Yes you read that correctly, I recently got engaged in Italy and am currently living on my fiance’s vineyard for the summer in Sardinia, after traveling solo here last year and meeting him! (But note! I am still traveling around 6 months per year, and I still have my epic little apartment in Tulum that I own and rent out when I’m not there!)
Everything about this has seemed incredibly fateful and part of the universe’s plan for me, and it’s one of my favorite travel stories yet, so I decided to write it out!
My new Travel Stories section of my blog is my latest passion project, since I originally wanted to be a travel writer before social media turned me into an “influencer”! They aren’t really edited or meant to be in professional formatting, just my stories I like to tell!
I post updated for new chapters on my IG, but I also have a form you can subscribe to below to get emailed, in case you don’t feel like being on social media!
If you’d like the short version of my engagement story, you can check it out here: ‘My Engagement in Italy’
Otherwise, here’s the full long-format story!
Last January I hit so many milestones on my thirty-fifth birthday. I received the keys to a condo I bought in cash completely on my own in Tulum, I still had six figures in my savings account, zero debt, a thriving business, and of course, over 130 countries visited.
But the relationship-goals aspect of my life was far from achieved per usual, and I was starting to give up on it. After finally ending one of the most toxic relationships I’d ever been in, I made my New Year’s resolution to completely change my dating habits, or perhaps, just give dating a break altogether. If I was going to continue trying, I decided I would need to change the types of men I usually go for, how I meet them, and I needed to be more precise with my manifesting of what the perfect partner would be for me. AKA all things that every therapist, shaman, seer, etc has been telling me to do for years.
But, before I started manifesting a new relationship, I did make a solid attempt to tell myself that I should take a year off of seriously dating. Many people don’t know this, but I usually am always dating someone, and since I don’t casually date, it’s usually serious. And it usually always takes a toll on my work and travels. But my business was booming, so many people were proud of me and inspired, and I really wanted to just give myself time to actually appreciate that for once instead of just seeing everything I do as work, and constantly worrying about my achievements bruising a man’s ego or making them feel the need to control me.
Of course, giving up looking for a partner immediately gave me that inevitable anxiety of “running out of time to have a baby”, so I also made one of the best decisions I’ve made in my life; I made plans to freeze my eggs in Barcelona when I knew I’d be there in September! I had several recommendations from friends that live there, and I actually accidentally ended up turning it into a collaboration even though the cost is only around $3000. The initial ultrasound and bloodwork was done for a decent price in Tulum, and all was reviewed and good to go for my treatment, which gave me more will-power to not accept any relationship with someone immediately wanting a baby.
But just in case I did end up wanting to try for a relationship again, I had to also set some new standards for myself dating-wise. These standards included; I did not want to meet someone on a dating app, I didn’t want to date anyone from the U.S., or anyone Latin (solely from recent traumas, no offence to anyone from there). They have to be financially happy and also self-happy. Meaning, they don’t have to be rich, just secure and confident with their finances, so mine doesn’t intimidate them.
Also they should be completely fine with what I do for a living, with me continuing to travel, and be able to travel with me sometimes as well. Since I knew I was supposed to get into specifics, I also added in that (for the first time ever) I wanted to meet someone older than me, around the age of 44. My lucky number, OH! And he must also love adventures, yet be down to drink some wine, and very importantly, he has to love my dog. If he happens to have tattoos, that’s also a major plus, but I was going to try my hardest to keep an open mind on that one.
With these new standards and manifestations, I set off into the year at full speed; going to about fifteen countries in Q1, three of which were to host group trips, and the others were some of my top bucketlist destinations, like Okinawa, Palau and Papua New Guinea!
But of course, the more I tried to not look for a man, the more they kept appearing out of literally nowhere.
After an incredible adventure in Papua New Guinea, where I was hosted by, I’ll admit, an older man who definitely fit my new criteria, but I wanted to keep it strictly business, I headed solo to the tiny island country of Palau.
I had the full intention of having yet another luxury “solo honeymoon adventure” there, since I had gotten fortunate in booking a collaboration with the number one resort there; Palau Pristine Villas. As planned, I had a gorgeous over-water-bungalow all to myself, which I very much enjoyed every minute of. The island was nearly empty, so I definitely was not expecting to meet anyone, especially since I quickly realized it was mostly LGBTQ+ couples. That being said, if you’re looking for a very friendly and safe destination for LGBQT+ people, check out Palau!
On my second to last day in Palau though, I was setting off to go on a bucketlist diving adventure, when I randomly met a Swedish guy, who was 44 and a solo traveler on a mission to get to every country in the world. He was fun, charming, adventurous, and had some sea-blue eyes you could swim in. We hit it off right away, and my hopelessly romantic heart envisioned us traversing the world together…until it became clear that he was on a strict mission to get to his remaining countries and hometown, and I would have to join his plans or we’d have no plans at all.
We kept chatting for a few months, I think both of us were still clinging to the hope that one of us would give in and join the other’s plans. But instead of detouring to visit him in Sudan or something, I went back to my new home in Tulum as planned, to relax and reset from my incredible adventures to India, Bangladesh, Malaysia, Japan, Papua New Guinea, Palau, and Indonesia. You can read that full juicy story here!
When I got back to my home in Tulum, stopping first in Miami to pick up my dog Oscar, life threw me another 44 year old curve ball. Nate. The pseudonym for the antagonist of my book, (check it out on Amazon ‘Yes, I’m a Woman and I’m Traveling Alone’) slash the love interest in my early years of travel life, who strung my heart along like bait on a fishing line only to constantly ghost me every time we made travel plans. For about four years Nate promised me we would “be together soon”. We would have been the perfect travel couple…well, back when I was young and naive anyway.
When Nate never came through on his promises, it led me to always travel solo, which led to me being known and appreciated as one of the top solo female travel blogger/influencers. Then that led to me traveling the world, becoming successful, and realizing what a fool I was for ever believing his love bombs. But as I mentioned, I’m a hopeless romantic, and over-believer in the universe, so when Nate suddenly started texting me, and asked to come see me in Tulum, I obviously couldn’t say no.
And I’m still glad I didn’t say no, because it was such a complete disaster, that it allowed me to permanently free myself from his mind fuckery. Plus it felt hella good to see the tables had turned, and instead of him formerly assuming I wanted to be with him to get collaborations, it was me who ended up having to host him and get our activities.
His visit made me realize that in my 20’s I still had the societal mindset that women should look for a man who can somewhat take care of them, and that my mindset in my mid-30’s was a lot better and more like; “I take better care of myself than anyone can”. Cue Miley Cyrus’ “Flowers“.
After he finally left, my mind was so confused, and I was feeling extra hopeless, which led to me caving in and going on a dating-app spree. And as expected, I went for the same type of guys I always do (tan, tattooed, and toxic), and also as always, they ended up being crazy. So once again, I deleted the apps, and devoted my time to working from pools and beach clubs, and patiently awaiting my upcoming travels and egg freezing appointment.
By June I was burnt out, but I had just finished another group trip in Europe, and wanted to experience an “Italian Summer”, especially now that I actually had enough money to do it properly. So I did Amalfi Coast with a gal pal, who was a lot of fun, but very incessant on meeting an Italian man, with the hopes of being whisked away to get married and live in Italy. Irony loading.
There were plenty of men who flirted with us, and I was pretty sure the chef slash hotel owner of a collaboration I was doing in Amalfi was ready to propose to me (he was also 44), but I was still just so over trusting men that I couldn’t even entertain it.
Instead I enjoyed endless car rides singing to Big Booty Mixes with my friend, eating fabulous lunches, and sipping Prosecco on boats in Amalfi and Capri. In fact, while on a boat tour collaboration in Capri, I distinctly remember a moment when I thought, “I just want to retire and sip sparkling wine on boats in Italy all the time”.
After Amalfi Coast, we went to Sicily because I was determined to see the Egadi Islands. Of course, as it turned out, the host of that collaboration was a young, hot, Sicilian guy, but my attraction quickly faded when he invited us for apritivo, and ended up expecting us to pay for him.
At this point, I was beyond exhausted. Of traveling, of men, of social interactions in general, and I really just wanted to go somewhere solo. So on a whim, I booked a flight to Sardinia.
Sardinia had been on the back of my mind for two main reasons. The first was because earlier in the year, when I was researching best things to do in Palau the country, I kept getting results for Palau – the city in northern Sardinia. And the results were not disappointing at all to look at. They were mostly boat tours with images of strikingly bright blue clear waters, dotted with boats and chunks of islands. When I first saw it, I thought, “Wouldn’t it be funny to go to two places called Palau in one year?”.
The second reason was because I had heard of this “Blue Zone”, where many people live to one hundred, which is also near the Baunei Coast; something I had been seeing more and more on social media. The videos and photos I had been seeing also showed stunning, idyllic boat trips and beaches, which I thought fit perfectly with my unbeknownst manifestation of “being on a boat sipping sparkling wine in Italy all the time”.
However, upon my last minute logistics research, I realized it would be quite difficult to get from the bottom of the island where I was arriving by ferry with my dog in Cagliari, to the very top to get to Palau, and then also to Baunei in the middle. I decided to start with my main goal of Palau first, and then see how much energy I had to do the rest.
I drove the grueling four hours from the bottom to the top of Sardinia with Oscar, blasting the AC the entire way so that the poor Pomeranian wouldn’t overheat. When I finally got there, I had just enough time (thanks to the long daylight hours in summer) to make a few Instagram stories announcing I had arrived.
A few hours later, I got a DM from one of my travel blogger friends, telling me that ironically, he and a friend were in the exact same area. So much for being solo. But I figured it might be nice to have some guy friend time after spending nearly three weeks surrounded by women.
The guys (an American and an Aussie) ended up joining me for dinner, where we then plotted to go together on one of the sailboat tours. It ended up being very fun, and also highly advantageous, since I finally had someone who could operate my drone and get some shots of me swimming. Oh, and before you think that it would be an ideal match for me to be with an Aussie travel blogger; he’s basically married, and the other guy is American, which was on my “hard pass” manifestation list.
Anyway, after hanging with two guys who can definitely out drink me for two days, I was once again very ready to be solo. But I was also beyond exhausted, and very much considering just finding a beach area to hang out in near Olbia until it was time to go. I was sad at potentially missing Baunei Coast, but it was so hot, I was so tired, and I was pretty ready to get to Barcelona and just chill for a bit.
Fate and serendipity chimed into my life with a “suck it up and keep going” when a woman DM’ed me asking if I’d be interested in collaborating with her travel planning business, and posting about an area called Ogliastra. When I searched on my map to see where that even was, low and behold, it was the region where the Baunei Coast is. The woman was probably my age or younger, from the area, and now living abroad, yet hosting a two bedroom Airbnb in a small town there called Tortoli, as well as offering trip planning services.
So our collaboration was going to be for me to promote her trip planning services, and particularly for this area of Sardinia. Since she had been following me for a while on social media, she automatically knew the kinds of things I would want to do, and started making me a plan that included a sailboat ride along the coast, and a wine tasting at a local vineyard.
