. . . a birthday party
A chronically single girl’s six months to find ‘the one’
Three weeks to go before we close the book on the greatest extended summer of my life and I’ll be honest, I don’t even know where to start.
I remember that fear I felt on my way to Brussels, that pitter-patter of my heart as I realised I was really alone. I thought I would regret it, get homesick, or worse – text my ex, but, honestly, I would do it all over again in a heartbeat.
In my midway check-in, we had a little fun ranking my best and worst dates of the trip so far, so now that we’re almost at the end, I thought I’d do the same thing, with the best and worst I’ve encountered over the past two months.
Best . . .
The Aussie Alpha from Marseille – what can I say? He was gentlemanly, had an addictive accent, and all the right chat to weasel his way into a second date. With patience, understanding and amazing forearms, he was the perfect foray back into dating after a break in Verona and Nice.
Our Foodie Fav from Madrid – taught me the biggest hack of the trip: date a foodie and you’ll never eat a bad meal again. I’ve never felt so immersed in a culture via food – her knowledge of tapas spots and the best bars kept me busy all week.
My Valencia Vixen – never have I ever been so entranced by another person so quickly.
And, yes, I was three glasses of sangria down when we met, but that doesn’t diminish the way that she pulled me in.
She was captivating – I was hooked from the minute we met to the minute we said goodbye the next morning.
And while it was just one whirlwind of a night, it was perfect in every conceivable way.
And now the worst . . .
Museum Man from Bilbao – if I tell you I don’t like museums, don’t take me to one by force. I get that it’s the Guggenheim – I’m aware it looks really cool! I can see that from the outside, I do not need to do a whole tour.
Surfer Stud from San Sebastian – do I look like a person who would fare well on a surfboard?
No. And why on earth, when I have told you I’ve never surfed before, would you take me during high tide on one of the rockiest days of the month?
! I don’t care if you have to catch the waves while they’re big or whatever he kept yapping about .
. . I DO NOT SURF. I WILL NEVER SURF AGAIN.
I drank so much salt water that I can still taste it seven cities later.
Bordeaux Boy – I’ll hold my hands up and openly admit that this was more a reflection of me than him .
. . Nobody told me you were supposed to spit wine out during a tasting.
I promise that, in the real world, I don’t throw up on people’s shoes as much as I have managed to do on this trip.
The silver lining, though, is that it forced me to take a good long look at my relationship with alcohol.
I know a lot of you have been following my #boozebreak on socials .
. . I can report I’m having a great time. Let’s see how long it lasts.
After Hotel Hottie last night, I can officially say that I have been around Europe in seventy-four dates. Which means that I’ve only got six more dates to go until we’ve completed the full eighty.
I cannot believe it. There were times around that 10–20 mark where I looked at the timeline and thought this was impossible. But with courage, determination, and the promise of being paid, I persisted and now we’re almost at the finish line.
With three weeks and only Barcelona and Paris to go, we’re really on the final stretch. Stay tuned for big news, as me and the lovely New Traveller team have a fun giveaway in store the second I reach the end!
I press my laptop shut and look out at the street around me, filled with roaming people, frolicking among the terracotta buildings.
The sun beams down on us, painting patterns with its rays and encasing us all in a deep amber glow.
Usually there’s a breeze around this time, but today the air is abnormally still.
I take a sip of my orange juice before closing my eyes and drinking in the air around me.
I’m miles away from who I was two months ago when I left Noah in the ocean.
I was so silly to think that I couldn’t go this alone.
I snap a customary welfare picture, sending it to my sisters and then to Sam, who immediately sends one of him and his new girlfriend.
Turns out we are better as friends, and really good friends at that.
He’s helped me through the last few months and I helped him get back with his ex the second he got back to Atlanta.
I’ve also grown pretty chummy with her. The two of them are in the midst of convincing me to visit them after Europe, when a notification pops up that stills my heart inside my chest.
DM from @elea_xoxo: Hey! Are you still travelling? Xx
It’s been two months since I said goodbye and left Noah and Eléa in Nice.
Which means it’s been six weeks since I muted both of their stories and grid posts in a resolve to move on once and for all.
Though it was near impossible at first, I eventually gained enough resolve to stop typing their usernames in the search bar.
The last time I checked, his hair was shorter, the curls clipped down to one hair above a buzz cut.
I wondered when and why he made the change and realised I’d never know the answer.
That was enough to stop me checking his socials.
I screenshot the message and send it to Sam, who texts back almost instantly.
I got the same. Your boy’s having a bday.
He sends a screenshot of a follow-up message El sent him with an emoji-laden invite.
Noah turns 27!
I’ve rented a big villa in Madrid to celebrate my man’s 27th birthday! Join us 14–17 October for lots of drinking and games in the pool.
RSVP for the address, and don’t tell Noah – it’s a surprise! xx
My stomach drops instantly. I don’t know what’s worse – the fact that El is sending these out three days before the event in question, or the fact that I completely forgot Noah’s birthday.
Two months ago I had the date inscribed in my memory.
Six months ago, we’d never even met. I tap at my phone, absent-mindedly checking trains back to Madrid when another message pops up from Sam.
Don’t go.
A small laugh escapes my mouth at his readiness to predict my next move.
ME: Wasn’t going to.
SAM: Sure . . .
SAM: You thought about it, though.
I check the page again and expand the stops of the journey. It’s going back on myself, and I’ve already been to Madrid, yes, but it would only take two and a half hours. I accounted for fourteen nights in Barcelona, so a couple of days out wouldn’t derail my trip that significantly.
SAM: You’re still thinking, aren’t you?
This time a full laugh leaves my mouth. I take a screenshot of the page and send it his way.
ME: It’s not that bad . . .
SAM: Logistically? No. Mentally? A psych thriller. Don’t do it.
The more the advice from Sam flies through to my phone, the more I’m reminded of what it was like to have my beacon of male truth next to me on this journey.
My thumb swipes to our old texts – the threads of conversations between me and Noah that I couldn’t bring myself to delete.
For two people that were joined at the hip in person, we somehow still found a way to text back and forth like two people who were stationed miles apart.
I flick through memes and links to videos and selfies from our travels, and bouts of encouragement before all my dates.
My body grows fuzzy as I read, flushing through with warmth before rinsing out to a shocking, unexpected chill as I reach the last message. Two months ago, I was sitting on the train when I received the final message Noah ever sent me.
NOAH: Safe journey today. You’ve got this.
I never even replied. I knew it was too dangerous to keep it going, even just as ‘friends’. And it still is. The way my heart is lurching, it’s clear that two months wasn’t even remotely enough time to wipe my feelings from my brain.
‘Amorie?’
I look up, taking in my date for the evening. I’m fine without him. I have people. I don’t need Noah.