by Jennifer Cox
I couldn’t help being flattered, though, especially since the memory of our morning in the airport was still so fresh and real. In the end I opted to reply, but in a way that was light-hearted—friendly but not flirty—and I chose to ignore question twenty for now. As I finished typing, I hovered over the keyboard for an instant. Was this a good idea? Should I just delete it and not reply to him at all? But, stealing a quick glance at my watch and realizing I was running late, I impulsively hit send, and then, grabbing my bags, ran for the train.
The Taieri Gorge is rightly known as one of the world’s classic train journeys. Nearly forty miles of track was painstakingly and gruelingly laid across the beautiful and remote center of the Otago Peninsula at the end of the 1800s. It connected out-of-the-way towns like Cromwell and Alexandra to the coast, allowing trade in and out of the otherwise isolated communities there.
The cargo the train now transported across the region—like steam trains everywhere—was tourists. Over the summer months the wooden carriages were full of Japanese and European visitors oohhhing and ahhhing at the dramatic gorges that dipped beneath the rails, falling steeply away to end in fast-flowing rivers lined by spiky clumps of yellow gorse and broom.
Today was no exception.
I love steam trains. My paternal grandfather worked on the Great Western Railway, and as kids we spent many happy afternoons either traveling up front on the trains with him or going with my parents on lines like the Bluebell in Sussex or the Lappa Valley in Cornwall. The Taieri Gorge train transported me back to my childhood, the plumes of acrid smoke streaming back to us from the engine’s funnel, the soprano whistle echoing urgently through long, dark tunnels.
The whole journey had a homey feel to it. The staff all seemed to be old steam enthusiasts, volunteering out of their love for the trains. The guard gave an on-and-off commentary over the train’s PA system, an introductory “Righteo, folks” alerting us to each upcoming point of interest. He had a butter mint in his mouth, and as he described each new feature, the mint clicked comfortably against his teeth, keeping time with his words like a spun-sugar metronome.
But as much as I was enjoying the journey, I was increasingly preoccupied by a creeping sense of wrongdoing. The heady excitement of this morning’s encounter with Gene and the subsequent email exchange had dissipated slightly, and I was now able to think more calmly about what had happened and put it into a larger context.
Or, to be more specific, a Garry context.
I’d been attracted to Gene, no question, but why? I adored Garry and—although missing him and going through a bit of a weird spell at the moment—I genuinely didn’t want to be with anyone else. So why had Gene made such an impression?
I could blame it on being tired or feeling neglected or even survivor bonding, the way hostages unite to get through their ordeal. But where there might have been elements of truth in all these explanations, they weren’t the real reason. The real reason was less noble and more basic, and it was that Gene—like Garry—was completely my type, so I’d been attracted to him and we’d clicked, instantly and powerfully.
A while ago, back in Europe before I’d met Garry and was struggling to maintain faith in my quest, I’d speculated on what my Soul Mate odds might be: one in how many dates before I met Mr. Right? Then I’d met Garry and had learned—using the Soul Mate Formula—that my Soul Mate odds were 1 in 55. Well, perhaps I should have asked what the odds of meeting two of my Soul Mates were, because sticking to the same formula, I’d inadvertently come up with the answer: 2 in 76.
Because I believed that Gene, Date #76, was my Soul Mate #2.
As the train puffed up hills, and grazing sheep, balancing unnecessarily on rocks, watched us pass with startled but lazy expressions, I tried to put aside my feelings of guilt to understand the chain of events that had led to them.
But no matter how much I tried to rationalize and explain away what had happened, I couldn’t argue with how I felt. Gene, Date #76, was a man about whom my Soul Mate Job Description could have been written. And what did that mean? I’m no good at math—and do feel free to shout out the answer if you know it—but surely there must be some kind of Soul Mate Formula here, which, I figured roughly, would mean if I kept on dating, I would meet Soul Mate #3 by around Date #100.
Apart from all else that was going on, this was actually an incredibly reassuring and exciting discovery: that with the right attitude and effort, meeting your Soul Mate was a demonstrable and calculable proposition. And the longer you applied the formula, the shorter your Soul Mate odds became.