To be honest, I really didn’t even know that vineyards existed in Sardinia. But I definitely knew about those glorious bright blue, clear water coastlines. And I definitely love wine. So I figured it was all meant to be.
When I finally arrived in the little town called Tortoli, that my BnB was in, I immediately fell in love. Well, aside from the narrow, winding streets lined with shops, restaurants, and tons of people that made it slightly stressful to drive the manual SUV through. But luckily I found street parking right in front of the designated address, with a passing traffic guard who helped me figure out how to get a parking ticket.
I recognized the apartment from the photos she had sent me, and my eyes gushed when I looked up to see the corner wrap-around balcony, overlooking the main street. Per usual, I took Oscar out first to let him stretch his legs and mark his territory, then I grabbed my small carryon and regular massive shoulder bag to bring upstairs. Since I only had two nights of being hosted there, I didn’t bother bringing up my entire large suitcase.
It took me a minute to figure out which doors led to the place, but when I finally got through the lockbox, then front door, then found the apartment’s door, I opened it to another sanctuary that I immediately wanted to just live in.
I unleashed Oscar first, and set his water bowl down, filling it with fresh water from my water bottle. Then I stood up and drank in the views, letting out a heavy sigh of relief that I didn’t have to drive another long distance for a couple of days. Directly to the right was a walk-in kitchen with a refrigerator that was luckily stocked with bottled water, and beer. In front of me was one of the spacious, brightly lit and modern-decorated bedrooms, and then to the left of it was the main living room. This is where the two massive corner glass doors were that opened to the wraparound balcony. Before I opened them though, I dragged myself into the main bedroom, where I had to convince myself not to plop down and pass out.
I’m not going to lie, the main bedroom gave my haunted house vibes, but it was where the bathroom was as well. So I decided it would be the closet room, and I quickly showered, changed, and shut the door so I couldn’t let my eyes and mind play tricks on me.
It was only about five in the evening, and although both Oscar and I were beyond drained, we also had no food. Well, we had these little sugary biscuits that were left in a giant bowl in the kitchen, but after eating about four packages of them, I started to really crave something else. Like pasta. Which I ate every day that I was in Italy. Never gets old.
I forced myself to get off the little couch, put Oscar’s harness on, and venture out onto the main street of Tortoli. It was still relatively quiet, which I expected, knowing that Italians don’t eat dinner until nine or later. So I assumed I would easily find a restaurant with outdoor seating to eat at. Well, you know what they say when you assume things…
I walked up and down the street trying to decide on a place to eat, and by the time I actually decided, they were all fully booked! And this is a small local town, not a tourist one! This means I was also the only solo female trying to eat at a restaurant as well. Everywhere I looked it was friends, couples, or families. Sure, I’m used to it, but since I didn’t see that many other foreign tourists; it was slightly uncomfortable. But finally I found a seat somewhere, ordered the completely wrong thing since I didn’t speak any Italian and started to really wish I was back home in Tulum or Barcelona, where everything was familiar.
After spending twice as much as expected on dinner due to my lack of Italian, I headed back to the BnB, where Oscar greatly benefited from me accidentally ordering a lamb burger.
The next morning, the alarm didn’t need to go off, I woke up an hour before it, unable to sleep because I was so excited for another sailboat excursion along the famed coastlines of Sardinia.
I mean, at this point you have to kind of wonder if my “I just want to drink sparkling wine on boats in Italy all the time” manifestation really was coming true. This would be the sixth boat trip in Italy in the last few weeks, and I had definitely been reassured that there would be sparkling wine.
Before anything, I carefully lifted a half-sleeping Oscar onto my shoulder and carried him downstairs and outside to pee. Not having it, he gave me one tinkle before bolting back towards the door, which wasn’t great considering I would have to leave him all day to do the boat tour. I told myself he would probably love having a full day to sleep in the AC instead of being dragged around to beaches and in the hot car though.
After feeding him and giving him fresh water, I shoved yet another sugary biscuit in my mouth while simultaneously shoving my necessities for the day into a bag. My drone and GoPro were the top essentials, followed by a battery pack, my microfiber towel, and wallet. I threw on a hot pink bikini that I knew would stand out perfectly in drone shots amidst the white boat and blue waters, with my crocheted white cover up over it, and my rimmed hat. I opted not to wear the white bucket hat that says “Sardegna” that I bought in Palau, just in case the other guests on the boat were locals and didn’t like foreign tourists or something. Especially ones that can’t speak any Italian.
I tossed Oscar his usual Smart Bones bone that was originally meant to distract him from me leaving, but now serves as a, “this means I’ll be right back” sign, which he won’t eat until I return. Then I went to find my SUV, luckily still in the same place I left it, and without a ticket.
Once I finally arrived at the Arbatax marina, after somehow getting lost thanks to Google maps not having accurate notation of one way streets, I suddenly felt anxious. This was purely because I didn’t speak Italian, and knew most people didn’t speak English, which was going to make it super fun to try to find the person taking me on the boat tour.
I finally found the guide who would be taking me out on a small sailboat (or rather, he easily found me since I was the only solo female there looking completely lost), along with a couple from the UK who would be joining us. Perfect, because I love being the third wheel when I’m traveling solo and all. But they turned out to be cool, and also Muslim, meaning that I ended up drinking most of the Prosecco that was onboard.
We coasted along the beautiful bright blue waters and rocky shores, stopping every now and then to swim, including a swim up to a secluded cove. Once again I found myself thinking, “I just want to retire and drink sparkling wine on a boat in Italy all day”, but clearly I didn’t need to retire in order to do that.
The couple really enjoyed the opportunity to learn how to sail, and I really enjoyed the opportunity to drink the prosecco at the front of the boat while they practiced in the back. So much so, that none of us realized we had spent an hour longer on the boat than the tour was supposed to.
When we finally got back to the marina, I strolled blissfully (and tips-ily) up the wooden dock towards the port area, and I couldn’t help but to smile. What a beautiful day it had been, and now I’d go back to my cozy apartment, cuddle with my floofy dog, and hopefully eat some bomb ass pizza. I knew I was supposed to go do a wine tasting at a vineyard, but there was no way I was going to make it on time since we were late getting back, so I just omitted that idea from my brain and promised myself I’d taste a few different wines at dinner later in Tortoli.
When I approached the port area, I finally got service, and my phone exploded with the usual vibrations indicating multiple incoming messages. They were mostly from the woman I was doing the collab with, and I quickly replied to her that I was just getting off the boat, and there was no way I could make it to the vineyard in time for the tasting.
Don’t get me wrong, I love a good wine tasting at a vineyard. But it was already 5:30pm and this vineyard closed at 6:30. She responded quickly as well, asking if I could go straight there. To be honest, if I were five years younger, and I didn’t have my dog waiting for me, I would have strived for it and gone. But at this point, if I wasn’t getting paid a lot of money to go somewhere, and I didn’t want to go there, I wasn’t going to go.
So I told her that. And being a like-minded business woman she agreed. Then she said there was another winery just ten minutes farther than the other one, that stays open late.
I honestly did not want to go. I was tired, tipsy, and hungry AF, and I also really wanted to catch up on work emails. But she kept insisting that I see a winery in Sardinia.
Somehow I managed to pull my life together in about twenty minutes, including a body shower, outfit change, and walking of Oscar. I left my hair in the sea salt waves from swimming earlier, and topped it with my usual white short-brimmed hat, then threw on my current favorite outfit which is a light blue “romper” that’s disguised as a short tank-dress. Normally I would have opted for a longer, more elegant dress to wear to a winery, but this little get up was cool and comfortable. And ended up being a fateful outfit choice.
My host told me that she had already called to make the reservation, and that I just needed to tell them that I was there for a wine tasting when I arrived. Wonderful, now I just needed to actually get there, and figure out how to say “I’m here for the wine tasting” in Italian.
I was moving at the pace of an extremely unambitious koala bear. It was a miracle that I even remembered how to drive a manual car. But I gave myself a little pep talk, reminding me that it would be extremely awesome to see a vineyard in Sardinia during sunset, and then I instructed Oscar to be in charge of the directions. AKA I put Google Maps on and placed my phone at his feet on the passenger seat.
I’ll admit, the drive there was very beautiful, with narrow winding roads along the beach and coast, followed by mountains then farms. When the creepy voice on my phone finally told me to “turn slightly right at the fork”, I did as told. Except fucking Siri or whoever the hell the AI robot was talking to me, neglected to include the minor detail that the slight right was straight up a damn hill.
The first thing I saw was a terrifying stone statue of some sort of man with horns, that reminded me of something I once saw on Vampire Diaries. I continued driving up the steep driveway except OH WAIT. It was basically a ninety degree angle , and I immediately stalled out. Instinctively I slammed on the brakes in order to prevent myself from rolling back downwards, then gave myself yet another mental pep talk.
You got this. Just remember what no one taught you about how to drive stick shift. Not helpful.
All I could remember was someone once telling me, “You just have to put it in first and GO.”
So I did. And up I went! Only to stall out again two seconds later. I repeated the attempt, and stalled out again. And again.
Finally on the fourth try, I got up to flat land, Hallelujah!
My abrupt arrival into the vineyard caused the only visitors; a family sitting in front of the winery, to all stop what they were talking about and stare. Including one intriguing looking bald man, wearing black Raybans, a black T-shirt, and black swim shorts…
I did my best to avoid any eye contact with the big Italian family sitting in front of the winery, as I tried to figure out where in the hell I was supposed to park. I spotted some gravel to the right, and turned into it, feeling a wave of relief to finally just turn the car off. At this point, Oscar was on my lap, acting as if nothing stressful at all had happened, and I gave him a big hug in an attempt to emulate his energy. And people say dogs aren’t real emotional support animals, pfft.
Before getting out of the car (which I was dreading because the family was still looking at me) I gave Oscar a few more squeezes as I checked my phone eight thousand times for any excuse to bail on this little outing.
“Who cares, these people will never see you again, just go have some wine and stop stressing!” I told myself over and over again.
And then I was just like, fuck it. I’ve been in way more embarrassing situations before, and first of all, I shouldn’t be embarrassed about being here on a collaboration.
Finally, I got out of the car, Oscar in one arm, purse and phone in the other. The first thing I did, naturally, was take a beautiful picture and video of the sweeping grape vines running down the same hill that had almost tried to kill me.
Then I put on my best solo female traveler strut, as I beelined it towards the main door of the winery, avoiding all eye contact with the family in front who I could see out of my peripheral vision were likely evaluating me. Or maybe they weren’t and I was just feeling self conscious AF.
Inside the winery, which in Italian is called a “cantina”, looked like, well, a typical functioning winery, but nothing cute or fancy like I had just seen in Tuscany. Call me bougie, and yes, you are right. Not to brag (yeah right) but I have been to a fair share of beautiful wineries in the world, and now I’m a bit jaded. The outside however, was definitely photoworthy. With a single olive tree in the middle of a gravel sitting area, and of course that stretching panoramic view of the vines below, mountains ahead, and even the sea in the distance. It was a view I had a feeling would be one that I remembered. Spoiler alert: I now wake up to that view every day.
