Love Canal

According to Mr. G & T, I’m an idiot. I often agree with that assessment, as there has been a great deal of evidence of this fact throughout the years he’s known me. After all, I met him the night before I embarked on a European vacation to go see a tubby older gentleman forever known as the Dutchman. That incredibly defining relationship crumbled after a few years of depression-induced codependency. However, he did pay for my tickets to come see him. So, apparently I was worth the airfare. Then there was the previously discussed Norwegian. He wanted me to be his baby factory and live in a flat above his parents. He paid for my flight too, although I paid the fee to change the ticket departure date...

So, apparently I’m a sucker for international booty call.

Last August, in a crappy Marriott Courtyard near Detroit, Michigan, I met someone. As I was walking back to my room, I noticed someone trying unsuccessfully to unlock what appeared to be my door. I hadn’t yet seen my roommate, but based on the teeny silver sandals laying in a heap on the floor, I’d assumed it was a female roommate. However, this bespectacled gentleman did not appear to be the owner of said footwear. Rather than any sense of caution, I acted saucily, and a flirtation was borne. Throughout the four days that he was at the associate auctioneer conference, which overlapped my training, we sought each other out, sharing meals and conversation. I told my roommate (a Canadian called Jan) “I sold him in the first five minutes, he’s yet to sell me…” Which wasn’t really true, as I found myself hoping to see him throughout the day, during the ten minute breaks which were few and far between, and feeling a great deal of jealousy for the girl to his left at the final evening’s dinner party. I ran off without saying a proper goodbye that night, concerned both with the completion of an assignment due the next day as well as my own confused desire. In a rather piss poor attempt to make up for my nerve-induced disappearance, I slipped my contact information underneath his door, which happened to be right next to mine (and which I later learnt was occupied solely by him...) He emailed me within a day of his leaving, and over the past year, we have continued our flirtation via phone calls and email, leading my friend Stephen to bestow a nickname on my gentleman caller: Internet Jim.

Attempts to see one another again have been unsuccessful, the timing being difficult for two people who work on ships and calling different countries home. Because, of course he’s not American. That’s not how I get down. He’s British, and I’m sure I probably get a fake accent whenever I talk to him, sounding more and more like Madonna every minute that passes (which I suppose is fitting, considering our initial Motor City meeting). We’d loosely planned on meeting up during my vacation from this current contract, as I was to have two months off and money in my savings account. I vowed that we’d see each other by New Year. However, that too became unlikely as I’m going to be starting a new six-month contract in November. Yet, all hope was not lost. He’s in dry dock for ten days in October, the first time he and I will be on dry land at the same time for more than 48 hours. And the destination is as much of a draw as the person waiting for me at the airport.

I’m going to Venice. As a student of fine art, art history, and architecture (and I actually graduated...a surprise to Mr. G & T), this is paradise. One of the few tourist destinations that I’ve always dreamt of going, but never thought possible. I always figured it would sink well before I’d have the chance to go. There is the nagging fear that I’m going to be making European Mistake #3; and ironically enough I’m nervous that my significant nerves will limit my enjoyment of the place as well as the person. Yet I also know that I’ve learnt from my past choices. Should things not go well, I plan on sightseeing and experiencing the Biennale, as well as the many museums, galleries, and churches which surround the area. I have a back up plan, for once, and am equipped to act on it. This time I also happen to know that the person on the other end of the journey is just as nervous and just as excited to see me, as I am to see them; someone who knows that I am a big nervy nutjob and is prepared for it, and likes me in spite of it. I’m also terribly excited: the food, the wine, the chance to see if instant chemistry sustained over correspondence has developed to something a bit more both in reality as well as in my head...

I bought the ticket today... He’s giving me his half of the airfare when I get there. Just so long as he doesn’t leave it on the bedside table.