September 2021 – Lisbon, Portugal

I matched with the photographer, a tall, dark, bald, bearded (this will be a recurring theme… one can only go so far off brand when broadening horizons and loosening standards), super cute new-to-NYC-by-way-of-Cali, 35 year old on Bumble the second day of my trip to Lisbon and his last. We immediately had great and witty banter, and he seemed more adorable than sexy via the inter-webs, so the perfect post-relationship, new-to-international dating start.

I wasn’t even sure this was a date: more a couple of wanderers meeting up for some drinks and laughs.  

Since time was limited, we got right to making plans to meet up or a drink.  No weeks of small talk and “WYDs”, no dick picks or ghosting? The efficiency! I was already hooked on this travel dating thing! He had been in Lisbon twice as long as I had, all of 5 days, so he chose the bar we would meet at after we finished our respective EST work days (at 10pm local time).  

We planned to meet around 10:30, at a bar in Bairro Alto he had wanted to go to. I was feeling cute and confident in my blue romper and red lipstick and debated if I should wear sneakers or sandals.  I had yet to venture to Bairro Alto (see: day 2) but figured since I was taking an Uber, sandals would be fine.    

My Uber dropped me off as close to the bar as possible and the driver explained cars weren’t allow in the area, but pointed to where I needed to go.  Trusty google maps in hand, I texted the photographer I was heading to the bar and he said he was too.  I wandered up and down the same uphill block a few times before texting the photographer that I was at the address, but couldn’t find the bar. He said he was also at the address… but couldn’t find the bar.  But… we were not in the same place.  

Assuming he was familiar with every nook and cranny of the entire city, I sent him a photo of where I was and thought he would know precisely where I was and how to direct his white steed to come save me. Apparently he was neither a white knight, nor Luis and Clark, but he was the next best thing: familiar with WhatsApp location sharing and told me to go to the closest bar and drop a pin. So, not a Disney Prince, or discoverer, but he was coming to me and after years of real NYC dudes (not recent transplants like the photographer, who would probably go to the dark side soon enough, but that wasn’t my business of concern) that was quite refreshing.  

So, I wander in to the first bar I see and am the only person there.  It is 10:30pm and I am the only person in the bar… sketch, but I would soon be joined by a strange man I met on the internet a few hours earlier in a new city in a country I had to Google, so everything was fiiiiine.  

The photographer showed up halfway in to my first  drink and as I turned he smiled and immediately the notion of “more cute than sexy” went right out the window. Lawd above and below, that smile was sexy. Combined with the continued banter and wit, and ridiculously adorable cuffed jeans and punny T-shirt he had on, I was suddenly smitten kitten.  

We decided to stick it out in the empty bar because the bartenders were fun and the drinks were strong.  Not long in to our date (yeah, that smile and subsequent hand on my knee confirmed this was in fact a date-date) a group of three Irish girls came in to the bar and the 5 of us were doing shots together. Then I was outside smoking cigarettes (oops) with a group of VERY drunk UK boys talking politics and encouraging one of them to fulfill his dream of visiting Montana.  

When I went back inside, which had filled up, the photographer was behind the bar plugging in his phone to take over the “DJ’ing”.  I was in my feels thinking how amazing Lisbon was and how happy I was, for the first time in a while, when my phone lit up.  

I looked down, and there it was, for the first time in over a month: my very recent ex’s name.  

I stopped breathing. I actually stopped breathing. I felt like I was hit by a truck.  

Do I read it? No! Of course not! Live your life, you are out here and happy and living and thriving! DoNotReadIt…. I read it.  

Of course I read it, I am clearly a masochist.   

What did this man have to say after nearly 6 weeks of zero contact? “I am pretty sure you gave me Chlamydia” excuuuuuusseeeee meeeeeee??  

He went on to explain himself and why he believed this foolery to be true – it was not, for the record.  

I looked at that text message, I read it twice. I closed that text message.  I looked at this man jamming behind the bar in a city I randomly decided to come to for months on my own,  smiling at me, and I decided right then and there I was taking him home with me (should he want to come home with me).  

I was not giving my ex another ounce of power. Not a crumb of validation. Not a moment of my peace.  

I did what any strong, empowered, red-lipstick-wearing, with a new man, in a new country would do: I took a whole bunch of selfies with said new man and posted them to my Instagram stories that my ex had been religiously watching! HA! Take THAT ass hole! (okay, so not my proudest moment, but I am not above being petty and it felt SO good in the moment).  

Once that very mature act of petty empowerment was completed, I went back to having an amazing time with the photographer.  

An amazing time that had us drinking in the bar with the lights out and door locked (Lisbon took COVID restrictions and closing times very seriously) and sneaking out the back door an hour after closing time.  

An amazing time that lead to us being shooed out of the nearby park we took the party to by the police.  

That lead to us taking an Uber back to my Airbnb.  

That lead to an epic make out in the shower (that was not on… our too-tall-too-big drunk selves just wanted to see if we would fit in it… we did) 

That lead to an ahhhhmazing time. 

A full-on Stella-got-her-groove-back-while-eating-praying-and-loving time.  

A time so good, I thought it was incredibly sexy the photographer licked my foot, instead of being concerned about his health and safety (see: sandals in Bairro Alto). 

A time so good, the photographer missed his flight the following morning.  

A time so good, I texted my ex back and confidentaly told him to fuck all the way off.  

I had arrived and had no intention of looking back.