Inside I was greeted by a late forty-something woman who maybe spoke twenty-five percent English, but enough to know that I had a reservation. She asked me if I wanted to sit inside, and I immediately said no. Why would I want to sit inside an industrial looking wine warehouse when it was so beautiful outside?
So she followed me outside and motioned to the many tables that were available. To this day, I’m not entirely sure why the hell I chose the large seating area under the massive logo, right next to the family, but I did, and plopped down on a plastic garden sofa meant for two, with Oscar next to me, eagerly awaiting my wine so I could get home and to bed as soon as possible.
Although my collaboration only included the wine tasting, I was also starving, and trying to be responsible of my tipsy-driving, so I ordered a huge cheese plate as well. There was only one type of cheese on it, and I couldn’t eat more than five pieces without feeling sick of the same taste, so. Oscar ate most of it.
The server lady gave me the informational pamphlet about the cantina, vineyard, grape varietals, and each wine, and I tried my hardest to force my ADHD to read and understand it. From what I gathered; pirates had invaded Sardinia and created vineyards (or something). And that’s about all that I gathered. Aside from the white and rose being extremely good.
Somewhere during the white and rosè , I distinctly remember looking up as the bald guy at the table next to me walked by. I didn’t quite know what to make of him, but my toxic taste in men made me automatically notice that he had defined calves with tattoos on them. He stood out even more with the fitted black t-shirt, shorter black shorts, black sunglasses, and flip-flops. He also walked like he was purposely walking that way in front of me, and also purposely avoiding looking at me. I didn’t think much of it, just made my typical observations, and was glad that they all had decided to move locations to the farther table under some olive trees in the distance.
As I finished the rosè tasting and prepared for the two reds, the server lady came up to me with a complete change in personality. When I had first arrived and up until now, she seemed almost annoyed to have to give a wine tasting to just me. She barely smiled, didn’t ask if I needed anything, and didn’t so much as attempt to pet Oscar’s cute floofy face, which is just unheard of.
Then! Then, she comes up to me and she asks something along the lines of if I want to have dinner.
My immediate assumption based on how excited she was is that maybe she is a lesbian and trying to ask me out on a date. So I kindly declined and pointed to my still very large amount of cheese on the board. Then she shakes her head and says, “Nooo! Join for dinner?” and points into the distance.
I follow her finger and see the picnic table under the trees, where the calf-tattoo guy had walked over to with his family. As I’m making this correlation, the lady takes out her phone to translate what she is trying to say into English. She hands me her phone and it says;
‘He wants to know if you would like to join him for dinner?”
My immediate response, again, was no. And I don’t care how many people are thinking, “OMG an Italian guy asked you to join his family for a traditional Italian meal at a winery and it could be such a fairytale or culturally immersive experience but you said no?!”…..That’s right! I said, NO!
I was tired, I was tipsy, and IO NON PARLO ITALIANO. What was I supposed to do, sit there in silence listening to words that did not translate?
She left to go attend to some other guests who had just arrived, and of course made a pit stop at his table to deliver the bad news. I just hoped that I could finish two tastings of reds before they came back over here and made me feel awkward.
When she walked back towards me I felt a little anxious, but she simply smiled and told me she was going to get the last bottle of wine to taste. Phew.
She returned with a bottle of Gebel and poured it heavily into my tasting glass, still smiling ten times larger than she had been when I first arrived. After pouring my glass, she handed me her phone again which was opened to the Translate app.
‘The boss would like to invite you to dinner’
Suddenly things became both more clear and more confusing at the same time. My main concern was being asked to join a family dinner. That was definitely not happening. But what was this about “the boss”? Regardless, I was not going over there.
I gently took her phone and typed my response into the translation app; “ I need to drive back to Tortoli before it gets dark, he can meet me for a drink there if he wants.”
She read the translation as soon as I handed her back the phone and smiled widely from ear to ear. Then she said, “Aspetta”, which means “wait”, and hurried off back to his table under the tree.
At this point I didn’t know exactly what was happening but I had a slight incantation about what might be.
Oi9uuokpjoiu98 (<—– lol a little girl selling bracelets on the beach in Tulum just came up to pet Oscar, then asked what I was doing on my laptop and I told her I was writing a book, then she started playing with the keys)
She promptly returned in a speed walk, looking more excited than before, and thrust her phone towards me carefully, as if it were carrying fragile information. I read the translation from Italian into English, which said that he would like to take me for a drink later, and he would pick me up.
I responded that he didn’t need to pick me up, because I have my own car. This response is a result of being extremely stubborn, independent, and watching way too many movies about mafia men in Italy just straight up taking the women they decide they love even if it’s against their own will (Cough, ‘365’ movies, cough cough).
She didn’t really respond to what I wrote, and instead opened her contacts, handed me back the phone, and said, “Whatsapp?” So I put my number in her phone, which I guess she would send to him? Or was she asking for my number? Again, I was tipsy and slightly confused.
As she poured my final red wine tasting, I felt my phone vibrate. I looked at the screen and saw an unsaved number with an Italian area code. Obviously knowing who it probably was, I opened it, and read, ‘Ciao’. He didn’t come up to me to say hi, he texted me from a few meters away.
Ok, I can play this game. I thought to myself, but at the same time feeling extremely nervous, shy, and watched. I drank the last tasting quickly, scarfed down a few more pieces of cheese, fed Oscar about five more pieces, then got up and went inside the cantina to let the lady know that I was leaving. Well, and to buy a couple bottles of wine. I actually did really like the rosè and white wines.
She looked horrified that I was suddenly leaving, and asked again if I wanted to go join him…and his family. But again, I kindly said, “No, grazie!”, handed her my two bottles of wine, paid for them, and tried my best to not stumble on the gravel on the way to my car. I could see him watching me out of my peripheral vision, but for some reason I decided it was a great idea to not wave bye or anything. Except, as I approached my car, I realized that the winery van was blocking me in. Dammit. So much for a sneaky escape.
Suddenly he was speed walking over to me, making my heart pound and my nerves shake. I was not in the right state of mind…or sobriety…to try to attempt understanding more Italian. But he simply smiled at me with a nice set of teeth, and walked straight to the van to move it. As he did that, I rushed to get inside my car, settled Oscar on the passenger seat, and prayed to the universe that I didn’t fuck up trying to get out of the steep driveway.
Of course, to my horror, after he finished moving the van, he and the server lady stood behind my car trying to signal to me which way to turn to get out of the driveway. My face was burning with humiliation, and I begged the car to please not stall out. I literally whispered to myself reminders and tips for getting out of reverse and into first gear in a manual car. On the first try I was able to smoothly transition the clutch and the gas in order to make the car go backwards, aiming the rear towards them as they indicated. Then I saw them give a thumbs up, so I gave a quick wave out the window, held my breath, and magically did the same transition into first gear, albeit some slight jerking, and then into second.
But then the next hurtle appeared. It was now almost completely dark, and the steep driveway down wasn’t well lit. I also couldn’t fully remember if I was supposed to switch into a higher or lower gear when going downhill. So I kept it in second gear, and basically rode down with one foot on the clutch the whole time, and the other constantly tapping the brakes. I really hoped they were not watching me, but I had a feeling they were.
When I finally got to the main road, it was dark, and I was slightly annoyed, because this is what I had been purposely trying to avoid. I don’t like driving after drinking, and I also don’t see well at night. And here I was, tipsy, at night, driving a manual car, with unclear directions on how to get back to my apartment. I typed the address into my google maps and let the voice direct me back.
Of course, the voice took me down some extremely narrow streets, almost the wrong way on a one-way street, and through areas where pedestrian traffic was starting to pick up. I was definitely driving about five miles per hour, but I finally made it back to the beautiful two bedroom BnB. I was beyond happy to park the car, get out, and have nothing to do with it for the rest of the night.
Except I remembered that I told the server woman that I didn’t need to be picked up because I had a car. There was no way in hell I was going to drive to meet some random guy later in the night. I didn’t care that he had cool tattoos and might own a winery. If anything, he could park around here and we could walk somewhere. That is, if he even ended up texting me. Maybe he’d end up being too tired to do anything, like how I was feeling.
I walked a few blocks extra with Oscar so he could pee, and marveled at all of the restaurants and shops coming to life. Per usual, I slightly wished I wasn’t the opposite of nocturnal, especially since I was pretty hungry for more than just cheese, but I opted against stopping somewhere to eat, and went back up to the apartment instead.
After showering, eating about five more sugary biscuits, and checking all of my social media and email accounts, I still hadn’t heard from this guy. It was getting close to 10:30pm, which was way past my threshold of being able to go out, so I laid down in the room closer to the front door, deciding to give him another ten minutes before turning my phone on ‘Do Not Disturb’ and going to sleep. After about four minutes I started to write my excuse text about why I couldn’t go out, but something in my brain told me not to send it.
I dropped my hand down on the bed, letting the phone fall out of it, and closed my eyes. Ideally I would have just passed out, however the lively scene on the street outside kept getting louder and louder. Now there was mainstream American music playing with heavy bass, which confused me because I didn’t recall seeing a nightclub. I got up with a grumble and peaked out the window. There was a freaking DJ booth set up right on the sidewalk across from me! So either I wasn’t getting any sleep in that room, or I had to go sleep in the creepy one.
Opting to befriend some ghosts, I went to grab my phone and Oscar to bring them into the other room. But as I grabbed my phone, it vibrated. It was the guy from the winery. He wrote in Italian, so I had to use my Translate app to read it, and I wondered if he assumed I knew some Italian, or was just too macho to translate to English for me.
He said to send him my address and that he was coming to pick me up. Could have sworn I told the lady that I didn’t want to be picked up though, so either she omitted that little request or he overrode it.
I typed out, “I am staying in the main street of Tortoli, park here and we can walk somewhere for a drink” into my Translate app, translated it to Italian, and then sent it to him. I also told him that it was getting very late for me, so if he wasn’t there in the next ten to twenty minutes, I was going to sleep.
About twenty five minutes later, he texted me saying that he had arrived. Even though again, I could have sworn I said to park so we can go somewhere nearby, he was outside of my apartment, surprisingly driving a black coupe BMW. I’m not entirely sure why this surprised me. Maybe because I saw him driving the white van at the vineyard, but I won’t deny that I was slightly impressed. So this guy just owns a winery in Sardinia and drives a BMW? Seemed too good to be true and definitely like a Mafia movie.
He got out and came up to me with his phone, to show me a translated message that said, “Things are closing here now, let’s go to one of the beach clubs.” To which I rolled my eyes, because they wouldn’t be closing if he would have gotten there earlier, and I also said now four times that I wanted to just go somewhere near where I was staying.
After trying to explain this again via Translate, and him not understanding, I finally translated, “I do not get in cars with men I have just met in foreign countries.” and handed his phone back to him. He laughed wildly and said, “Noooo!” Then typed his response, which claimed we would only go for one drink and he would bring me right back.
