"In Another Life, Andy"

Six hours of a cold Stockholm night that reminded me why I still believe in romance.

I am an unapologetic romantic. I can sugarcoat that definition into something more complex or dip it in cynicism to sound mysterious and masculine, but I can’t escape the truth. I love dinners, flowers, giving gifts, dressing up for shows and events, and spending weeks or months getting to know a woman as emotionally intimately as she’ll allow. For me, romance is not always connected to sex or physical intimacy, but rather emotions, which may sometimes be problematic, but it’s simply how I am.

One of the most romantic evenings I’ve ever experienced was not with a lover, a girlfriend, or someone I knew before. It was brief and unconventional, but it still resonates with me today. On my third night in Stockholm, Sweden in 2022 I wandered into a pub in Gamla Stan (the old city) and sat beside three people speaking English. After listening to a loud American rant about crypto to his disinterested girlfriend, I turned toward the third person, a visibly bored European woman somewhat disengaged from the conversation entirely but politely participating.

I decided to break the ice and talk to her. Within 30 seconds, I was hooked. Martina was a 29-year-old tour guide from Cagliari, Sardegna (Italy), taking a break from life as a classical orchestra violinist. She had straight brown hair, brown eyes, a petite build, and a toothy smile that seemed to accompany every laugh and reaction. She was quintessentially Italian, beautiful, multilingual, and an artist.

If you capture my attention with your thoughts, you capture me…

Language and cultural exchange is the fastest way to get me engaged in conversation, and often how I break the ice with new people when I travel. I’m fluent in English and Spanish, and speak the other romance languages conversationally, with Italian being my strongest outside of fluency. I spoke to her in Italian to capture her attention, and then we moved into Spanish, Portuguese, French, and English. She tried to teach me some Swedish words, and before long the conversation had turned into one about the arts, the architecture of Stockholm, and the nuances of our favorite things to cook and eat in Italy.

When I’m in this zone with women, the rest of my world goes blank. I didn’t notice the others leave the bar, I didn’t notice the time, nor the bill, nor the cigarettes. I didn’t remember where I was or why. Drink, joke, laughter, eye contact, cigarette, story, eye contact, joke, question, light hand touch, cigarette, drink, repeat. Never look at the phone. Never lose eye contact. Never stop expressing. It was just her and I, spinning around words and gestures, staring at the steepled churches of Gamla Stan in September.

Four hours had passed in the pub and they did last call. We looked up at the brightened lights like an intrusion, an affront to our convo, a painful reminder of reality. But we weren’t done yet, even though she worked the next morning and I had to catch a train to Gothenburg. She told me she lived outside of the city and was going to stay with another Italian friend, Annalisa, and didn’t want to keep her up too late. I pleaded with her to give me two more hours of her time. She agreed, but only if Annalisa was OK to come meet us. She did.

The three of us met up at the metal bar and got a table in the basement by the stage. The bands had left for the night and instead of metal they blasted ABBA and sold beer in Viking-sized glasses. We spoke in mostly Italian to accommodate Annalisa who smirked and moved her eyes when Martina and I flirted. Then the hammer dropped. Martina told me she has a home in Germany. I asked who was staying there while she was in Sweden, and she said “my husband”. Silence. That’s all I could muster before making a somewhat flippant, polite “oh, wow, you’re married?” comment to break the tension.

You don’t make the rules, but you have to accept them

There always seems to be a catch when it comes to me and romance. There’s always a foil, a thorn, an unmentioned detail that derails everything. And maybe that’s why I chase it so much. I’m trying to outwit reality, to out-romance the barriers and boundaries, and it seldom works. This one felt particularly unexpected. Was I misreading the vibe that much? Why not mention this five hours earlier? Was she separated? Is this an open relationship? Was she seeking attention and validation from others where it lacked in her own life? I had no idea, but I had to ask politely.

“Oh, so are you separated while you live in Sweden?” I asked. “No, but we got on each others’ nerves during COVID, so some time apart has felt good, but I miss him.” I accepted that, and though disappointed, kept the conversation going until it was time to part ways. I’d only invested an evening into this stranger, so it was no big deal. There was no heartache, no hurt, no anger, but just a calm acceptance that for whatever reason, these feelings were just a moment to be had by both of us.

I also accepted that the romantic side of this entire encounter could have just been my interpretation, not hers. She flirted, sure, but people flirt when they’re out, people engage. She may have been interested in me in a way that’s totally disconnected from any deeper romantic desire or attraction. I’m not that arrogant to think otherwise. However, I can’t ignore my own feelings, and whether I misread her or not, I know what I felt. This was a pleasant, lightly emotional, deeply intellectual connection and it felt amazing to me.

Then, it was time to say goodbye…

Annalisa said goodbye first with a hug and a double cheek kiss (Italian) in the dimly lit corridor outside of the centuries-old Swedish tavern. She then walked towards the street corner to wait for her friend. Martina approached for the same, but stopped short, inches away from me, before leaning in. She stood there in the cold air, cheeks reddening, eyes open widely, and we looked at each other without a sound or movement for what seemed like a year but was most likely just seconds.

I broke the silence with one last shot. I fired off a hail Mary, you only live once, risk it all type invitation: “Come to Gothenburg with me tomorrow.” She laughed: “You know I can’t.” Of course I knew. I always know. But it never stops me. She then leaned in, put her finger across my lips vertically, and kissed her finger in a way that was so dangerously close to breaking her rules that I could feel the warmth of her breath cut right into mine through the chill Swedish autumn air.

She then said four words that stuck into me like a beautiful dagger: “In another life, Andy”. We smiled, she winked at me, and then she walked away as I froze there staring at two giggling drunk Italian women vanish into the dark, glancing back twice, then gone. I stood alone outside the bar for another five minutes or so, smiling to an audience of no one at the story this evening had given me. I didn’t look at it as a failure, but rather a lesson in attraction, self-awareness, human engagement, and acceptance. It was almost satirical in nature, but still felt good.

That, ultimately, is why I remain an unapologetic romantic. Romance is not always about “getting” the woman, crossing the line into sexual intimacy, or turning a moment into something permanent. Sometimes it is simply the willingness to be completely alive with another person while the world disappears around you. Martina was never going to be the love of my life, but for six hours in Stockholm, she reminded me why I keep risking the awkwardness, the disappointment, and the inevitable return to reality.

Reality was that “another life” never came for us. This one did. And for one cold September night, beneath the steeples of Gamla Stan, it gave us everything it could.