Golden hair. 5’9. Curves flowing like the waves in the ocean. 

“I’m the luckiest girl in the world”

7 years older than I was at the time. 25 to 32. 

I was staying at a hostel in Wellington. I’ll never forget when she first walked out. 

Put together. Black turtle neck up to her chin. Slim. Gorgeous. 

Grace in every step. A slightly amused closed lip smile. 

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“I’m from Germany. But my family, they’re vikings. From Iceland. I’m a strong viking hehe look at my muscles”

She was just to die for…

“Oh my god you lived in New York… I just love New York… But it’s just so busy. And something is missing there. But I just love it. Oh you worked on wall street? Where? Wow… Oh you went to Penn? My ex went to yale”

“But get away now! This is wine time! It’s for old ladies! You’re too young hehe!”

Just to die for…

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How did she even end up at a little hostel full of dirtbag travelers in Wellington?

“I’m a lawyer… I went to Cardozo in NYC. I got so bored with Corporate law. My Dad’s a famous judge in Germany. I came here for the summer to do xyz law work for fun. I was going to stay in this hostel for a little bit then get a sublet. But it’s just so fun! Like who would think that a proper 32 year old German lawyer would live in such a place. But it’s just so fun!”

My heart was melting.

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One night everyone in the hostel was going out. She and I were chatting. A couple drinks. Flirting. We went to some little divy dance bar in Wellington. Something that felt like baby’s alright in Brooklyn in the 2010s.

We ended up dancing together. She taught me. Our bodies got close. I can’t remember if I kissed her there or back at the hostel. Either way we ended up leaving together.

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We found somewhere private… A little nook and cranny…

Emily was famous for knitting. Peter (our friend) said it’s cuz she’s sexually frustrated.

He walked in on us…

“WOAH! Guess you won’t need to knit anymore!”

We laughed…

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It’s adventures like this in our youth that makes life worth living. Play. Fun. Different people. Different cultures. Foreign places. Adventure. True adventure.

Emily and I are still friends. After I left Wellington to go surfing for a year in Indonesia I thought she’d come with me. 

She didn’t. Her ex BF in NYC was her real BF. He’s ugly, but stable. I don’t know if she really loves him or not. Her love is different I imagine. Colder, like scandinavian winters. Maybe cozier.

Mine is full of passion. Aficion like the matador in Hemingway’s Sun Also Rises. 

It’s risky, it’s bright and strong like the sub saharan african sun. And cool as a deserts night when the sun goes down.

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In 2020 she called me. After a couple glasses of wine. 

“I just want you to know you were…um… it was the best. When we made love it was the best for me. I was talking to my friends and I just… I just wanted you to know that… Something about the passion. The way you kissed me and touched me. And put your arms around me. I just… I just wanted you to know that…”

We spoke about traveling together around the world. Opening a little vineyard in some nook and cranny somewhere.

We laughed…

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In 2022 we met up for a drink when I was living in Brooklyn for a couple months. She hadn’t aged a day. 

Sparks everywhere. A warm burning passion in my heart and stomach. 

We couldn’t keep our hands off each other. We spoke about sex, deep passion, kept grabbing each others hands in the middle of the table.

One of us had to go or something. She walked me to the subway. 

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“No I can’t meet up like that. I’m a grown lady! I have a boyfriend we live together. You can’t just come over I can’t do that.”

The way she matter of fact and lightly can talk about something so deep is true art.

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In her photos I don’t see her smile much. I wonder if the adventure is stil in her soul. Whether she longs for it. What could become of us and our story. Has it ended? 

She has a kid and lives in a high rise in new york. I don’t see her leave much.

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These sorts of relationships leave me with a deep yearning to keep living. Something about their essences helps me answer… What is this life? What’s the point of giving passion in the first place? Aficion? 

And once you feel it why the fuck do some people give it up… especially when they’re so deeply in touch with it?! 

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The answer, I surmise, is it’s just not intentional. It just goes unnurtured and then it dies. Slowly, insidiously, it dies.

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