In all honesty, I was instinctively very reluctant to go. Yet something told me I should. I evaluated his appearance now that he was close up. He definitely wasn’t my usual target. I could tell that he was older, probably in his forties, which really should not have been a problem, but I had never dated anyone over the age of thirty six. In fact, my Colombian ex was two years younger than me. And also turned out to be a former male stripper, incredibly immature, and a toxic narcissistic sociopath. So I immediately had to remind myself that this was the year I was supposed to change my dating habits, and that THIS WAS WHAT I MANIFESTED.
I specifically manifested in January that I wanted to date someone older, in hopes of meeting someone financially and emotionally content. And here this guy was right in front of me, already ticking a lot of the boxes that I had wanted for husband material, yet the immature and shallow side of me was judging his physical appearance first. Not today betch.
Instead of making an excuse to bail, I simply said ‘Ok’, and slid into the passenger seat, and as I did so, I sent my live location to the woman who was hosting my collab. I had told her earlier that I met “the boss” of the winery, and that he wanted to take me for a drink, so I quickly mentioned that he was now taking me out and I was sharing my location with her in case he kidnapped me. She responded with a laughing emoji and thumbs up. I guess there could be worse things than to get kidnapped and held hostage in a winery…
The drive was awkward, not only because we couldn’t communicate, but because I was half asleep yet half on high alert. He knew absolutely no English, and I knew no Italian. But soon enough we realized that we could communicate with some shared Spanish knowledge.
We finally arrived at the beach club, and he parked outside. I got out before he could open my door, and waited for him to walk ahead of me, since I wouldn’t be able to speak in Italian and ask for a table anyway. As he did so, I noticed what he was wearing. Back at the vineyard, he was dressed very casual which made him seem younger. But now he had on blue jeans with a belt, and a short sleeve polo t-shirt tucked in and buttoned all the way up at the neck. It made him look a lot older, and I low key wondered if all the people who suddenly were staring at us were doing so because I looked like a Gold Digger or something. ‘Calm down woman, maybe they just like your dress‘, the optimistic voice in my head tried to chime in. ‘Maybe they recognize him because he’s in the Mafia’, the pessimistic one said.
The music was loud and so was the chatter. It was mostly younger Iocals talking enthusiastically in Italian as they sipped tall glasses of beer or wine. After speaking with the server, I watched him look relentlessly for an open table, and finally he found one in the corner, which was perfect for me, as I wanted to be out of sight and as far away from the loudness as possible. It was a cute little place, half chill and half chic, and I wondered what it would look like during the day when I could actually see that famous brilliant blue water of the Baunei Coast.
“You want wine?” He said slowly and carefully, in a thick Italian accent. I nodded eagerly with a smile, not sure what else to do or what we’d even be able to say to each other. He immediately raised his finger in the air and yelled for the server to come back. A bit aggressive if you ask me, but maybe that was normal here.
Suddenly his slow broken English switched back to a deep, slightly raspy voice, that spoke Italian so fast that the only words I could understand were “vino”.
As the waiter scurried off, he turned back to me with a big smile, and I could tell there were probably so many things he wanted to say, but he couldn’t. And neither could I. I wasn’t even sure if I should attempt to translate something, since I was leaving tomorrow anyway.
Luckily the waiter returned promptly, except instead of the one glass of wine I was promised before being returned home, he had two glasses and a bottle of white wine. I considered protesting, but half figured I’d probably need more than one glass of wine to get through a Translate app conversation. As he started to uncork it, I squinted in the darkness to check the label. Of course, it was the same one I had earlier. At his winery. Once the waiter finished pouring our glasses, he held his glass up for a cheers, and we tinked glasses, then both took equally large gulps.
I’m not going to lie or make this sound more romantic than it was. Because it wasn’t. I felt tired and awkward, I have no idea how he felt, but I was pretty sure that I was not making a good impression. And I was pretty sure if he was still interested, it was in my looks, because there really wasn’t much I could actually say.
He tried to ask if I was hungry, but I said no. Then he asked if I wanted more wine, and of course, I said yes. So he poured me another from the bottle, but even that was too much, and by the end of the glass I felt myself hitting a major wall. Again I assumed I was probably making the worst impression; hardly even trying to speak to him, and just constantly looking around at the chaos happening around me and drinking my wine.
When the server came to ask if we wanted another bottle or glass, I quickly said no, and signaled with my hands in prayer position next to my face that I was tired.
“Ok, we go.” He said quickly, pulling out cash from his wallet to hand to the server without waiting for change, and picking his BMW key off of the table. At least he was efficient.
Once in the comfort and quietness of his total-bro-car, he started trying to ask me what I was doing tomorrow. “I have to leave tomorrow, for Cagliari,” I said, to which I think he only understood Cagliari.
So I opened my Translate app, typed in what I was trying to say, then attempted repeating it embarrassingly in Italian. He grunted, picked up his own phone, and spoke rapidly into the translate app as well. Then he had the robot voice read what it said aloud.
“Stay longer here”, it said, “I have a house with many rooms.” The voice continued, immediately putting me off. Some women might find that attractive, but I felt like he was looking for a way to have sex with me. And I think he could tell that I thought that because he quickly added, “I rent rooms out, like Airbnb.” Ok, he saved himself with that one.
“I have a flight already, to Barcelona.” I said slowly, and honestly. To tell the truth again though, if I hadn’t already paid the extra one hundred dollars for Oscar’s pet seat, and if I didn’t have my first egg freezing appointment in two days, I probably could have been persuaded to stay in this Italian island paradise longer.
He continued to ask what time my flight was and what time I had to leave. Then finally he concluded with, “Ok, we go to lunch at the beach at 11.”
His persistence, plus the mere mention of a beach lunch in Sardinia, and of course, all of the wine, easily swayed me into agreeing to meet him in the morning. Even though it would be potentially cutting into the time I had already allotted myself to stop at three to five other spiaggi on the way to Cagliari.
He dropped me off in front of my place, without the slightest attempt to hug, kiss, or come up to my apartment. I appreciated that, and again wondered if he thought I was an Ice Queen, but I was also way too tired to care. I quickly went upstairs, went into the now-quiet non-haunted room, and passed the fuck out.
In the morning I woke up reluctantly around seven. I still had to pack all of my shit since I was too tipsy slash tired to do it last night and then try to make it in time to see this random, mysterious wine man. As I was trying to sort my life out and fit it into two suitcases (per usual), my phone buzzed with a text message. I knew the only other people awake right now, who would be texting me, was either: my host, the other Italian man I met in Amalfi, or the winery guy.
It was him. He wrote in Italian, so I had to focus my brain enough to copy and paste it into the translate app to read it. He was asking if I could meet him at 2pm, because he had to go to the winery to take care of some business.
I quickly responded, “No, I told you I have to get to Cagliari for a flight, sorry.” Then threw the phone on the bed and kept packing. I really did not have time for flakey men, or anyone for that matter who wasn’t punctual. My life requires punctuality. Even one hour of delay and I miss about seven things I want to do, and potentially a flight. Does that make me neurotic? Maybe. Does that make me extremely efficient, successful, and happy? Hell yes.
Without even knowing it, I had spent around thirty minutes packing, and finally when I was mostly done, I checked my phone for the time. I was doing great, it was only 10:20am. Then I noticed I also had four text messages from him.
The first three were trying to convince me to wait until 2pm. And then the fourth said that he would meet me at the beach club at 11am, and that he would pick me up.
I quickly responded in English, not feeling like I even owed this man enough time to translate for him, “Ok but I don’t need a ride, I have to leave from the beach to Cagliari, so I need my car.” To which he simply replied, “Ok”.
It was now 10:30am, and it took ten minutes to get to the beach, but I had forgotten that I wanted to stop at a local store to pick up more of the rosè wine from this region to bring with me to Barcelona. Wh Being an extremely punctual person, I pulled the rest of my random items together and into my shoulder bag, lifted Oscar in one arm, and took the handle of my smaller suitcase with the other hand. Yet another prime example of how I stay in shape; every time I have to switch locations, I always have to carry close to seventy five pounds.
With extreme caution, I walked down the narrow stone steps, praying I didn’t fall and break my head open. Once I safely got down the single flight of stairs, I opened the main door, got myself and the suitcase onto the front steps, and balanced my entire life in two arms so I could use my hands to open the lockbox. My mind was bouncing back and forth between which was triggering more stress; chipping the gel polish even further off of my nails trying to roll the little metal number knobs into the correct combination, or losing my balance and falling off of the smooth stone steps into the street. Oh, or being late to meet Mr. Winery.
Finally the stars aligned and I got the key locked into the box, and then my bags and Oscar into the car. But now it was already 10:50am, so I decided to skip the wine store and head straight to the beach club. Who knows, maybe he’d end up giving me some free wine in the future.
I plugged the address of the beach club into my phone, and zoomed in to make sure the suggested route didn’t try to take me down any one way roads, as it often does. The route seemed pretty straightforward, but I let the voice navigate me anyway.
It was way too early for most people to be out and about, which made it a lot easier for me to drive on the narrow streets of Tortoli. Strangely, I felt a little sad to leave. I actually really did like that little town, with all of its super authentic Italian restaurants and little shops. Maybe I’d come back one day, if I ever found a decent investment property to buy or something.
As I finally approached the turn-off for the beach club, I got my usual instant anxiety about making any sort of turn driving a manual car. There were a lot of cars behind me, so I turned my blinker on way far in advance to give them a warning. Luckily there were no cars coming in the opposite direction, so I didn’t have to do the also-anxiety-causing switch into neutral to brake, then back into first, then second, etc. etc. Instead I just made an educated guess that I should shift down into second as I slowed down, then just kept with that speed and made a probably-too-fast-turn in order not to make anyone have to slow down behind me.
The road looked like most of the Sardinian beach roads; very narrow, loose dirt, and seemingly one-way, but not. I dreaded another car coming the opposite way. But it was still so early that most people were probably just getting to the beach and staying there. At least I hoped.
Finally I got to a fork in the road with a bunch of signs, all in Italian. I saw several names of either hotels or restaurants, and then one that I recognized as “beach parking”. Again, at least I hoped. So I went to the right. And quickly found out that was incorrect when my google maps bot started frantically yelling at me to, “Head east, then…”, “head northeast at the next…”, “head south and then…”. Betch who the fuck do you think actually knows directions like that?!
I stopped in the middle of the parking area and grabbed my phone off the seat where Oscar should be sitting (he insists to always be on my lap) and exited the guided directions. Then I zoomed in on the screen to see that I should have actually gone left at the fork. The good news was I didn’t have any texts from the mysterious man, so that meant he was probably more late than I was.
Once I reached the fork in the road again, I gave myself an eyeroll, because upon closer inspection of the signs, it actually said the name of the beach club right at the top. Whatever. I made the correct turn, onto an even narrower street, which opened up into a spacious parking area that was (thankfully) covered in shade from the billowing trees above. Why I decided to go to Italy in the middle of summer, again, I did not know. Wait, yes I did know. I know it was not my idea. Since I wasn’t the one who picked the summer months as the preferred time to do our Euro Wine Group trip. But I won’t deny that experiencing the “Italian Summer” at least once in my life had been worth it, although I wasn’t entirely sure I’d attempt it again. Irony loading.