But my Attraction Fraction calculations were suddenly interrupted by a tugging on my sleeve. “You’re for Pukerangi, aren’t you, miss?” the guard was asking me urgently. He sounded slightly concerned, as well he might: I’d been staring out the window wrestling with my thoughts for four hours and hadn’t even noticed the train pull into Pukerangi station. This was my stop and I had a connection to make.
Hurriedly thanking the guard, I scrambled to my feet, grabbed my bags, and in my dazed state almost fell off the train as I rushed to make the Middlemarch bus before it left without me. I found the bus, a small ten-seater minivan, easily: It was the only vehicle in the exposed, windswept parking lot.
Lloyd, the driver, noted my panic as I bustled up. “No need to worry, miss,” he said calmly. “Just you and two others getting on. We’re not going anywhere without you.”
I smiled my thanks and, realizing I must be radiating a slightly manic air, attempted to get aboard in a manner that denoted both composure and dignity. But as I found a seat and dumped my bags on the floor, I realized that in my hurry to get off the train I’d left my laptop behind. My laptop, with my files, photos, emails and itineraries—my life—on it. Count your bags on, count your bags off is the first lesson any traveler learns.
Furious with myself for being so distracted and disorganized, I hurtled off the bus past Lloyd and sprinted across the gravel toward the train, which was slowly shunting out of the station. Shouting up at the driver, I asked if he could stop so I could jump on and retrieve my computer.
I scrambled on and off the train; then, laptop safely back in my possession, I meekly returned to the bus. Lloyd had the measure of me after that little display and there was no point in trying to persuade him otherwise.
All four of us—plus bags—safely aboard, Lloyd then drove the bus out of the station parking lot. And as we started our journey across the scrubland plains and stoic, weather-beaten granite of Otago’s barren interior, once again I became lost in my thoughts.
So, if I’d uncovered the Soul Mate Formula, and my Dating Odyssey—leading me first to Garry, now to Gene—had been such a resounding success, why was it that I felt so confused?
The question was rhetorical, really: I already knew the answer. I was Garry’s girlfriend and I shouldn’t be accepting romantic overtures from anyone else. Garry trusted me. He was my Soul Mate, for chrissakes: I’d literally traveled the world to find him. And so what if Gene was my Soul Mate, too? I didn’t need any more Soul Mates—it wasn’t like I was looking to collect a set of them. I just wanted one, and Garry was that one. But by responding to Gene’s email, I ran the risk of starting something I couldn’t finish with Gene and having Garry finish with me altogether.
With a flash, I suddenly realized that this was why Fate had wanted me to keep traveling, to force me to realize that the journey was about more than just finding my Soul Mate. That was just the first—and, in a crazy way, the easiest—stage of my adventure.
Fate had shown me conclusively that the Soul Mate Formula worked: The right effort and attitude could and would lead to Mr. Right. But unless I wanted to keep on meeting Mr. Rights forever, I also had to have faith that I’d met The One, stop applying the Formula, and move on to the next stage of my journey with him.
And the truth was, deep down, putting my heart on the line and running the risk of being hurt again felt like a gamble for this gotta catch a plane girl. Safer
just to keep traveling.
But the journey I’d undertaken hadn’t only led to my Soul Mate; it had also led to people wise about relationships and with faith in love. Having met them, I now had the tools to help me through the scary minefield of actually being in a relationship—if I could find the courage to use them.
Or I could just carry on hedging my bets and travel forever.
Well, as Chester, the professional gambler in Vegas, had told me: “Think about how much you have to lose…set your limit and when you reach it, get up and walk away.” I’d reached my limit now, and I had too much to lose. I had bet all the way up to Date #76, and I didn’t want to play anymore. Garry was The One and I didn’t want to hurt him, I didn’t want to deceive him, and I didn’t want to lose him.
It was time to fold. It was time to close my Date Wranglers’ Little Black Books. The challenge wasn’t playing the Soul Mate Odds from country to country, date to date anymore; it was taking that leap of faith and placing all my chips on Date #55.
