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Love in a Time of Concussion

The unlikely love story of a frat boy and a lesbian living abroad.

By Natasa MicovicPublished 2 years ago 19 min read
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Menton, France in the winter.

I like to think of myself as a smart and rational woman, which is why I got married to a man after knowing him for 2 weeks.

Travelling to the Middle East has always been on my bucket list, but doing so as a lone woman is risky -- especially as a pretty, but unthreatening 21-year-old. I have Orientalist fantasies of dancing cobras, expansive sand storms and crowded streets lined with spice-filled bags, which I need to see, but for that adventure, I need a man. The problem is that I'm fatherless and very gay.

Now is the perfect time, though. I'm on a university exchange in the South of France, studying Middle Eastern politics at one of the most prestigious programs in the world. Unlike my home country of Canada, travel in Europe is cheap and easy, so I have to do it. I don’t know when I will have an opportunity like this again.

Enter Colin. Colin is also an exchange student from Canada. Unlike me, the West Coast bitch who grew up eating avocado toast in Vancouver, he’s from Toronto. He doesn’t need much describing: He’s in a frat. You can tell he is right away because he has real big muscles that he dresses with real small shirts and real tight pants. The muscles are a defense mechanism to compensate for things he’s lacking in other departments. I won’t say which departments, but feel free to guess.

He speaks English, which is a blessing because my French is merely conversational. He also has a thing for tall, skinny girls with brown hair and pale skin. He calls them “Snow Whites”. I’m a Snow White. This means that at the exchange student orientation party, Colin is making some big moves on me. By that, I mean he has told me that he's going to win a game of beer pong for me. A real gentleman. He lifts his shirt up to flex his abs in my direction as he wins the game.

He asks if he can walk me to the girls’ dorm complex as the night is winding down, which I agree to. Once there, I sneak him into my room. He asks if he can kiss me. I tell him I’m gay, and that’s where this awkward situation resolves itself. He is shockingly respectful for a frat boy, and comments that he should have known because of my rainbow-colored fingernails and unfitted-wool coat. Dead giveaways, if you think about it. Unfazed, he sinks into my bed.

Surprised by his completely resigned acceptance of my sexuality, I offer Colin some water and tell him that he can stay in my room until he sobers up a bit. He accepts. During this glass of water, we share stories about why we are on exchange and what hopes we have for this semester.

Prior to getting to France, Colin has never been on a plane before, but he hopes to do some travelling while on this side of the pond. He is not finicky about where he wants to go and what he wants to do, but he doesn’t want to go alone. I, on the other hand, have already travelled to 30 countries by this point (thanks to my parents), and have clear intentions of where and what I am going to do. As I tell him my plans, he asks if I could use a travel partner. I pause.

I think about my Middle Eastern travel plans and how this gleaming Anglo-Saxon pillar of a man could serve to simplify them. I then also consider how I have known this man for a grand total of 8 hours. I weigh out the pros and cons in a split second. Something about his droopy eyes and currently limply-intoxicated body indicates to me that he is too internally-sad to hurt me. I also know that his sheer appearance will serve to put off predatory men abroad. So, I tell him I’d be happy to have him as a travel partner.

I ask him if he wants to go to Lisbon because I know there’s a good deal on that flight. With the smile of a little kid, he agrees. I book two tickets for a week from now. Nothing like making plans for world travel with a guy you met 8 hours prior, am I right ladies?

Well, as usual, I am right.

In the week leading up to our trip, Colin and I make arrangements to go well-beyond Lisbon. Lisbon is simply the first stop in our 4-week frolic through the Iberian Peninsula, the Balkans and North Africa.

Before departing for Lisbon, Colin and I get to know each other better in our town of Menton. It is all you picture it to be: Pastel pink buildings, cobblestone streets, dome-shaped cathedrals and the smell of the Mediterranean Sea. But it's a tourist town, which means it’s only exciting to be in 4 or 5 months of the year. The rest of the time, it’s dead.

So, we take the train to Nice, the closest big city to Menton. It's theoretically only a 45-minute train ride away, but the train frequently stops between stations to be raided by anti-migrant police, looking for refugees trying to cross from Italy to France. The migrants run into the bathrooms, the police teargas them, and everyone else sits back and informs their employers or wives that they are running late to whatever function they are on their way to because of yet another migrant raid. Though my olive skin and curly hair occasionally bring me migrant-like scrutiny, Colin’s paleness sitting next to me is always sufficient to absolve me of any suspicion.

