A 12-Day Second Date in Another Country
Bold? Reckless? Worth it?
This month, the first chapter of my digital nomad novel-in-progress, The Itinerary Is Desire, was published at Hobart. This is also the first time I’ve had fiction published, ever! (Ahem, “autofiction”—i.e. it’s mostly true, with many writerly exaggerations).
The piece is about traveling to Colombia in 2016 with my then-boyfriend and our ensuing breakup. You can read it here.
But some things never change, and this summer I was back to traveling with a man. And just like in Colombia, I was the one in tow, dutifully following wherever the man went. It didn’t end well. But it was also incredible! Sexy! Fun! I cried, I argued, I learned some lessons. And I got to see a lot of Croatia.
(I have a few recommendations for places to go—there is the“part guide” component of my Substack, after all—if you’re visiting Croatia.)
So join me, if you would like, in a little escapism from the current world. Let’s transport ourselves back to summer of ’23. A simpler time. Paris was warm. Also, empty. And I matched on Hinge with a man who said he was 58 and lived in Paris.
(He’s 60 and lives in Switzerland.)
We’ll call him Ivan. He’s half-Croatian.
Ivan is an entrepreneur, fluent in five languages—Spanish, French, English, Italian, and Croatian—which he jumps between all day, an incredibly sexy feat to this monolingual-ish American. He is not-yet divorced, with three adult kids.
We had a FaceTime, and he invited me to visit him in Croatia, which is where he’s based during the summer, overseeing the operations of his boutique hotel and five restaurants in Split, Dubrovnik, Korčula, Hvar, and Zagreb. He said we’d eat and drink well, go to Montenegro to drive his boat back to Croatia, and there were no expectations for us to be anything other than friends. He seemed trustworthy and kind. I was in!
But then I told my friends, my mom, and my sister, who all said some version of “What the hell are you thinking?! You can’t go to another country with a man you haven’t met!”
Fair. I told him no, I couldn’t come, but thank you.
But Ivan was persistent. His next message said he was coming to Paris, and would I like to go to dinner. It was early July when we met for dinner at Le Fumoir. He was a handsome, well dressed man with a shaved head. Over dinner, he asked me questions about my poetry (“How does one write a poem?”) and about my life in Paris, my copywriting work. He told me about his sudden separation three years ago and the businesses they’d run together. The conversation went well. But then we had another drink at a cocktail bar in Pigalle, and the conversation became both increasingly personal and increasingly antagonistic. I said he should see a therapist. (That was mean of me.) I said he should be on the dating app Raya, not Hinge. (Raya is more for the “jet-setting” crowd.) I said he seemed to be still in the grip of heartbreak. He said, “I liked you better when you were talking about sex.” Eventually I kissed him goodbye and left in a cab.
The next morning, I was still invited to Croatia. I still politely declined. He still politely persisted.
Two days later, while grocery shopping in Monoprix on a Saturday, it hit me: I wanted to go to Croatia. Why not? Why not experience a new country with a lovely, intelligent man who knew it inside and out? Right there in the yogurt aisle, I texted yes.
* * *
After sending photos of my passport and French visa, I had a one-way ticket to Croatia. I set up my phone’s location sharing so my mom and sister would be able to track me. My hands were trembling as the plane touched down at Dubrovnik.