I’d really liked Gene, and in other circumstances, who knew…? But I knew one thing for sure now: The answer to “When can I see you again?” question twenty, would be a tactful but unequivocal “Never.” I was hanging up my dating shoes and calling it a day.
I love New Zealand and—even in the midst of my dilemma—was enjoying Lloyd driving us along the deserted roads that crossed the bleak plains and skirted the desolate foothills of the dramatic Taieri Ridge. But I’d just made the decision to end my dating tour; this was a huge deal and I wanted to get the hell out of here as soon as possible. I contemplated my date escape route.
Middlemarch is a lick of a town—a petrol station and a general store—in the middle of nowhere. But I knew a bus went from Middlemarch to Queenstown. I had no idea how often it went, but if I could catch it, I’d be able to fly from Queenstown on to either Auckland or Wellington, and from there out of the country and away.
I walked to the front of the bus and sat on the seat behind Lloyd. “Excuse me, but do you know how often buses go from Middlemarch to Queenstown?” I asked him.
“Just once a day at 5 p.m.,” Lloyd replied in a mildly alarmed way, as if I’d just asked where in Middlemarch I’d be able to buy a Ferrari after 10 p.m.
“Oh, it’s okay,” I reassured him, “I’m booked onto it tomorrow. I just wondered if there was more than one a day.”
“No,” Lloyd said apologetically, as if personally troubled he couldn’t provide more frequent service. “I’m afraid that’s all there is.”
I thanked him and made my way back to my seat. Glumly staring out of the window, I could see we were the only vehicle on the only road for miles. I watched a cinnamon-colored colt race exuberantly around the grass, radiating an absolute joy at being a horse and alive on the side of this desolate mountain. I suddenly felt trapped and more tired than I’d ever felt in my life. Please don’t make me have to do any more dating, I thought earnestly. I had to find a way out. I just had to.
Going back up to the front, I apologized for interrupting Lloyd again. “But I was just wondering,” I asked him, “will we make it to Middlemarch in time for the 5 p.m. bus to Queenstown?”
“Madam,” Lloyd replied solemnly, “we are the 5 p.m. bus to Queenstown. We go right the way through.”
I could have kissed him. Lloyd must have sensed this and, seeking the protection of his steering wheel, hunched over it defensively. This wasn’t going to make me popular, but I sensed an escape plan. “Lloyd,” I said (he was my getaway driver, I had the right to call him by his first name), “I might need to do some explaining, but if I wanted to ride all the way to Queenstown with you tonight, would that be okay?”
“Yes, that’s fine by me,” he replied gravely.
So we pulled into Middlemarch.
I’m ashamed to admit that, when the bus came to a stop, I hesitated in my seat. If my cell phone had been working, I could have just rung and canceled all the arrangements, but we were miles from any phone reception so I was going to have to do it in person. For a moment I was tempted to just stay on the bus, keep going, and sort it all out when I got to Queenstown.
Lloyd had other ideas, though. “Barry and Lorna run the B&B you’re staying at, he runs the garage, too. You could go over and tell them you’re not stopping, but I thought I just saw Barry drive off.”
I felt rightly chastised by Lloyd for thinking of taking the cowardly way out. I got out of the bus and walked across the road to the neat bungalow Lloyd had pointed out to me. Two old men were standing talking outside the general store, but they broke off their conversation to watch me cross the road. This was a small village: If Lloyd knew where I was staying, he—and—everyone else—probably knew what I was doing here, too.
But, whatever. I was more concerned about how I was going to explain to Barry and Lorna why I wasn’t staying at their house tonight: “I seem to have overextended myself romantically and need to leave the country as soon as possible.” I felt so overwhelmed, I barely understood what was going on myself; how I would explain it to Barry and Lorna was anyone’s guess. Or, I suddenly thought, hope erupting like a volcano in my heart, was I going to be lucky enough to find them out and escape having to make any explanation at all?
As I opened the gate and walked up the path to the front door of the bungalow, an intense feeling of guilt and fear washed over me, as if I were a burglar who could be caught at any moment.
