Meg in Transit

31 July 2023

I’m not sure that this post will ever see the light of day. Or the public internet, rather. I have been crying on and off for the past twenty-four hours, and then some. I actually didn’t know I could cry for so long. Like any form of grief, heartache-y sadness comes in waves. It’s the stuff of high school crushes and teenage lust. It’s the classic tale of a summer romance.

I used to dread the arrival of July. It was usually hot and it meant that August would soon follow. I was typically exhausted after a month of working at a theatre camp, on top of just managing adulthood, and bracing for the end of summer and back to school.

This particular July was a month of lovely-fleeting-maybe love, only existing in between the 1st and the 31st. It was sunny, and sometimes rainy, and beautiful. It started with a seagull.

On the day our story begins, I was waiting to tour the Roman Baths in Bath, England. I stopped at a coffee shop in the Bath Abbey churchyard, bought an almond croissant and a latte, and found a table outside. It was the perfect ~food~ photo opportunity, with the abbey as the backdrop. The second after I took the picture, a giant seagull dove at my table, stole the croissant, and splashed coffee everywhere. And thus, the opening line for my newly revived dating app was born. “Hi there, a seagull stole my croissant this morning, how’s your day going?” Unfortunately, for accuracy’s sake, I have since deleted said app and resisted taking any screenshots of the following conversation. One guy, let’s call him, Graham, (get it? The Holiday? You’ll see…) responded, explaining that since he grew up by the sea, he’d learned to keep a hand free for seagull/food protection. And, with that, a July some-kind-of love began.

I was not entirely convinced that this conversation, or dating in general while traveling was the best idea. Due to the ~app~, I had just had a thing with a British man that had not gone so well. The day I left Bath, I was feeling emotionally drained. I was trying to remain optimistic, because post thing with British guy, I had found a good deal on a tiny cottage in the Cotswolds, and I was daydreaming about fulfilling my Iris and/or Amanda or Kate Winslet and/or Cameron Diaz fantasy, which, up to this point, only realistically featured me dancing to “Mr. Brightside” in the living room.

[Must be noted- The Holiday cottage is set in Surrey, but it all looks and feels like the Cotswolds]

It was raining off and on, as it always seems to when one is feeling down, and as per usual when journeying through the UK, I had multiple trains to catch. When I arrived at the last stop, finally, I realized this was not London, or Bath, and there were not any taxis, in spite of what the map had led me to believe, and the only bus wouldn’t come for another few hours. When it rains, it pours. Luckily, during one of the brief but mighty showers in Bath, I had sprung (£10) for a small black umbrella- remember that for later, please.

Okay, rewind a little. After the seagull discussion, Graham and I started chatting about other subjects, including my red hair, which I dramatically revealed was in fact, not natural. “I’m sorry that you had to find out like this.” The conversation took an improvisational turn, as Graham cooked up this alternate reality in which we were married and after many years he found out about my hair, and that caused a rift, and suddenly I was sneaking around with Dave from the gym. You kind of had to be there, but his improv was impressive. Somehow we ended up jokingly engaged to be married. He asked for my number. I shared it without hesitation.

As I was making my way via many trains, we were messaging, talking about our travels and discussing, of course, tea. We joked about him coming to the Cotswolds and I mentioned The Holiday, which he had never seen. Fast forward, I was stranded. I called all of the taxi companies in the area with no luck. Graham began checking maps for me – for those concerned, I did not share my final destination exactly because stranger danger. He offered to come pick me up but his car was in the shop, and also, stranger danger. We decided I should take another train, which would allow me to take a bus, then another bus, to ye olde Cotswolds. I bought the ticket, then, hey, guess what, my train was delayed. I waited. I took it. I got to the bus stop, and soon realized, I had missed the bus after this bus due to the delayed train. The updated maps schedule had me arriving at the cottage the next morning. Perfect.

At a different time, if I were alone and sort of lost in the country, after a few weeks of solo travel, I might’ve broken down. But I had Graham keeping me company, and he was sweet and quick-witted and I could already tell that he was kind. After awaiting its arrival for approximately 20-30 minutes, I took the train, once again, back to the stop that I had just left, to wait for the original bus. We got back into musing about turning my The Holiday dream into reality. I explained that Jude Law doesn’t arrive until after Amanda is at the cottage anyway. And he often sleeps on his sister’s couch, which is how he ends up there in the first place. When I got to the cottage, finally, I sent Graham a picture of “his” couch. We joked about spending the weekend together. Later that night, he asked if he could come meet me the following day and I said maybe.

