by Jennifer Cox
These might sound like small considerations, but they were what preoccupied my thoughts as I crashed into furniture looking for the bathroom in the wee small hours.
I raced from date to date, country to country.
Steve (Date #15) in Barcelona was a friend of Hillary’s from university. We had a date to watch soccer in a bar: England versus one of the Spanish teams. I love watching the big championships and thought I knew enough about soccer to hold my own. Steve soon put me straight. “Are England in the white strip?” I asked just after kickoff. Mortified, he spun around to see if anyone had heard, before hissing, “Keep your voice down.”
I was just another girl who thought that because she could name three players from Man U, she knew soccer. England lost; the date didn’t go into extra time.
Ray (Date #16) I vaguely knew through my friend Theresa. For years he’d been a financial broker in the city before burning out and giving it all up to move to Barcelona. Like me, he’d invested all his energy in his job and taken radical steps to find a more healthy balance. I wondered if it had worked for him and if he felt he’d made the right decision.
Theresa had omitted to mention Ray now worked as a street mime on La Rambla. When he arrived at the tapas bar, he was still dressed for work: silver catsuit and body paint. Apparently he was in the middle of a turf war with his rival, the Clockwork Bronze Man, and couldn’t stay long.
I don’t think I’m exaggerating when I say we were the subject of a fair amount of attention. I was mortified. Ray was silent—an admirable quality in a mime, less so in a Date.
I caught the first flight to Lisbon the following morning.
Paolo (Date #17) and José (Date #18) were friends of Jane, a South African woman I’d met traveling through Europe years ago. I knew Paolo played flamenco guitar and was taking me to the famous Pastéis de Belém café for pastéis de nata.
We drank intense, bitter espressos to balance the rich pastéis, crisp buttery cups of flaky pastry filled with creamy custard, dusted with powdered sugar, made to a closely guarded secret recipe. Paolo was chatty and funny, but there was no spark.
It made me feel good to dance off some calories, clubbing with José in the trendy Bairro Alto district. He was extremely charming and his friends were lovely, but my “dancing till dawn every weekend” days were behind me. José was fun but not The One.
I went straight from the club to the hotel, to pick up my bags, then on to the airport for Athens.
Drakoulis (Date #19) was the cousin of Effie, a Greek friend of mine from the gym. Maybe I could have coped with his heavy smoking—it was Europe, after all. But when we went to dinner, everyone in the restaurant smoked constantly and I struggled.
I’m not being fussy but it was disgusting. The air in the restaurant was heavy with thick, painfully acrid smoke. It was like having dinner in a burning furniture warehouse. Drakoulis took me on to a fantastic Rembetika club (a type of traditional Greek gangsta folk music), but my head throbbed and my eyes stung. I felt guilty leaving during the players’ first break, but I had set and reached my limit.
Effie had also set me up with an AE (Amicable Ex). Joseph (Date #20) was a tour guide, and since his first group arrived at 10 a.m., we’d arranged to meet at the fish market for an 8 a.m. breakfast date. If it worked out and he didn’t mind, I thought I might go on the tour with him afterward.
But I’d had five hours’ sleep in two days and woke with a start at 8:30 a.m. I repeatedly called his cell as I scrambled to dress and get to the market on the off-chance he was still there. But his phone rang unanswered and there was no sign of him at the market.
Forget it: He’d probably drive you as crazy as he drove me, Effie replied breezily to my apologetic email. Though it would have been interesting to hear why he split up with Claudia.
Damn her: Joseph obviously wasn’t an AE at all. He was a UE (Unresolved Ex) and Effie was using me to get an update. As I left for Italy, I silently congratulated myself on avoiding what sounded like unfinished business.
Verona was the home of Romeo and Juliet, arguably the world’s most famous lovers. Some might argue that a couple whose poor communication skills resulted in joint suicide were perhaps not the best relationship role models. But up to 5,000 people a year saw it differently, writing to Juliet’s house and tomb, asking for her advice about their own love lives.
Local poets and writers had been responding to the letters since the 1930s, but in 1975 Verona intellectual Giulio Tamassia founded the Juliet Club and arranged for ten unpaid, multilingual “secretaries” to answer the letters. In addition, he established the Dear Juliet Award, which is presented to the most romantic letter writer each year.
I’d been emailing Eleanor, the secretary responsible for Italian, Spanish, and English correspondence. With the explosion of the Internet and online dating, I wondered, were people increasingly emailing Shakespeare’s heroine?
Now, we do receive some emails, but mainly letters; writing by hand is more intimate, especially if you talk about love, feelings, and emotions…. We answer all the letters, by hand.
Eleanor had been a huge help, arranging not only for me to meet this year’s Dear Juliet winner but also for me to stand on Juliet’s balcony and date “Romeo.”
Whatever the outcome, I reasoned, it would be interesting to see what dating two of Italy’s most romantic men was like. As terrible as it sounds, I suspected I would find dating an intensely romantic man a bit claustrophobic and annoying; all that fetching and carrying and fussing around would get on my nerves. Either that or I’d assume they’d done something really bad and were overcompensating.
I know, why I’m still single is a mystery to me, too.