Arriving at the net-curtained front door, through a side window I could make out a neat single bed, covered with a candlewick bedspread, a towel folded tidily on the pillow. My room. “Please be out. Please be out,” I whispered over and over again as I rang the doorbell.
The seconds ticked by. Please…please…
I let a full thirty seconds drag endlessly by before breathlessly thinking, Right—no question, they’re out! and bolting back down the path and out onto the street, slamming the front gate shut behind me.
Running back across the road to the petrol station, “Is Barry in?” I asked the young mechanic behind the counter as I hurtled into the office. He stopped wiping a silver wrench with an oily cloth and looked at me suspiciously. “No. He’s at home,” he replied shortly, as if fearing to engage me in conversation.
My heart was beating really fast now. Please don’t let him be home when I turn around, please don’t let Lorna and Barry and the Judge and the Bachelor be sitting in the car outside their house waiting for me, a voice gabbled wildly in my head.
“No, he’s out,” I replied with more certainty than I felt and without turning around to check.
“Oh,” the mechanic replied dully.
He studied me through half-downcast eyes. He almost certainly knew why I was here. It was as if he was refusing to make eye contact with me for fear I’d leap over the counter, rip the wrench out of his hand, and ravish him where he stood.
Well, frankly, if he wanted ravishing, he’d have to take a ticket and wait his turn.
“Can you please give him a message?” I asked politely in my best I am respectable, you know, posh English accent.
“Sure,” the mechanic replied, though clearly he was anything but.
“Please tell him Jennifer came by and she’s very sorry, but something came up and she’s not going to be staying. Please tell him I’m very sorry,” I repeated. “Tell Lorna, too,” I added guiltily.
“Okay,” he said, making full eye contact for the first time and looking surprised.
“You got that?” I checked. He nodded, looking down again now as if I’d already left.
Suddenly elated, I rushed out of the garage and jumped back onto the bus that was waiting on the forecourt, engine running.
“Everything okay?” Lloyd asked as I collapsed into my seat. I nodded, too wired to talk.
“Want to use the restroom before we go?” he inquired. I looked at Lloyd in wide-eyed amazement. Was he insane? I could be dragged off the bus and made to date the Bachelor of the Year at any moment. We didn’t have time
for me to go to the toilet. We needed to leave this very moment.
I shook my head and the automatic doors whirred shut. And without being pulled over by the police, sirens blazing, giving me the choice of dating the Bachelor or serving a long stretch in jail for wasting police and everyone else’s time, we quietly drove out of Middlemarch. After fifteen minutes, we started climbing up into the mountains. And Middlemarch was lost in the distance.
It was over. I couldn’t believe it. My journey was over. All those dates; all those adventures; all those people; all those places. It was over. I was going home.
It had been quite a journey: the skaters; the Vikings; the midnight-sun sauna; the festival in the desert; the fires in the mountains; the Elvis impersonators; the surfer; the ravers; the Romeos…all those bloody boats.
It had been an emotional journey, too: learning to trust my instincts and know that because I’d made stupid mistakes in the past didn’t mean I was going to make them forever.
And realizing how wonderful my friends were and how lucky I was to know them. I go on about how technology made the journey possible, but, really, it was my friends (and their friends) who had made it all happen. And I’m not just talking about their contacts; accepting my friends’ and family’s support and realizing the value of their advice had been an important lesson in itself.
Just at that moment, from inside my bag, my cell phone gave a little cheep. Now down from the mountains and driving through lush green valleys where farms were fringed by wide rivers, their water cold and fresh from the mountains, I finally had a signal on my phone. Phew, I was back in the world again.
I took it out of my bag, and there was text from Garry. I knew he’d be packing up after a basketball game, with Jon, Doug, JR, OB, and the rest of the crew. sorry I’ve been so busy: I want u 2 know how v important u r 2 me, it read.
I gave a wobbly little smile and felt the tears sting in my eyes. I blinked hard and texted him straight back with my news: dating tour over. thank u 4 being so loving and trusting. am so lucky 2 know u.