There were plenty of parking spaces up front, closer to the beach, but I opted for a shady space in the back. Mostly so that Mr. Winery or anyone else couldn’t watch me as I aggro-nervously parked and eventually reversed. As I pulled into the spot, and yanked the emergency brake up to park, I saw a very distinctive black BMW speed so fast through the dirt parking lot behind me that it actually made a huge cloud. Either he had zero disregard for dirtying other peoples’ cars, or he too was nervous about being late.
He didn’t bother to look for a parking spot, or even care that they exist, he just pulled right up to the sand, parked, got out, and sped inside as he looked down at his phone. Obviously I knew who he was texting, and waited for the vibration on my phone.
“Sono qui, dove sei?” He asked where I was as if he’d been there for over ten minutes. I half-lied and said that I was parking, and I’d be there in a moment.
I flung my wallet purse from Tokyo over my shoulder, shoved my phone in the front pocket, and lifted Oscar’s chonky body into his typical cradle in my arms. “We’re just going to have a quick bite and then we’ll go to the beach, Ok buddy?” I asked Oscar, as if he really cared what we were doing as long as it involved me carrying him like a Koala bear.
As I walked up to the back entrance of the beach club, I was mostly nervous because of the usual reason; I didn’t know any Italian and most people didn’t know English. Including my brunch date.
Luckily there was no one seated in the main area of the wooden patio, and it actually took me a sec to find him sitting at the raised seating area across from the little kitchen and bar. He waved with a bold, strong arm as he saw me, as if it would be hard to spot him, and I gave a smile and small wave back as I walked over.
It felt like I was walking in slow motion. My eyes and brain were trying to take in the glorious white sand beach flecked with blue and white striped umbrellas, that made the perfect foreground image to the electric blue water that honestly never gets old to see in Sardinia. I wanted so badly to run to the water and take a million photos, even though I had already seen nearly twelve beaches similar to this one. But each one just had something slightly different that I felt I absolutely had to go see and experience. This one had a giant red rock formation protruding out of the middle of the water about fifty meters out, and was the distinguishing feature of this beach called Cea (pronounced “chey-uh”). But alas, not only did I have a brunch date, but also a schedule to keep if I wanted to squeeze in those two to seven additional beaches on the way to Cagliari. Plus, this one wasn’t a “Bau Spiaggia” or “Spiagga di Cane” (dog beach) anyway, so I wasn’t sure if Oscar would get in trouble being there.
“Ciao!” I said in the most sing-songy Italian accent I could imitate. My imitation mostly came from listening to Rachel say it in her super charming, pleasant, and positive voice to all of the cute servers and bartenders in Amalfi Coast. Otherwise the way I would say it would probably sound closer to that of a Mafia boss. Did I mention I am not charming? Or flirtatious? Or easily impressed? #Thisiswhyimsingle
“Ciaaoo,” He purred with that deep yet sing-songy Italian voice, as he smiled widely as if he were genuinely excited to see me. This surprised me since I obviously didn’t think our date last night went well at all. “Ciao Oscar!” He then said in a higher pitched voice, as he scratched Oscar’s fluffy head. Ok, ok, extra ten points for remembering my dog’s name…and liking him. Already a drastic difference from psycholombian.
We sat down, and I had the pure intention of ordering something light, with I guess a cup of tea. Obviously I would have much preferred to be sipping bubbles or white wine on this glorious beach brunch date, but after all it was only 11am, and I didn’t want him to think I was that big of a wine-o if I asked for a mimosa. Says the girl on the date with a winery owner.
I reached for the menu, which had clearly seen its fair share of days in the salt air and sunshine. It was completely in Italian. But luckily, although I couldn’t really understand Italian when spoken, I could however magically read many of the words since they are similar to Spanish, and yo hablo Español. There were about five things that sounded good, the top ones being the most expensive, and I didn’t really want to make this man spend that much money on me, so I prepared myself to just order a caprese salad. Quick, easy, and then I’d be on with my drive.
It was a little less awkward than the night before since I was now completely sober, knew I had a time limit, and consciously knew I should attempt being nice since he just left work at the winery to meet my timing demands. I imagined there must be several tourists doing wine tastings during the day, and him ducking out on his business to go on a date with me said a lot. Of course, i had to also wonder how many pretty girls he met at his winery that he then took out on dates and asked to stay at his “big home with many rooms”, but I reminded myself that this was not going to be anything serious, and that I’d probably never speak to him again after brunch.
He seemed to feel equally as awkward as I did, since he couldn’t exactly speak to me. Instead he just kept smiling and looking at the menu. Every now and then he would pick up his phone and type something into the translate app, then hand it to me. Mostly asking what I want to eat. I wrote back that many things sound good, but I don’t eat meat. To which again, he just replied, “Ok.”
After he seemed to be thoroughly done inspecting the relatively short menu, he put it down and raised his arm high again, signaling for the waiter to come over. I hoped the way he did that was considered normal in Italy, because in the US it would definitely be labeled as a rude customer.
He ordered without asking me, and I could tell that it was burrata and melon (I don’t like melon), and octopus carpaccio (I don’t usually eat octopus). But I didn’t say anything, expecting to just eat the parts I liked per usual, and feeding the rest to Oscar when no one was looking.
“Annndd, wine?” He asked suddenly, as if he either could read my mind or was my soulmate.
Now he was talking my language. The edges of my lips curled up into a smile and I shrugged nonchalantly with a, “Si!”
This must have also been his love language, because he excitedly summoned the waiter over again and asked for the bottle of white wine…from his winery. Of course.
The wine came first, and I told myself I’d allow myself a maximum of two glasses since I had to drive. Not that that’s exactly a rule in Italy. Since everyone drinks with all meals, all day.
Since I wasn’t exactly sure how to talk to him, I just kept drinking the wine, and was grateful for it, because it was good AF, and also because the beach vibe and view was stunning. He wasn’t bad company either. But again, I wasn’t really sure if it was because we couldn’t exactly talk to each other. Instead we kept passing the phone back and forth to translate. He asked where I was from, what I did, the usual.
And I explained to him that the reason why I even went to his winery was because I drank too much on the sailboat and got re-routed to his vineyard since it was open late. Honestly not too sure he was impressed with that tidbit of information. Probably should have lied and said, “Because I heard it is the greatest wine in all the land!” But again…not the flirtatious type.
The food was served and as we ate, something interesting happened. He actually immediately observed that I didn’t like it. After trying to serve me several large pieces of gross orange melon, I quickly removed the cheese from them, ate it, then proceeded to give the fruit to Oscar. Who also did not eat it.
“Non piache melon?” He asked. To which I shook my head with a ‘Nope and ya probably should have asked’-smile.
Then the octopus came. Not only do I not eat octopus because I think they are cute and smart animals, but the texture of the suction cups and fat layer around the tentacles is absolutely repulsive to me. I did what I usually do, and cut off all of the pieces I don’t like, leaving a very, very slender piece of actual octo-meat to consume. He noticed this too, and motioned for the waiter to refill our wines. Ok one more, twist my arm.
“What do you like to eat?” He translated on his phone and held it for me to read.
I shrugged and said, “Pasta?”
The look on his face seemed like I just won a trivia question or something, and he quickly waved his arm again, summoning the server to come back over immediately. It seemed like he called him over every five minutes for the smallest things. I wondered again if this was normal in Italy, or if it were a show of dominance.
It was weird going from hearing him not speak at all to rapidly speaking in beautiful Italian, and I tried my best to understand it. And I did. The only words I needed to know were “culgiornes” and “vongole”.
Please, allow me to share my pasta knowledge with you, since I am a self-proclaimed “pasta- connoisseur”.
Culugiones are these chicken egg-sized (not eggs, I just can’t think of anything else to refer the size to) pasta pockets that are filled with a mix of mooshed potatoes, cheese, and a tiny bit of mint, and cooked in either a basic oil and tomato sauce, or with just bottarga, which is considered the “Sardinian caviar”. I knew they were the local dish of Sardinia, but since up until now I had been staying in the touristy area of Palau, I hadn’t tried them. So yes, I was impressed and intrigued that he stopped attempting the fancy meals, and ordered me the local dish.
They arrived on a plate with eight of them, and as I mentioned, they are the size of chicken eggs. AKA, way too much food for me. He scooped two onto my plate and I said, “grazie”, but he just raised an eyebrow and kept scooping. I tried to cover my plate with my hands, indicating that I didn’t want any more, but he just laughed and forced one more giant pasta pocket of cheese onto my plate.
Oscar was jumping at my leg as if he’d never been fed before in his life. Finally something we liked to eat. And yes I refer to my dog and I as ‘we’. But I didn’t want to seem potentially rude by continuing to feed Oscar (all of) my food.
So I carefully cut into one edge of the bigger cousin of gnocchi, watched the smoke escape from the fresh hotness, and then swirled it around a couple of times in the tomato sauce that had spilled off the top of them. I swear I wasn’t trying to be sexy at all, and was literally drooling at the mouth, but I held the steaming chunk of cheesy glory up to my mouth and blew on it briefly, before devouring it in one bite. My immediate thoughts were, ‘Yes. I am buying an investment property in Sardinia, and moving here.’
It was so damn good that I ate two and a half of the Culugiones in about seven minutes. I honestly couldn’t even fit the last half into my mouth, so, Oscar helped.
Just when I thought I had done a good job at finishing my food finally, the server appeared with an enormous, steaming plate of Linguine alle Vangole. AKA linguine with clams. FML.
Linguine with white clam sauce is literally one of my top three favorite pastas, but my stomach was so full that I legitimately worried I would vomit if I ate anything else. And this isn’t me being dramatic. If you’ve ever met me you would know that my body frame is so narrow that food has nowhere to go if I eat too much, which just makes me feel and look pregnant, and like I’m going to explode out of my belly button.
I immediately grabbed my phone and used the translate app to tell him it was way too much food, and that I couldn’t eat anymore. His response was an immediate. “Noooo, secondi piati.”
Oh right, how could I forget. I was in Italy, where they somehow eat multi-course meals, including heaping plates of pasta, without gaining any weight. Not that I was concerned about gaining weight. Just concerned about exploding. Or imploding. I’m not actually sure which would be worse.
But he insisted I just try it. And by “he insisted”, I mean he started fork-twirling spoonfuls of the delicious pasta onto my plate. Aromas of fresh garlic sauteed in pure olive oil infiltrated my nostrils, along with the distinct tinge of salty seafood that comes from freshly murdered, I mean, sauteed, clams.
Also, the presentation was perfection. Literally everything people on social media wanted to see in Italy, so I held the plate up with one hand and quickly made a video with my phone. Much to his amusement…or satisfaction. Likely the latter.
Some time between me taking pictures and videos, and indulging in one of the most delicious linguini with clams I’ve ever had; more wine appeared in my glass. And I couldn’t remember if that was still the second, or third glass. I tapped my phone to check the time. Shit! It was only 12:20pm and we already had three glasses of wine?!
