Tag Archives: relationships

The Love of My Life Is Hiding In: Berlin

I’m in Berlin and the love of my life might be here, too.

He’s from a small town in Germany, and he actually hates big cities. But he’s here for work, in a field I find boring—finance or something else uptight. He’s a workaholic and, at first, I think he may be boring, too.

The Love of My Life Is Hiding In: Copenhagen

I’m in Copenhagen, and the love of my life might be here, too.

He’s tall and tattooed. Not very attractive, and yet I’m very attracted to him. It’s something about the effortlessness in which he carries himself. He stands out without meaning to, but fits perfectly next to me.

The Love of My Life Is Hiding In: Tétouan

I’m in Tétouan, Morocco, and the love of my life might be here, too.

He’s a writer, maybe. Maybe a painter. Maybe both. Some creative, reclusive type. He works hard at a button-up job that’s fulfilling enough nine months a year so that he can spend long summers doing what he really loves. He rents lonely cottages in foreign villages and empty hillsides and out-of-the-way small towns where he writes things most people won’t ever read or paints things most people won’t ever see.

The Love of My Life Is Hiding In: Stockholm

I’m in Stockholm and the love of my life might be here, too.

He’s the kind of guy that wears eyeglasses because they look cool, not because he can’t see, and turtlenecks, and boots without laces, and long pea coats. I roll my eyes when he glances as his reflection in one too many mirrors we pass on our first date, and call him a pretty boy—which he is—but he’s more than that, too.

The Love of My Life Is Hiding In: Hamburg

I’m living in Hamburg and the love of my life might be, too.

He’s tall and bearded and named something very German like Moritz or Nils or Jan. Much like my French soulmate, he’s a man of the arts. He loves poetry and painting and even dabbles in pottery. We go to an arts and crafts store on our first date and I know right then that it’s true love.

That time I used Tinder to make friends.

AKA what I’m trying to do right now.

And when I say friends, I mean JUST friends. Friends sans benefits.

The Love of My Life Is Hiding In: Paris

I’m in Paris and I’m pretty sure the love of my life is here, too.

His name is Etienne or Henri or something else that only sounds good in a French accent, and he wears a man-bun that I love to hate. He might not want kids but he owns his favorite book in every language (he got them from each country he’s visited, obviously). He’s the still pull out my chair and always (ALWAYS) take out the trash kind of traditional, but could be found cooking dinner on a rare night. Of course, I won’t eat it. I don’t like his cooking.