The next morning, I decided to be honest about my headspace after my previous British man encounter. I was having a hard time wrapping my head around someone driving an hour to meet a complete stranger. Someone from ~the apps~ no less. I said I was worried I’d disappoint. He said, exactly as written:

1. I’m sure you won’t.
2. How even could you?

He said he’d be happy just to chat, that it had been going well so far, and he wasn’t worried. I told him that after my recent experience, I was wary of putting myself out there again, specifically while traveling. He was seemingly unfazed, and then asked if it was just awkward given our fictional betrothal. I told him that if he reeaaaallly didn’t mind driving an hour just for a drink, I’d get myself together. I gave him the address for the B&B nearby because, you guessed it, Stranger. Danger.

When I walked out to meet him through the cottage path, he was facing away from me, lit by the sun, then turned around. Yeah, literally, like a movie. Later, when I was reflecting on the delightful evening we had shared at the local pub next to the B&B, and then sitting together on THE couch next to a fire in my cute little cottage, I remembered that moment just before he turned around. I think I knew then that this could break my heart. I also knew I was going to take that chance.

Nothing happened that night, like, at all. He gave me a hug at hello, but left without making any sort of move, which really was the best move. He totally read the situation and he was good at this. And, oh man, he smelled great. Which cannot be said for most men on this continent. When he got home he asked if he could see me again the next day. Of course, I said yes.

The specifics of the in-between-times are just for me, I’m sorry. I’ll give you the highlights. They include:

• running my errand to the pharmacy because I desperately needed a specific facial cleanser and shampoo
• running my errand to buy toilet paper (I really know how to ~date~)
• talking and laughing in a beer garden
• talking, and still laughing, on THE couch until early morning
• a farm park, where you can feed and pet the animals
• sharing my umbrella
• accidentally (really though) leaving my very important umbrella in his car
• the return of my umbrella, in Bristol
• continued conversations through Amsterdam, Bruges, and Ghent
• a weeklong trip to Cambridge, which is definitely a place recommended by Rick Steves that I felt I must see, which also happened to be near his job, what a coincidence

Ultimately, we only spent two separate days together in Cambridge. The second day, we walked through the city center in the evening and had the best time. In my memory, it was a perfect day. You’ll have to take my word for it. The details are mine. We talked about spending Saturday together, before I left for the next country. We had broadly talked about meeting up in Dublin right before my flight home. He told me he might be working in Canada this fall. My little romantic heart went to my head and I started dreaming.

It seemed to work out for Amanda and Iris, right?

He didn’t come. He ripped off the bandaid. Well, plaster, he’s British, after all. He was nice about it and he said he was protecting himself, the memories, and he thought, protecting me. I was devastated. It’s the adult version of summer camp ending. That we-could-stay-in-touch love.

I sent him too many messages and then I sent too many messages to my close circle. One of my favorite people called. He said something like, “Isn’t it so great to have these feelings, though? To be reminded that you are capable of feeling this way about someone?” My dear friend was right, as he usually is.

I didn’t get much sleep. I cried, sent more messages, cried some more. Woke up in the middle of the night and, yep, cried myself back to sleep. In the morning, I cried as I packed, dramatically thinking that every sock or pocketed hotel tea bag would forever remind me of him. I cannot remember the last time I felt like this. I’m fairly certain it was high school.

Then, I had the worst travel day. I silently cried on the bus. On the train, which was delayed. In the train station, after my second train was canceled. On the overly crowded later train on which I spent the first half of my hours-long journey standing, holding my luggage, next to the busy train bathroom. When I *just missed* the bus. When I finally arrived at my flat, only to find that another traveler had taken my keys from the lockbox along with hers, so I couldn’t get in. On the stoop in the city while I waited for the spare set of keys. I would love to say it stopped there, but once I got inside, I cried over a cup of peppermint tea, and while I brushed my teeth. There were still tears in my eyes as I opened my laptop to write this, at this point, a few hours ago.

It’s morning now, the sun is coming up. The 31st of July. Typing this, I understand why people keep journals. They can write away the I-thought-this-might-be-something love and separate themselves from it a little. At this moment, I feel, maybe not better, but kind of neutral? Have to start somewhere. I can’t really say that I won’t cry today. I have a difficult time dealing with lack of closure. If he came back, I’d fall again in a heartbeat, even knowing how it all feels. I know that in time I will be happy to know that I can feel this way. I fell for a lovely man, let myself really dream again, and even got my Jude Law moment in the process. It wasn’t about that ultimately though, not even a little.

He is warm and fun and kind and all of the good stuff. How lucky I am to have shared some time with him. He made me feel so wonderful. No matter what happens, I’m so grateful for the sunshine-y, only-in-July love.