With this sudden revelation, I started to go into panic and prep mode. Mr. Winery was busy having a conversation with an older Italian couple next to us anyway, who had ordered a bottle of his wine without knowing he was the maker, and upon the server telling them so, they became engulfed in a full on conversation about it.
While they were chatting wildly in words I could not understand at all, I took the opportunity to map out the location and distance of one of the “Bau Spiaggi” I wanted to go to on the way to Cagliari. It was a forty minute drive. Barf. That was going to suck considering I was painfully full, definitely tipsy, and increasingly hot. Temperature-wise. Remember it’s the middle of summer in Italy. I also have this problem where my light-eyes very much do not like the blaring brightness of the sun. But if I wear sunglasses, they also don’t see so well in the dark. This is usually my excuse for why I don’t like going out at night (anymore).
Quickly again, he picked up that I was on my phone and looking like something was wrong. Pretty impressive for someone who can’t understand what I’m saying when I speak. But maybe that was what I needed. Someone who can just pick up on my expressions, body language, and actions. Aside from writing, I’m not the best at verbalizing what I want to say, so I wondered it the fact that we had to take the time to translate, read, and write to each other, could be the best way to actually get to know someone for who they really are. Or at least, to get to know me.
But I didn’t expect things to go anywhere. Well, except me. I needed to go somewhere. Towards Cagliari, and then to Barcelona to freeze my eggs, and then to about six countries in Africa for work. I typed in my translate app that I was really sorry but I needed to head out soon.
He replied the same as the night before, that he had a “big house with many rooms that I could stay in”, but that wasn’t the problem, nor was it impressive. I needed to get to Barcelona at the exact time I had planned for, to start the process of freezing my eggs. So for the twentieth or so time, I declined.
When the bill came, I felt anxious and awkward again. For some unbeknownst reason, I feel a sense of independent pride where “I don’t need no man to buy my meal” but also like “Oh shit he just ordered everything on the menu plus a bottle of wine, how much is that going to cost me? Did I mention I’ve only dated financially-insecure men?
He hardly looked at the bill and threw down cash before I could even ask to contribute. But he noticed me holding my wallet-purse and simply said, “No!” in that charming Italian accent. So I shyly and awkwardly gave another “Grazie”, and started gathering up my belongings.
I reached down and grabbed Oscar’s collapsible water bowl that was now empty, and mentally checked that we had enough water bottles in the car to refill it. He was already up and behind me, ready to head to the parking lot, so I scooped Oscar up with a bit of a struggle, and launched him over my shoulder so he wouldn’t claw at my full belly of pasta.
As we reached the parking area, I walked slowly (mostly because I was tipsy and carrying Oscar’s heavy booty) past his black BMW, expecting him to stop there and say bye or something. Or more realistically, to ask if I wanted a ride to my car. But he didn’t, he just kept walking with me.
“Tuo macchina?” He asked, pointing to my champion of a mini-SUV that he remembered from my disastrous entry and exit at his winery yesterday.
“Si.” I said, bouncing Oscar in my arms like a child, something I was sure would deter this man just like the last one.
“Ok!” He said again in that sing-songy Italian voice. I went in for a gentle hug, hoping he wouldn’t try to makeout with me or something. But to my extreme surprise, he wrapped one arm firmly around my neck, pulled my head in, and kissed me hard on the side of my forehead. Then he let go, and basically bolted off to his car. Stunned, confused, and perplexed, I thought to myself, “Well at least he didn’t try to obnoxiously makeout with me?”
I looked down at Oscar’s adorable tiny baby-polar-bear-face and was met with an equal look of “WTF just happened?”
But I had no time to contemplate it, especially since I’d likely never see him again.
Slowly, and by slowly, I mean sloth-slowly, I got myself and Oscar situated in the car. The heat of midday was clearly upon us, and Oscar was already panting as if he were in the middle of the Sahara. I lowered the hand brake, made sure the stick shift was in manual for the fifth time, then pushed the pedal down for the clutch as I turned the key to start the car for our next adventure. I twisted the knob for the AC on full blast and felt the almost-cool air blast onto my sweaty face from the little plastic vents.
There was just one thing slightly holding me back from turning the car on. And no, it wasn’t the guy. But actually it had something to do with him. I really wanted to feel the water on that beach. And of course to take a photo and video of it, but like here’s me not trying to sound like a total workaholic. But I didn’t want him to see me doing it, since I had said I really needed to leave.
As my over-active mind was contemplating “Should I go or should I stay”, his black BMW zoomed past the back of my little wannabe-SUV, and out onto the tiny single lane pathway. I couldn’t tell if he was pissed, trying to show off, or perhaps, late for work? But I guess you can’t be late for work if you own your own business. I would know.
With the dirt cloud he left whirling behind me, I knew he wasn’t going to turn back. Which made my mind flicker back to the beach in front of me, that I hadn’t taken a single photo of yet.
Slightly (very) buzzed, I apologized to Oscar for the inconvenience, scooped him up, turned off the car, and headed back towards the beach.
As I crept back up towards the beach, Oscar panting like crazy in one arm, I hoped to Universe that no one from the restaurant saw me. I’m not exactly sure why, maybe they would tell him I went back to the beach after I told him I had to leave for Cagliari, but I definitely felt like I was a spy on a mission. Even though the mission was just to go put my feet in the water and take a few photos.
That mission was immediately made harder though when I stepped out of the protective shade of the trees, and into the direct afternoon summer sun of Italy. I knew I only had about five minutes maximum until Oscar reached his overheating threshold. So for some dumb reason, I took off my shoes in order to walk easier in the sand, only to immediately realize that it was also blazing hot. At least that got me to run instead of walk to the water.
When I finally got there, and allowed my feet to de-sizzle in the somehow-cold clear water, my usual “This is so awesome” wide eyes and slight smile crept onto my face. No matter how many beaches I had seen in Sardinia with equally as beautiful water, every time I saw another one, I felt like I had to stare at it as long as possible, as if I’d never see it again.
I quickly took some videos and photos, which likely would appear to look the same as all of the others on my recent camera roll of beautiful Sardinian beaches, but to me, each and every one of them was unique. And I’d especially remember this one since I had a boozy seafood brunch date with Mr. Winery.
The majority of me wanted very badly just to stay. In fact, dare I say, I felt a strong inclination to do so. What would one more night be? Just kidding, it would be a few hundred dollars. A quick search on Skyscanner showed the flights being impossible, thanks to an airline strike that happened literally yesterday, causing hundreds of people to get re-booked onto all of the next available flights. Oh well, who was I kidding, it wasn’t like I was going to just meet a guy in Sardinia, fall in love, and move there. Right?
Oscar was now at the level of panting that was highly concerning. So I sacrificed the soles of my feet again and sprinted across the scalding sand. I kept running until I got to the car, then launched both of us into the passenger seat, slammed my feet down on the clutch and the brake, and turned the car on, blasting the AC as high as it would go. This only caused Oscar to pant harder of course, because the air was hot, so I got out into the cool-ish shade and let him pee on a few trees while we waited for the car to cool down.
Meanwhile, I zoomed in on the map to see where the next closest “Bau Beach” was that I could stop at. Considering that my little seaside date lasted an hour longer than I intended; I only had enough time for one more beach on the way to Cagliari.
I set off, making sure to drive the exact speed limit and with extreme caution since I had more wine than intended. After about an hour of hyper-fixation on the narrow winding roads, I finally made it to the next beach. But I had one very large problem. All of those glasses of wine had finally made their way to my tiny bladder. As a professional traveler, who goes on many long roadtrips, I’ve trained my body to be able to wait the maximum amount of time before an emergency situation hits. Well, now was that emergency situation.
I had to do a pee-dance in the seat, wiggling up and down and round and round to prevent a waterfall from streaming out of my urethra. It was also painful as all hell, as if my abdomen was literally about to rip open to free my exploding bladder.
It was to the point where I needed to resort to a bush. But my next problem was that I was wearing a one piece romper, that was too tight to pull the leg to one side and just squat somewhere. I’d need to take the entire thing off.
For some reason there were actually quite a few people walking to and from their car in the dead heat of the day, but I guess I couldn’t judge, since I was about to do the same thing. I kept following the path for parking areas, until I found one tucked away in the dune brush with only one other car next to it. I could easily open the driver’s side door, and squat in front of it, protected by the bushes from view.
I didn’t bother turning the car off, since I needed to leave Oscar inside in order to have two hands to get the jumpsuit off. But as I maneuvered around to the front of the door, I heard someone approaching, and of fucking course it was the one person who owned the car next to mine. He had a large dog as well, and it immediately ran over to the open door to smell Oscar. This caused the guy to come over as well, and my perfect emergency-pee-bush was ruined.
There was literally no time for small talk, not that I could have probably understood him anyway, so I grabbed Oscar and my phone, slammed the door shut, gave a quick, “Ciao!”, and sped walked like I was in a damn Olympic speed walking race down to the beach. Every time I contemplated stopping and jumping in a bush, someone else walked down the freaking walkway. It was probably the first time in my life that I actually thought I was going to piss myself. Aside from all those times I was in the window seat on a flight and had a middle-seat person passed out to the point of no return.
I finally arrived at the top of the sand dunes, and cringed seeing how much farther the water was. It might as well have been the fucking Sahara Desert. “You got this. Just get to the water. You’ve had to do way harder shit, just get to the damn water!” I pep-talked myself. Even though the sand was starting to look like a mighty fine place to pee.
But instead I power walked through the soft sand, pain throbbing in my abdomen, sun blaring on my skin, eyes stinging, and Oscar panting away. We reached the water and I casually sat down, trying not to cause attention to myself. I still had to get the damn jumpsuit off in order to get into the water. But I couldn’t help slightly wiggling, so I pretended to sing a song as if I were dancing.
When I finally got the jumpsuit untied, unzipped, and down to my waist, I sucked everything in as tight as I could, stood up, and sprinted into the water with Oscar over my shoulder. It was honestly the best pee of my life. I might have even been close to a small orgasm. And my stomach definitely went from looking pregnant back down to looking like someone who was about to freeze their eggs because they’re not sure if they want to get pregnant any time soon.
The water wasn’t as clear as all of the other beaches I had seen thus far in Sardinia, but damn was I grateful for that! After I was definitely done relieving myself, I forced myself out of the water, because I knew I needed enough time to dry my swimsuit bottoms before getting back into the car. Technically I could have just opened my luggage and changed into dry underwear, but giving myself an excuse to stay longer at a beach bar specifically for people with dogs sounded like a way better idea.
I approached the small beach bar on a wooden deck that had several white plastic tables and chairs on it. There were a couple of people at them, and more on the blue beach chairs with their dogs. All of the dogs were off leash and running around, enjoying the beach. Except mine. Mine clung to my shoulder like a pet monkey, looking like an arctic fox that was extremely lost and confused. It’s not really a wonder why my ex was so jealous of Oscar, since I treat him like a baby, but I had to wonder what Mr. Winery’s thoughts were about it from the few hours he saw me baby-ing my dog like a newborn human.