This year’s Dear Juliet winner was Davide, a Verona man in his thirties. As we waited for him at the Juliet Club offices, we watched a group of women chatting amiably around a huge table, sorting hundreds of letters into different piles. Eleanor told me it was easy to spot which country a letter was from: “French people are very passionate, very romantic. Italians and Spanish like flowery phrases; like South Americans, they are verbose, using a lot of words to say just one thing.”
I wondered if it was mainly the Latin countries that asked for advice about their love lives. Was there some truth in that stereotypical hot-blooded image?
“No, no.” Eleanor shook her head vigorously. “We get letters from China, Japan, Russia…all over. Latin people tend to be extremely forthcoming about their feelings. Americans are the other extreme: They’ll write just a five-line letter saying, ‘She’s blond, I like her, what should I do?’ It’s very frustrating. I want to tell them, ‘Say a little more: Do you know her, does she like someone else?’ It’s difficult to give advice when you know so little.”
British people are resigned to scoring badly in any kind of international personality contest, but I went ahead and asked Eleanor what the British were like. She thought for a moment before answering carefully: “Reserved at first, but then—since they are writing—they become very deep and introspective. It takes them a while to open up, but when they do it is heartfelt.”
Apparently, some think that Juliet is a saint or goddess of love: “People often don’t go into that much detail because they think Juliet already knows their problem. And if their problem is resolved, people come and thank Juliet for her help. An Italian lady left a message at Juliet’s tomb last month saying she had come three years ago single and here she was now, with her new husband. She saw this as a miracle and wanted to thank Juliet for helping her find love.”
Italy is reputedly one of the most romantic countries in the world, yet even here finding a decent boyfriend is considered a miracle. That didn’t sound good.
Then Davide (Date #21) arrived. Just under six feet tall with short dark hair, he had large, soft brown eyes, like huge chocolate cookies ready to be dunked. Davide didn’t speak English, so Eleanor was going to translate for us.
I hadn’t had a chance to read Davide’s letter; I wonder
ed what had made it more romantic than any other that year.
(All translated by Eleanor.)
Davide: “It is not easy to tell people my story, so it took effort to write to Juliet. I had to be sure I was writing to someone who would understand. It started eleven years ago at a moment in my life when I was very alone and sad.
“I was walking through a cemetery and noticed a tomb full of dust that no one had taken care of for many years. I started cleaning it, and as I cleaned I uncovered a picture of a young woman on the grave. I saw by the inscription that she had died in 1927 when she was twenty-three, my age at the time I found the tomb.
“I have always believed in another life, but, as I cleaned, I had a strange and powerful feeling that Elena—the young woman in the grave—was calling me to take care of her.
“So I did.
“And, little by little, in addition to the sense of compassion that compelled me to look after her grave, over the years another feeling for her developed: one of true love.”
Davide stopped talking and looked at me shyly. I realized that the entire time he had been telling his story, I had been holding my breath. I inhaled sharply and blinked hard. I couldn’t believe what he was telling me, but I knew I had to say something or he’d close up.
“So you fell in love with Elena after you stumbled across her grave?” I clarified in a neutral tone. “Why were you in the graveyard in the first place?”
Davide explained he was there because he was in love with a real girl who sold flowers outside the cemetery. The feeling wasn’t reciprocated, he admitted with a gentle shrug.
As Davide and Eleanor talked, I quickly read a translation of Davide’s letter for the first time. When they finished talking, I showed Davide the translation. “In your letter—which is really beautiful—you say: ‘Her angelic face was covered in years of dust. I was moved and saddened by her image so I cleaned up her grave and bought some flowers.’ ”
Had he ever bought flowers for Elena’s grave from the flower seller as an excuse to talk to her? He said at first yes, but as he fell in love with Elena he’d forgotten all about the flower seller and stopped buying from her.
I asked how much he knew about Elena’s background. Davide explained he’d visited the records office in City Hall and read up on her family, initially with the intention of contacting them to let them know how neglected the grave was. He found she’d been born on the same street as Juliet in the center of Verona. Her father was a trader; she had two brothers and one sister. All were dead now.
As Davide explained, I watched him closely. For the last eleven years he’d been in love with a girl who’d been dead for nearly eighty. Did that make him mad? He looked normal and sweet, but was this the sign of a lonely man or something more sinister?
But as easy as it would have been to dismiss his feelings out of hand and ridicule his situation, I didn’t want to do that. It felt very important that I kept an open mind about what he was telling me. What if he really did love her? And what if loving her didn’t make him mad or deluded but actually incredibly brave to recognize and honor his feelings?
Rather than making assumptions and judging him, I wanted to hear what he had to say. I asked what his friends and family thought of the situation. Also, “when you go to parties and people are there with their partners, don’t you wish you had someone with you?”
Davide shook his head. “Although my family knows, I don’t tell my friends as most wouldn’t understand. I just say, ‘I’m alone, maybe I will find someone one day.’ And anyway, when I go to parties, I don’t mind that nobody ‘real’ is there. I am quite happy.”
