate that I protect his privacy because I am a professional (or trying to be).
Rick was from California. He was what you might consider a “hipster,” with his slouchy beanie and his Ray Bans and his use of words like “hella” and “dope.” He enjoyed the finer things in life, like cheap beer and trying to be a photographer.
Let me tell you, I found this guy annoying. Really goddamn annoying. He was 20 years old, finally in a place where he was of legal drinking age, and he was having the time of his life. One second he is pressed against the wall of the pub making out with another American girl, the next he was asking me to buy him a drink at the bar. He was all over the place.
EYE ROLL. “I hate boys,” I thought to myself with a scoff. “So uncultured and immature.” (As I threw down a shot of sambuca and drink an entire bottle of red wine).
Italy, 2014
When we arrived in Italy, I was struck by how romantic it was. Paris is supposed to be the city of love, but there was an amorous energy enshrined in the walls and thick in the air of Italy’s cities. Venice was no exception, and it was the first city we made our home for a few days. Our hotel was in Lido di Jesolo, a small beach town on the outskirts of the city of canals.
One night, after everyone started going to bed, I trotted downstairs to try to scour out some food. Rick was there and offered to go get a pizza with me. We talked for an hour straight, eating pizza together easily and comfortably. The four glasses of wine from earlier certainly had helped and fueled my desire to spend any alone time with Rick.
When we headed to the beach, he plopped himself down in the one available chair and patted his lap. “Sit down,” he offered. Thinking nothing of it (I needed a place to sit after all; was I supposed to stand all night??), I took a seat. We looked out at the moon, just visible over the horizon, and he whispered softly, “This is kind of romantic.” I can’t blame the guy. Italy is romantic. But it hit me then: oh no. I know where this is going. How do I stop it?? The most annoying boy-man I have ever met, trying to make moves on me right now?? The thought of it was too overwhelming to bear, but I didn’t even entirely hate it.
When he kissed me, I definitely didn’t hate it. I wanted to because I really hated him, but I just couldn’t. Not even I, someone who prided myself on being jaded and having a heart of stone, could resist romance all the time.
From that night onward, we were attached at the hip, from Florence to Nice to Barcelona. It was a whirlwind European romance, except it was with a 20 year old American kid from California, not a mysterious and handsome Italian babe. But still. I was determined to make the most of it, and I was somehow beginning to appreciate his flaws as part of his goofy, fun-loving personality.
Spain, 2014
It was our last night before flying back to the States in the morning. We were in Madrid and Rick was drunker than I’d ever seen another human being. Even drunker than the evening in Florence when he jumped into the pool with all his clothes on at 6 pm for no reason and I had to help him change his pants. Let’s be real, I was annoyed as fuxk. There’s nothing I hate more than exceedingly drunk people, including me when exceedingly drunk, and I wanted to spend our last night together making memories, not losing them.
When we got back from the bar, Rick took me up onto the roof and told me to wait for him. I sat for 20 minutes, staring out over the bright city of Madrid, until he returned, out of breath and holding two seashells.
“I found these on the beach near Venice and I kept them to give to you, since that is where this all started.”
Keep in mind, these were the most ordinary, plainest shells ever to exist on earth. There was absolutely nothing special about them whatsoever. They were colorless and small and cracked. But they were, somehow, the most thoughtful gift I had ever gotten. CURSE YOU, weak disposition, so prone to getting shaky-kneed at the smallest of romantic gestures. I don’t want to be this way, but I just kind of am. I put the shells in my bag and knew right then that this wouldn’t and couldn’t be the last time Rick and I were together.
Arizona, 2014
The first time I saw Rick after our trip was after I had moved to Arizona for work, when he agreed to drive out from California and see me. We had been texting non-stop for weeks, talking about everything and anything. He sent me sweet goodnight texts every day. To say I was excited to see him is an understatement.
I paced back and forth in my brand new apartment for hours prior to his arrival. I nervous-peed at least a dozen times. I spent forever picking out the best outfit: a flattering one that made me look irresistible, but not like I was trying too hard. I kept checking the traffic on the 60 between California and my front doorstep. As someone who had never had strong feelings for anyone before, I was alarming even myself.
He pulled into the parking lot in his Honda Civic, a camping backpack over his shoulder and his beanie perched haphazardly on his blond head. I ran out to him, trying not to look too eager, and immediately went to kiss him. He recoiled, as if unsure if this was the right thing to do. It was awkward, but I realized just then that we didn’t know each other at all. We were two strangers, with only a few weeks in Europe between us in common.
During his stay we drove up to a town in central Arizona to visit his brother for a day. The ride up was uncomfortable. At one point he panicked because he thought he was going to run out of gas and didn’t want to be stranded with me, a person completely alien to him yet someone he wanted to impress. We had lunch with his brother, me inhaling my barbecue and trying to pretend that his family wasn’t completely confused by the randomness of my presence.
Rick and I booked a hotel room that night, and as we laid gawkily and uneasily next to each other, I took a deep breath and, under the safe cloak of darkness, asked if he saw this…thing…we had going anywhere.
I’m not normally the kind of person to demand a label on a relationship too soon. But with Rick being nearly 400 miles away, I had to decide if this was even going to be worth it. I was uninterested in putting in effort to visit each other, in communicating on a regular basis, in developing real feelings, if it wasn’t going to go anywhere. This wasn’t like a regular relationship. We had to make decisions, or let it go.