When I saw the very small menu of items, I peeked into my bag to see how much cash I even had. I actually just wanted a water, but saw it was four euros, compared to a beer that was only two euros, and I only had three euros in coins, so I guess beer it was!
The bartender popped open a cold bottle and handed it to me, saying something extremely fast in Italian that I didn’t understand. In an effort to casually let her know I wasn’t purposely not replying, I responded in English, asking if I could sit on one of the beach chairs.
“Si, si, anywhere you like!” She responded, motioning to the range of chairs on the left and right of the bar.
I spotted a blue beach chair to the left that was one of the few that had shade coverage and carried my beer and Oscar over to it. It had definitely seen its fair share of sunny days, and I wondered if the bleached and weathered material would be sturdy enough to even hold me. I carefully slid down onto it, just in case it broke, and found it was actually super comfy. Oscar followed suit like my shadow and hopped up by my feet, plopping his chonky booty down and facing the sea as if he were also taking in the glorious views. What a freaking great day. I thought to myself for the twentieth time.
It still hadn’t hit me that hard that I’d basically just lived a day in a Hallmark Movie. Like, how many women travel solo in Italy for work slash fun, and end up on a date with an Italian man who owns a winery near the beach? But my overly-realistic mind forbade me to entertain it. Not only was it highly likely that he took women out (or home) that he met at his winery all the time, but aside from the fact that I already had a lot of big plans coming up, there was also that teeny tiny fact that my current EU tourist visa was about to expire! And considering that his business is stationary, it didn’t seem likely he’d be meeting me to travel any time soon. It was fun, but likely not meant to be, so I pushed the mere thought of it out of my mind.
After staring blissfully at the beautiful palette of bright blues for a few minutes, my ADHD kicked in and suddenly I was executing a full on photo shoot of my feet, Oscar, and the beach. Then I opened Instagram and made a story video, reporting my findings of a dog friendly beach bar. You know, just in case anyone else wants to bring their dog to Sardinia and do a beach hopping roadtrip.
Then I decided to be bold and send one of the photos to Mr. Winery, even though I was supposed to be pushing that mere thought out of my head. Just so, you know, he could see I really did go to another beach like I said I was, and that I wasn’t making up excuses to leave. He immediately replied with a “Bellisima ” followed by a string of emojis all involving hearts. Definitely a major flirt, noted.
Suddenly a short, plump, leathery lifeguard came trotting over to me. “Ticket? Ticket?” He demanded, hand outstretched. I assumed he meant a receipt that showed I paid for the beach chair, since I already knew that most places in Italy charge you to sit in them during high season. I tried to play dumb and hand him my receipt for the beer, but he quickly looked at it and said no, then what I assumed was “go pay or get off the chair”. Whatever. I had to leave soon anyway.
I purposely finished the remaining beer as slowly as possible as he watched me, then placed it on the mini table attached to the umbrella, smiled, and got up. “Ciao!” I said fake-sweetly.
Walking back towards the beach path that led to the parking area was again reminiscent of my travels in the Sahara Desert. Except there were no camels or bedouin men here. When I finally got to the dirt road I noticed there were finally zero people walking to or from, and immediately plopped down behind a car to pull Dronita out. I was severely slacking on my drone footage of these beautiful beaches, and since I insist on making everything I do in my life part of my work, I needed to remember to do it.
Within one minute I had Dronita up in the air and soaring high over the beach, so as not to disturb anyone with the buzzing noise, or get too close to invade privacy. The beach actually looked way nicer from above than it did at eye level, especially with the perfectly spaced blue and white umbrellas along the shore. I sent the tiny drone flying in all directions, making several photos and videos just in time for the ever-alarming siren to blare from the controller, indicating low battery. If there is one thing I haven’t overcome that causes me anxiety, it is definitely that sound, and the immediate thought that my drone is going to suddenly die and drop into the sea. Or on someone’s head.
I easily navigated Dronita back to my hideout behind the car (I played a lot of video games with my brothers as a child), and carefully lowered her down to just above my face, then reached up, grabbed her, and flipped her sideways to turn her off manually instead of just using the button that lands her automatically. Grabbing a drone out of midair makes me feel empowered.
Within seconds I had the drone back in its case (a padded toiletry bag from a previous brand collaboration) and in my bag. Then I scooped Oscar up, got back to the car, and finally set off for Cagliari.
When I finally got to Cagliari, I was glad that I at least knew where I was supposed to go this time. Unlike when I arrived. But I was not glad at all that I had to take everything out of the car I had been basically living out of, bring it upstairs, repack everything, then bring it back downstairs in the morning. Oh, and I had to pee insanely bad again.
I found a parking area two blocks from the apartment I had booked, and made a master plan to carry two of my four bags first, along with Oscar. But the second I stood up, I was wiggling and pee pee dancing all over the place. I’m not even going to lie, I think a little bit even leaked. Once again I power walked, squeezing my kegel muscles up to prevent my bladder from exploding. I punched in the code for the front door-gate, pushed the heavy ass thing open, and stepped inside the terrifying metal gate elevator, praying it wouldn’t pick now to break. Then I dropped all of my bags outside of the door so I could concentrate on opening the lockbox, getting the key, and opening the door. All while bouncing up and down with my legs crossed tightly. When I finally got inside, I didn’t even bother bringing my bags in, I just pulled Oscar by the leash into the bathroom, scrambled to get the damn jumpsuit off, and plopped down hard on the toilet. Ahhhhhh.
It felt like it had been ten minutes, and my eyes involuntarily shut with the relief again of emptying my bladder. When I opened them, Oscar was standing there staring at me, as if it were rude of me to not first take off his leash and harness.
Feeling very relieved, I went back to drag the first bags in, then put Oscar on the bed in front of the AC to cool down. Then I ran back to the car, pulled the other two big suitcases out, and dragged them upstairs as well. I was literally gone for less than ten minutes, and when I went to the bed to let Oscar down to get some water, I got a whiff of the distinct smell of urine. I looked closer, and saw that Oscar had peed right in the middle of the bed. Something he is notorious for doing when he thinks I’ve gone out without him. UGH!!! Literally all I wanted to do was lay down in a comfy bed, in the cold AC, and sleep. But nope. Oscar had to go and get FOMO, then retaliate against me. I washed it the best I could with one of the hand towels, then used the body towel to cover it, and laid down next to it anyway. I was way too tired to do anything else about it. Or was I? I technically hadn’t explored Cagliari yet, and I was craving those culurgiones I had at brunch with Mr. Wine earlier. I decided to pull myself together, and headed out into town for one last meal. Just a few blocks from the apartment, I discovered the bustling main street of Cagliari, and immediately wondered if I really should just stay longer. No, I’d just make a plan to come back. Maybe I would host one of my group trips here in the future. Or maybe I’d forget about it as soon as I reached the next beautiful destination on my solo travels.
As I had planned, I ate culurgiones, of course sending a photo of them to Mr. Winery, and then got the F out of Italy finally. I know those are not words you’d expect to hear from any sane human, but I was there traveling non-stop for almost four weeks, and was very ready to just chill in one spot a while. With ‘a while’ meaning like three weeks.
How chill I was going to feel after pumping myself full of hormones for the egg freezing process was TBD. So far I had heard plenty of stories from women saying how emotional and depressed they were. But interestingly, it was all from women in the US, and not many had great things to say about the process. However, my friends in Barcelona who underwent the process had only good things to say. Naturally, I went with their perspectives, but still braced myself for the worst.
To prepare myself for two weeks of potential depression and acting even crazier than I already am, I rented a beautiful, tranquil apartment in Barcelona from a friend of a friend, and swore off men or social outings for the duration of the hormone injection process.
I figured the swearing off men part would be easy, since I was already having angry thoughts towards men in general for how easy it is just to be male. Men don’t have to worry at all about all of this reproductive crap. They don’t have a strict timeline for babies, nor do they have to grow one for nine months, then rip open one of their orphases to get it out. Men don’t have to deal with a painful, messy period each month, or people trying to tell them what they should do with their reproductive organs. So like, can someone explain to me why men get to be in charge of what women do with their bodies in USA?
But it already was not easy. Because not only was Mr. Winery texting me regularly, but so was Mr. Amalfi Chef, Mr. Australian Travel Vlogger, and also all of my Barcelona friends, who are literally always up to something fun. This summer, they had made it a thing to do beach volleyball and wine days with “the Brazilians”. And that was absolutely awful for my “stay away from men” idea, since “the Brazilians” consisted of about ten or more extremely sexy, tan, muscular Brazilian men. Not to mention all of the other sexy shirtless men on the beach in Barcelona. I’d definitely be avoiding the beach at all costs when I started doing the hormone injections. Especially because a sexual interaction could end up with me having a litter of children due to the increase of fertile eggs that they cause. Or death.
My period wasn’t on time though, which made me stressed as all hell, because the egg freezing process has to start depending on when your period is. So I allowed myself to go to one of the volleyball beach days to try to relieve the stress of potentially missing being able to do the treatment, since if it didn’t begin soon, I’d miss my thousand dollar flight to Uganda to start my next group trip, and that was not happening.
Why I thought getting a minor surgery right before hosting thirty people on a trip to go trekking through a thick jungle in Africa to see Mountain Gorillas was a good idea, I didn’t know. But it had to be done. In just six months I’d be thirty six, I still had no intention of slowing down my aggressive adventures, and Oh right, I wasn’t even dating anyone, so who knows how long it would take to form a relationship then get to the level of even thinking about babies. Well, actually it might not be as hard as before, since every man I’ve dated recently has immediately divulged they want a baby. I learned the hard way, that that is definitely a red flag!
But it doesn’t matter, because I still am not ready for one. I don’t care how many parents say “You can still travel with kids”, the fact is that maybe a typical person can, but not me, who averages thirty countries per year for work, and does things that children are literally not allowed to do. Like gorilla trekking, and going to Antarctica, and sipping prosecco on sailboat yachts in Capri. That last one is a personal preference.
Anyway, my egg freezing process took a lot longer than expected. Instead of being ten days like I read it would take, I had to wait the extra five days to even start due to my period being late, then the doctor decided I also needed to keep taking the hormones for a couple more days so my eggs would get bigger.
During the process, I was very very lucky to not feel any hormonal changes, not too much bloating, and no cramps. I did my best to stay away from men, but I couldn’t help going to the beach a few times to play volleyball with the hot Brazilian guys since I felt fine. In fact, dare I say, I think I actually felt better than normal! Whether it was from the actual hormones, or my mind finally being at ease about delaying babies, is unknown. Or the fact that Barcelona is a total positive energy vibe and I am always super happy when I’m there, especially when surrounded by sexy shirtless men.
It took a lot of willpower to not indulge in their flirting, which seemed to pick up with intensity, as if they could smell my hormones, and eventually I just told them I was freezing my eggs, in hopes that made them stay away, but it only attracted them more to me. Then I mentioned that if I were to have sex right now, I could get pregnant with ten babies because of all the extra eggs growing in my ovaries. That got them to stay away, but then the one time they all went off to play a game, and it was just me and the girls under the umbrellas, I found myself continuously making eye contact with a pair of green eyes a few towels away…who of course, also had muscles and tattoos. How is this happening NOW of all times?!