I asked what it was about Elena that made him happy. Davide considered the question for a moment, then said: “I feel a deep sense of joy and peace. Even though she can’t speak, she communicates with me. I feel her presence; otherwise this wouldn’t have gone on for so many years.”
He paused, then said simply, “I believe we all have a Soul Mate—just one—either in this life or the next. Sooner or later you meet: This is how I feel about Elena.”
I was moved by Davide’s devotion, though I didn’t agree with his Soul Mate theory. As I see it, when you are young, you go through a lot of fast-changing stages. As you get older, the stages change more slowly and you are in each for a progressively longer time. I believe there is a Soul Mate for each stage. If you are lucky, you find them. If you are luckier still, their stages coincide with yours and you stay and grow together. I suppose that’s why I can be positive and believe there is a Soul Mate out there for me.
With luck, I will find him.
But what if you believed there was only ever going to be one Soul Mate for you, and you found them after they’d died? How incredibly strong or lonely would you have to be to be true to them anyway? Would you live like Davide and be true to your Soul Mate—no matter how hard—or would you just give up and settle for the easier option of a living mate?
I asked Davide how he knew she was The One.
Davide told me that, although he felt connected from the moment he first saw the grave, it was only little by little over the years that he realized how deeply involved he was with her. “She leads me,” he said simply. “She gives me signs.”
“What kinds of signs?” I asked.
“Like encouraging me to write to Juliet,” he said. “I am convinced she wanted me to tell the world about us. I wrote to Juliet about our relationship and the letter was awarded the prize. After the letter was published, a lot of my friends and colleagues saw it and congratulated me. I had done the right thing.”
I asked if he found loving Elena easy.
“No,” Davide replied gravely. “You must feel ready, otherwise it is impossible to live this life. But, if you have been lonely and suffered with that loneliness, you find love where you thought you never would.”
I didn’t want to judge Davide or patronize him with my pity, but it sounded a hard life and I did feel sorry for him. I thought back to the Love Professor observing that when you’ve been single for a long time, after a while anything will do. I asked Davide if—having experienced such a deep love with Elena—he thought the experience would make him more receptive to loving someone living.
He shrugged; possibly, but that person would have to accept his huge love for Elena, otherwise it would not work. Part of his heart would always be devoted to Elena.
One of the things I loved about being in a relationship was coming home and relaxing together, chatting about our days, having someone to share moments and thoughts with. How did Davide and Elena’s relationship work on a daily basis?
Davide explained that he led a normal life; he took fresh flowers to the grave often but not every day. Either way, he always felt connected and close to her. “I’ve always been very reserved, I don’t have many friends. Every time I feel sad or down, I turn to her and she gives me comfort and love.”
I suddenly noticed a ring on Davide’s left hand. “Oh, is that a wedding ring?” The question just popped out.
Davide smiled proudly and touched it gently with the fingers on his right hand. “Yes, with her name inside.”
I wasn’t prepared for this and was deeply shocked. An involuntary groan escaped before I could stop it. I tried to turn it into a more appreciative noise: “Ooooh, did you have one made for her, too?”
Davide nodded and explained that in Italy, after a certain period of time has elapsed, it’s legal for people to dig up family coffins and rebury the remains inside a smaller casket. Davide had dug up and reburied Elena last year. Inside the new casket, alongside her remains, he had placed his wedding ring to her, his name engraved inside.
“Right…” It took me a moment to collect my thoughts. “So, when you put the ring in with Elena’s remains, was that your wedding as well as her reburial?”
“Yes,” he confirmed. “By then our relationship had been going for ten years. I was sure of how I felt and wanted to give her a sign of my love, a symbol.”
&nbs
p; “Davide, did you invite anybody else along to the wedding or was it just the pair of you?” I asked evenly.
“My mother came. She knows all about Elena and is fond of her.”
Davide went on to explain that his mother was at first extremely uncomfortable about the situation with Elena, but “when she saw how happy Elena made me, she accepted and grew to care for her, too.” Initially after the reburial, they felt bad “for disturbing her sleep,” but now they were happy: She was no longer neglected and was being taken proper care of.
As Eleanor translated, Davide reached into his pocket, took out his wallet, and tenderly removed a small black and white photograph. It was Elena. He looked at the picture fondly, before holding it out proudly for me to inspect. It was a copy of the original photograph on her gravestone. A young girl stared shyly out. She looked polite and neat, her hair bobbed short, her face heart-shaped and pretty.
I felt incredibly moved that Davide was showing me the picture, but also unbelievably awkward. I knew I needed to say something complimentary about it, but, honestly, it felt more like I was being shown an old family photograph of someone’s grandmother than the “wallet shot” of someone’s wife.
“She looks very fun-loving and open,” I said after the briefest pause. Were people “fun-loving” back in 1927? I didn’t want to say the wrong thing and offend Davide, but he seemed fine, obviously happy to be able to include her in the conversation: “Her sweet eyes look beyond time and life; I fell in love with her look.”
“She looks lovely, thank you,” I said, handing back the photo. I caught sight of my watch: It was time to go.
“What are your plans for the future?” I asked, as we all got to our feet. Davide said he just hoped for a good life, to find a good job.