on this retreat. That’s the joy of it. It’s different. We’re communicating as humans. Not as lists of statistics. Details don’t matter. Nationalities don’t matter. Jobs don’t matter. CONNECTION matters.
As I finish typing, I feel quite inspired, and I wonder if what I’ve said will give my friends pause for thought. But at once the replies start popping into my phone again.
???
What’s his income bracket?
Not relevant, Sarika!!!
Yes it is, sorry to be so pragmatic
I’m guessing she doesn’t know
You can guess, surely?
Ava, sweetheart, not wanting to rain on your parade…but what DO you know about him??
As I’m reading the conversation, I realize I’m in the way of a bent old woman with a shopping trolley, and I skip aside apologetically, saying, “Scusi!”
The woman smiles and I smile back, taking in her ancient lined face and thinking both She looks so wise and Oops, I forgot to put on sunscreen. Then I turn my attention back to the conversation. I feel a bit surreal, standing in a remote Italian street, trying to explain this amazing development in my life to my friends, so far away. But after some thought I start typing again:
This is what I know. His hair is dark and thick. His eyes are gleaming. He just has to look at me to make me ripple inside. When he laughs he throws his head back. He’s confident, but he doesn’t brag. He values friendship. And he loves dogs.
I add another stream of heart emojis, eighteen this time, then press SEND.
There’s silence from the other end. Then the responses start piling in.
????
That’s it?
What’s his other name? Dutch what? I’m googling him.
That is so typical of Sarika. I quickly type:
Don’t know.
Then, after some hesitation, I come fully clean.
Actually, Dutch isn’t his real name. I don’t know his real name.
This time the replies come more swiftly than ever.
You don’t know his name???
Let me get this clear, you don’t know his name or his nationality or what he does or where he lives.
So it’s just sex.
I stare at the phone, feeling nettled at Maud’s comment. First of all, what’s that supposed to mean, “Just sex”? Sex with the right person is transcendental. It informs you about a person’s soul. Someone who is generous in bed is going to be generous in real life.
And, anyway, it’s not just sex. I know Dutch. I’ve built a pebble tower with him. I’ve seen him play football with kids. I’ve leaped off rocks with him. That’s what’s important. Not “What does he do?” but “Would you leap off a rock with him?”
Feeling a little tetchy, I type again:
It’s more than sex. I sense the core of him. He is a good person. He’s kind. He’s intrepid. He’s brave.
I pause a few seconds, then add my clincher:
He saved me from a knife attack. He saved my life.
You can’t argue with that. He saved my life. He saved my life! But if I thought my friends might respond to the romance of this, I was wrong.
A knife attack????
What the FUCK is going on out there?
Ava, stay safe.
I think you should come home.
This guy might be an ax murderer!!
I know they’re half teasing, but I also know they’re half serious, and it’s unsettling me. I type again, my fingers a little jabby.
Stop it. It’s fine. It’s all good. I’m happy.
Then I add:
I have to go. I’m on a writing retreat, in case you’d forgotten.
There’s a momentary pause, then the farewells come into my phone:
OK, we’ll talk soon xxxxx
Stay SAFE xoxox
Enjoy!! ;) ;)
And finally another photo of Harold appears, with a photoshopped speech bubble coming out of his mouth: “FIND OUT HIS NAME!!”
Huh. Hilarious.
As I wander back to the monastery, I feel conflicted. Of course I’m curious. Of course I’ve speculated. Part of me is desperate to know his real name. And his age. And which big city he lives in. (Please, please, not Sydney.)
But part of me doesn’t want to go there. Not yet. We’re in the most magical bubble, and I want to stay in it for as long as possible.
Should I at least find out one detail? His real name?
I pause at the entrance to the monastery, thinking this through.
The trouble is, if I know his name, I’ll google him. I won’t intend to…I won’t want to…but I will. Just like I quite often don’t want or intend to order a muffin with my coffee, but, oh, look, there it is on my