I tried my hardest to avoid it, but his gaze was not accidental, it was intentional, and before I knew it, I added Mr. Sexy Argentinian to my roster of incoming text messages from men that I was not supposed to be talking to. It was seriously like my hormones were attracting men ten fold in some ancient primal way! ‘My hormones bring all the boys to the yard.’ I joked to myself one night at home watching TV while trying to keep up with the texts.
At this point, I was beyond confused, and trying very hard not to get too emotionally involved with any of them. The Argentinian guy was living in Barcelona, and very much wanted to meet up with me. But I was not about to have a litter of babies. Especially when I don’t even know if I want one baby. However he was very cute, and sweet, so maybe I’d meet up with him when I recovered from the egg freezing, and returned from Africa. But then what? It wasn’t like he’d come back home with me to Mexico.
Speaking of which, Mr. Australian Travel Blogger had recently informed me that he’d be in Puerto Escondido in October, and wanted to come by Tulum to finally meet me in real life. This of course got me excited, because not only is he very hot, but also in the same line of work as me. Maybe I’d finally meet someone who can travel while working with me! I had high hopes for that, the only problem was that he was incredibly inconsistent with his texting and plans due to his travel and work schedule. Something I remembered from my previous experiences trying to date male travel bloggers, that I absolutely hated. I’d wait it out though and see if he came through.
Mr. Winery texted consistently however, mostly just asking how I was doing, and endlessly trying to convince me to come back to Sardinia after my Africa trips instead of Barcelona. I’m not going to lie, I thought about it, but was I really going to drop a few hundred dollars to go see a guy I just met? Plus, I wasn’t stupid, I had boredom-stalked his IG several times, and even though he posted a photo of me and Oscar on the winery’s page, I could also very clearly see a woman’s hand in many posts one month prior. Additionally, I have been to A LOT of vineyards, and I know for a fact that when there is an attractive owner (or even worker), they flirt with EVERYONE, and that doesn’t exactly work with my trust-issues. Not that I was currently being super innocent or anything.
So to get him to drop the idea, I casually mentioned one night that maybe he should come see me in Tulum instead. To my extreme surprise, he said, “Ok, va bene.”
I didn’t fully believe he would do it, since why would a guy fly from Europe to Mexico to see a woman he met twice, who doesn’t speak his language, and doesn’t live in Italy, but I kept chatting with him anyway. Neglecting to tell him about my egg freezing process since he wasn’t there anyway to be a threat to my eggs getting fertilized. And also like, TMI for a guy I went on one point five dates with. I had only told Mr. Argentinian about it so he knew why I wasn’t immediately allowing him to come over, otherwise it was not business I was actively trying to share. Says the girl who posted about the whole process online.
When the day for the egg freezing retrieval finally came, I was honestly terrified. But mostly of the needle for the IV that had to go into my vein and stay there while I waited to go in the operating room. I’ve endured a lot of pain in my life, I’ve even been in some extreme accidents abroad, but for some reason nothing made me panic as much as this needle in my vein, and then the thought of sharp objects being inside of my vagina while I was unconscious. But, before I knew it, the process was over, however when I woke up, I definitely felt the pain in my uterus. After all, they did have to stick a needle through the wall of my cervix and into each ovary to suck out the microscopic eggs. Science; so cool but so painful. Luckily though the nurses were not stingy with the pain meds, and quickly added some to the IV I was begging them to take out, which immediately eased the pain for the moment.
My friend Jenny was waiting for me in the lobby like the amazing bestie she is (she lives in Barcelona), and helped me get back to my apartment. Of course, as we were waiting for the taxi, a guy also exited the clinic, likely there to easily donate sperm, and had the audacity to smile and wave at me. Must be nice to get paid to jack off, while us women have to pay a shit ton and undergo surgery just to preserve our fertility (full disclosure, I ended up getting my treatment as a collab, which I think is epic AF).
Anyway, Jenny was extremely hungover, which was perfect, since I was on another planet with the pain meds, and we both just melted into my comfy temporary couch for the entire afternoon. I didn’t feel physically great, but I did feel hella mentally great to have a small relief lifted from my shoulders in the form of literally buying myself more time to procreate. Even if my little eggs don’t end up working in the future, at least I tried, and for now, that made me feel great!
We went out later that night to celebrate even though once the meds wore off, I didn’t exactly feel so great anymore, but it was my last night in town likely for another year. The next day, I had to fly out to Uganda, in a decent amount of pain, and extremely uncomfortable sitting down. It was probably one of the top worst flights of my life, because I couldn’t sleep due to the need to constantly shift around to ease the pain, and I also felt like I had to pee every twenty minutes. Peeing was also painful, since any time I had to flex my muscles down there it put pressure on my poor little ovaries. Again, screw men for having it so easy with reproduction. Or rather, just the ones who don’t respect the shit women have to go through while also juggling a career, life, and likely relationship that also feels like a full time job.
Although I was in pain, and my abdomen was uncomfortably swollen, making me look pregnant in all of my content (and yes, people online commented about it asking if I was), I made it through the three-country, thirty person trip. Hiding all signs of pain, discomfort, and extreme stress the best that I could, especially during that lovely four hour gorilla trek, and with a tour company that ended up planning everything last minute. When that trip had finally ended, I only had one day off in D.R.Congo to relax before heading to Zambia to start the next ones.
Again, since I’m a workaholic, instead of taking the one week I had in between group trips to rest, I decided to pack it with social media collaborations instead. I barely remember talking to Mr. Winery, or anyone really besides my group trip guests, my co-host, and the terrible tour company who ended up severely screwing us over and then blackmailing us. My co-host and I battled severe stress and anxiety due to the tour company ruining many things that caused our guests to complain drastically, and it even got to the point of both of us breaking out in hives. I desperately wanted a sympathetic partner to complain to, but how on earth could I explain the magnitude of my work to any of these guys? Thank Universe for my co-host, but we definitely both agreed we needed therapy sessions after these trips.
It had been nearly four weeks in six countries in Africa, and I was beyond exhausted. I know I can make traveling full time look like a dream, but the reality is, well, half the time it definitely is a dream, but the other half is hard AF.
Sadly, working these two group trips made me desperately want to leave Africa. Usually I stay longer after my group trips to explore a new destination, but I was in really bad shape. Mentally and physically. I needed to just get to somewhere comfortable and hide there for a week. And the closest place to do that was Barcelona. Oh, I should also mention that I had to leave Oscar there and pay Jenny to watch him while I was in Africa, so I needed to get back there ASAP for him.
Admittedly, I had toyed around with flights to see how much it would be to sneak a few days in Sardinia after getting Oscar in Barcelona, then flying from there back to Mexico. Mr. Winery had asked me several times during my Africa trips to come back there to see them harvesting the vineyard, which actually sounded like a pretty fab idea. But flights from Barcelona to Cancun were only four hundred direct, and from Sardinia it would be around seven hundred, plus an extra two hundred there and out for Oscar’s pet fees. I casually mentioned these costs to him, since according to all of my friends, if he wanted me to go back and see him so bad, he should offer to pay for at least half of the flight, but he didn’t. Red flag. One of my top pet peeves is when people are like, “Can you come here so I can see you?” assuming that because I travel for a living, that means flights are always free, but they definitely are not. And also like, why the hell can’t people fly to me ever?!
Well, I guess technically he had offered to do just that. He also mentioned several times coming to see me for a couple of weeks in Tulum. That was great and all, but something else no one understands about me or my life, is that when you come to visit me somewhere that I live, it is not traveling, or a vacation for me. It’s actually more work, because I have to take time off of doing the work I designate to do while I’m home, to show them around, which is technically also work for me, but not the paid kind. But anyway, I didn’t really expect him to come. And I definitely didn’t have the mental capacity to even think about it.
I only had one week to spend in Barcelona, and to be honest, I was ready to get back to my new home in Tulum. It would be nice to not have to pack and re-pack, or move accommodations for almost three months. I didn’t have to worry about flights, transportation, or the constant FOMO to go out to eat or drink everyday. It would just be me and Oscar, in our little jungle apartment, zipping around the dirt roads on my motorbike, and working from my laptop at beach clubs. I absolutely couldn’t wait.
But I still had a week to spend in Barcelona, and I planned to make the most of it. I ended up meeting Mr. Argentina, who actually came over and made me a home cooked meal, but when I told him I wasn’t planning on coming back until next year, it didn’t get much further than that. I made it just in time for one more beach volleyball session with the Brazilians, again letting more people down with word of my year long absence. But I at least had something to look forward to in Tulum besides down-time, because Mr. Australian Vlogger had texted confirming his flight to Puerto Escondido in a couple of weeks.
Then, I got a text from Mr. Winery, also confirming that he had purchased a flight to Tulum, and it was in three weeks, around the same time that the other guy wanted to visit. I honestly didn’t know if I felt happy or more stressed. What the hell was actually going on? Did my manifesting actually work? Or was this all happening because I finally stopped paying attention to men and pushing myself to have a relationship?
There was only one thing I knew for sure; my life was about to have a major change in October.
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Love the way this was written. Can't wait for the next part. I read the first paragraph and got myself a glass of wine to enjoy the rest of the story.
Haha yasss it's definitely a story to drink some wine to!
Omg I loved reading this! Can’t wait for the rest!
Thank you so much!
You write beautifully, Alyssa! I’m hooked on this- can’t wait to read what happens next :)
Thank you so much!
great story, can't wait to read what happended next :D it's like reading a novel 🥰
Thanks Viki! I love writing and especially re-living my little adventures!
that's great, yes! I had a blog a long time ago, and I still sometimes read it and laugh 😂 one more thing I wanted to tell you... I worked as a tour guide for 17yrs and I feel your trauma sister 😂 when we talk about how guests complain, make problems and how in general there are all kinds of people that we met at work, whether we wanted to or not. luckily, I always forget bad events somehow quickly and only dear people and beautiful moments remain in my memory. anyway, I didn't have the nerve with my 45yrs anymore and I went to another job at the beginning of this year, although I really miss the south of Italy, where I worked the most.
you're really a good writer and you're writing in an interesting way! thank you for this little getaway 🙂
Great story thanks for sharing! Following you throughout the years on Insta I would’ve never guessed that you had all the same nervousness insecurities that we all go through in our lives dating or otherwise💕 adding Sardinia to my bucket list as I do love to sip Prosecco on a boat in the blue blue ocean🍾
Haha oh yes! I consider myself very bad at relationships as well! Especially from traveling solo so much! Let me know when you make it to Sardinia!
I’m ready for the next part! So crazy! 🤩
Thanks Sabrina!!
I love the way you write - great storytelling! I want more!
Thanks so much Amy!
Holy shit... your life *is* a movie!
I subscribed a while ago for travel adventures, I had no idea I was reading a novel :lol:
Hahaha it's been a lonnnggg wild ride for sure!! Definitely feels like a movie!