After thinking for a few minutes, he said we should make plans to see each other at least once a month, because he did, in fact, really like me and want to see where things could go. I was relieved, and agreed. I liked him too, and liked having someone relatively close by as I grappled my way through my new life and adjusted to my new home in Arizona.
Arizona, 2015
The awkwardness eventually wore off, and we started seeing each other once a month, me driving out to see him most of the time. We talked every single day, over the phone, over email, via text; we visited Disneyland and the Grand Canyon; we clumsily admitted we loved each other one night after way too many beers and nachos. I was on cloud nine and would break down into tears every time we had to part ways. Long distance was hard, but I never even considered ending the relationship. I couldn’t imagine not having him.
It wasn’t long into dating each other that we started to discuss my moving to California to be closer to Rick. Not having a light at the end of the long-distance-relationship tunnel was unbearable, so we decided to make our own light.
Things were hardly perfect after the first few perfect months. We argued about the plausibility of a future together. I started to see facets of his personality that I didn’t like. He would act completely differently around his roommate. It would confuse me why he would so readily change his values and the way he talked about things with his friends before I realized it was more likely that he changed his values and the way he talked about things with me, the person who he saw only 2 days out of the month. Which person was he really? I was in love, so I simply shrugged off any warning signs that were flashing directly in front of my face.
Within nine months of meeting each other, Rick texted me and told me he couldn’t be with me anymore because the relationship was too serious and overwhelming for him. He needed to be free, he needed to be young. He was unhappy and wasn’t ready to commit to one person. I’m pretty sure I didn’t leave the puddle of tears and snot on my living room floor for a week after that.
Two weeks later, he texted me and said that he missed me and wanted to see me. He made plans to come out to Arizona for a weekend, and while he was there said that he hoped the door wasn’t closed on the relationship for good. I believed it was what he wanted, because I had no real reason to believe otherwise, at least not one that I had acknowledged.
We continued to see each other every few weeks until the end of the summer, when I was set to move back east to be closer to my family after a year of nauseating homesickness. My love for him had continued to grow, and leaving the west was difficult. We promised to keep in touch, because I still couldn’t accept that it could be over, then or ever.
Washington, DC, 2016
One of the last times I ever saw Rick was when he came to visit me in Washington DC for New Year’s. I was so excited to see him, and made plans to introduce him, for the first time, to all my friends and family during his week visit. We had discussed him coming out east and living with me when he graduated, and I was determined to convince him with every ounce of my effort that this was the place for him.
Only (spoiler alert), it wasn’t. He didn’t fit in at all. He didn’t like the city, he was rude to my roommate, he said all the wrong things when I brought him to my friend’s New Year’s party. He made little to no effort to talk to my mom and convince her that he was the one for me. He seemed distant as we hung out with my little sister and her boyfriend.
And it hit me. This guy doesn’t fit into my life. It took me so long to realize because I had spent so much of my time and energy trying to mold myself to fit into his that it never occurred to me that he may not fit into mine. I had never seen him out of his comfort zone, having always been with his friends and his family on his side of the country. After a year and a half of trying to find a place in his life, I realized that he didn’t want to do the same for me.
Rick and I ended things officially shortly afterwards. I realized I had been unhappy for so long, because I had been so hopeful that our romantic story would be enough to propel us forward. But it wasn’t. Having met in London, traveled across Western Europe together, and continued our relationship happily and seamlessly at home was such a nice fantasy, but it wasn’t ever real. We were happy for a short time, but in the end, we just didn’t make sense.
Lessons learned
Let me start by saying: I wish everyone I have met while traveling the very best. Even Rick. Truly. But I have certainly learned my lesson, and it has helped my naive ass stay realistic after meeting guys abroad.
- You actually don’t really know this person, and making it work long distance without knowing if it’ll work in the long run is a gamble. If you meet someone you click with who happens to live in your hometown, congratu-fuxking-lations, because that is probably fate. But chances are you won’t. And if you’re interested in continuing a relationship, you’ll have to get to know them from afar, only seeing the best sides of them, and putting an extraordinary amount of effort in when you don’t even know if it will be worth it.
- On that same vein, you have to make some big decisions early. Too early. Rick and I had the dreaded “where are we going?” conversation on our first real-life date, and it was uncomfortable. The relationship isn’t given the time that it needs to develop at a healthy pace, and it forces you to commit to someone you don’t even know.
- Your lifestyle while traveling is nothing like your every day lifestyle, and there’s no guarantee that it’ll fit into theirs. Traveling is non-stop fun and often alcohol much more often than is normal. You throw back your head and cackle when you hear the word “responsibilities.” No one knows about your annoying quirks like how messy you keep your car or how you’re always late, because no one cares. You’re in a bubble, and it is not the ideal place to get to know people for who they truly are and for what is truly important to them.
- A romantic story isn’t everything. As ridiculous as it sounds, I really, really liked Rick and my story. I loved telling people how I met my boyfriend on a trip to Europe, because most people had met their boyfriends in college or at work or on Tinder. Laaame, amiright? Maybe. But at least those people had a chance to build a normal relationship and never had the pressure of keeping it going because the backstory was impressive. Typing that makes me sound like such a loser, but I think I was more in love with our story than I was with Rick for a long time.
- No matter how badly you might want something to work out, it was never destined to work out from the beginning. This applies to every relationship in the history of relationships. It is a lesson that everyone has to learn, and it is a painful one.
This is just my personal experience. Sometimes it does work!! Have you ever met anyone abroad? How did it end? Or how DIDN’T IT? Seriously, I am still all about a good love story, so tell me.
