Clearly, I was quite single when I wrote this... And without kids....

This story was published in Wordwrights.

                                                           When in Europe

The day will have that dreamy, surreal quality--the giant yellow sun, the Matisse-blue sky. And the way he springs, God-like, out of the sea, water dribbling over the tight crevices of flesh.  He will speak and you will know it is not a dream. He will say "Ciao."

You will have a conversation though neither of you speaks a common language. You will gesture, charade, even attempt sign language--all this while your breasts turn from white to pink to golden brown.

Here on the Cote d'Azur people stroll the beaches with baguettes tucked under their armpits, cigarettes dangling from their lips. Women kiss two, three, four times while all around you the French language swirls in the air like a symphony. Imagine returning home, unable to retrieve one word from your native tongue.

"This isn't possible!" Steven will scream at the baggage claim.

"Mais oui," you'll say calmly. "C'est possible."

Over dinner you'll stare at the Italian like you've just been released from prison, which is exactly the way you see the last several years of your life--trapped between stretches of strip malls and video stores, your eyes narrowed behind the bars, waiting, waiting, waiting.

Let him order your fish, your wine. Taste it all like you've never tasted anything before. Wonder how you ever could have polluted your system with day-glo orange snacks from vending machines.  Think of French food as a kind of renovation project going on in your stomach, the baguettes and cheeses laying a solid foundation on your intestinal wall.

On the way home, he'll play Tom Waits on his tape deck and sing to it, but get all the words wrong. You'll feel a wild innocence, your sun-bleached hair blowing out the window, your legs salty and brown.   

At your hotel, spread yourself out on the top of the sheets. Touch the grains of sand between your toes, under your nails. Close your eyes and see his face above you, singing an italian lullaby.

For the next three days it will rain. "C'est bizarre," all the locals say, squinting up at the sky.

Call Steven and tell him you feel incredible. Tell him you are thinking clearly. Tell him the european lifestyle is your kind of thing. Say, "I know it sounds weird but I actually feel French."

He will say, "Maybe you were French in another life." 

Smile at this thought. Say "Maybe." Picture yourself announcing to thousands that you are French in the same way JFK announced that he was a Berliner. Hear the roar of the crowds, the popping of champagne corks.

When he asks you what you've been doing, say, "Just sort of wandering around. Hanging out." Sound vague. "Just being."

He'll ask you what you like best so far and you'll hear yourself say, "the people" though you have only met the Italian.  "The food," you continue. "Just the whole thing." Say, "I can't explain it."

He'll tell you about the cat pissing on your favorite pillow after you left, the neighbors who are still playing the "Phantom of the Opera" soundtrack at 11 every night.  When he says, "I miss you," you'll feel a pang of homesickness which surprises you so much you have to remind yourself why you left him for another country. It was this, it was that, it was when he showed up at your door and said he felt your relationship was at "a point."

"A point?" you had said. 

"You know what I'm saying. Taking the step, the plunge, whatever."  

You'd heard other people describing marriage that way but every time you pictured it you saw yourself doing the Nestea plunge alone into a dry pool. 

What you said was, "Let's just take it day by day." 

You realized how much easier it was in Jesus Christ Superstar when all they had to do was get up on stage and belt out a song about their feelings.  There was Tony and Maria in "West Side Story," Captain von Trapp and Fraulein Maria in "The Sound of Music."  You opened your mouth to sing but inhaled too hard and almost choked on your breath.

Hang up, dismayed with America and all that it represents. Go from cafe to cafe, sipping Pastis, feeling the slow burn settle all around your heart.  Notice how all the waiters here look the same--tall and thin, with slicked back hair. Open your notebook and write, Ou est l'Italienne?  On the next line write, Ou the fuck est l'Italienne? Glance at the waiter who towers over you, dark brows raised."Ca va?"

"Oui," you lie. "Can va bien."

Walk briskly through the cobblestoned town, glancing at your watch every few minutes like you are a woman who has plans in life, a woman who has people waiting for her.

Lock eyes with the decrepid troll-like woman sitting on the sidewalk and wonder how she got that way. Was she too a traveler from abroad, seeking self-discovery in foreign lands or did she just drink too much and not pay her rent?  Look up suddenly--a force from the heavens?--and see the Italian walking towards you--tan arms and legs, eyes green as the sea. He is a vision of light in all this rain, a heavenly being. A thing of beauty, you realize as he kisses you on each cheek. Take him to your hotel room and don't leave for 48 hours.

For a week you will see him every day. You will frolic in the sea and kiss underwater.  You'll think about living on the Mediterranean all your life, snacking on olives and figs and bringing up little naked children.  In the evenings you'll lie together on his towel and look up at the sky, amazed at the number of stars, the brightness of the moon.  Slowly, you'll tell him that back in the USA the sky is so filled with haze that you never see the stars. He will find this sad and strange.  He will ask you why you live there and you will not be able to really answer.  

When you ask him questions he will speak endearingly slow and you will feel a beautiful patience rising in you. Think: this is what my mother means when she says, "If the right person's there, you'll know."  Ah yes, you think. Patience is a virtue. Love is a many splendored thing.