In Nice, we go searching for travel backpacks, which we quickly find. A few days later, realizing that Menton is a mere 2-kilometer seaside walk from the Italian border, Colin and I decide to go see Italy. I find significantly cheaper groceries, Colin finds significantly cheaper booze, and we are both happy. Even on this sunny day, the wind blows ocean breeze into our faces, as my hair flails wildly. The sunshine dries the splashes on my face, so that only the crusty sea salt remains.

In these 7 days, one of which is my birthday, I become increasingly sure that Colin is going to make a great travel partner. He has a good heart and certainly cares for me. For my birthday, he buys me Menton’s specialty, a lemon tart. Then, he forces half of the boys’ dorm population to come out and sing me happy birthday on the beach. An incredibly sweet gesture.

As the boys leave, Colin and I sit on a bench on the beach. He opens up to me about his tumultuous upbringing and how he feels he is bound to have problems with drug addiction. He tells me about his sister’s eating disorder. I imagine these things contributed to him becoming the stereotypical frat douche. I also realize that his emotional development must have been stunted at some point, which explains why he is, in many ways, absolutely immature. It also accounts for his childlike wonder, though.

On the day of our trip, we get to the airport well in advance of our flight. Our train ride was unhindered by a migrant raid this time. In preparation for takeoff, we send each other copies of our credit cards, health insurance and passport. I mention to Colin that I have anemia, which can cause me to faint occasionally. In turn, Colin tells me that he has an alcohol dependency, which can make him irritable if it isn’t satisfied. This is not the best news to hear at the boarding gate of our flight to Lisbon. I know that the Croatia and Portugal legs of our trip will be fine for Colin, but alcohol is hard to come by in Muslim-majority countries, and I worry what is to come there. I am not ready to deal with Colin’s withdrawal in North Africa.

We land in Lisbon late at night, and immediately discover it to be the happiest place on Earth. It is lively at 2am, and all shops and eateries are open. It's aesthetically beautiful, the people are friendly, and they have amazing pastries for dirt cheap. Everything is cheap, actually. Colin and I snag a private room in a penthouse overlooking the Atlantic Ocean and the rest of Lisbon for 10 euros a night. The only catch? No elevator. This makes our first night in Lisbon a true test of cardio, as we lug our 11-kilo backpacks up 12 grueling flights of steep stairs.

In the penthouse, everyone assumes we are a couple. It irks me a little because, even if I was straight, there is no way Colin would be my type. But whatever. I understand why people think what they do. After all, we rent rooms with one bed most of the time because finding reasonably-priced rooms with two beds is difficult. Also, explaining our predicament to others is too complicated, so we don't bother. Colin even asks if I would be comfortable with him telling his friends back home that we are dating, or at least sleeping together. He says he’d get made fun of otherwise. I don’t care what people I will never meet in Ontario think of me, so I tell him to go for it. After all, we are sleeping together; we're just not sleeping together.

Prior to our first night, I genuinely think I won’t mind sleeping beside Colin in a large bed. He isn’t creepy in any way, and we both know what the situation is. I am prepared to turn a blind eye to his inevitable morning erections, if he agrees to look away when I change my clothes. What I am not prepared for, though, is the overwhelming stench that emanates from Colin’s decrepit shoes. Luckily, my nose adjusts within three days and blocks out the odor.

Lisbon amazes us. We eat our way through grilled sardines, octopus and stuffed fish for unbelievably cheap. We drink 1-euro beers at some of the liveliest bars you’ll ever see. We get huge boxes filled with queijadas (sweet, indescribably-delicious cheese pastries) for close to nothing. Colin is never without a beer in hand – his “walking cerveza”, as he calls it. He’s so manageable this way.

We see sprawling palaces, where just about every other person offers blonde, blue-eyed, and obviously touristy Colin, hashish. After politely declining drugs, we hop on an e-scooter to make our way to the next stop for the day. One day, we end up at a fortress. We climb it and see the most incredible red-roof views of Lisbon. Another day, we end up at a tram that takes us up to some cork and pottery shops on a winding hill. Along the way, we see dances, live music and general joy emanating from the Portuguese. It’s contagious.

In about a week, we will be in Morocco. We are flying first from Lisbon to Split, Croatia; then going to Tangiers, Morocco via a series of ferry trips.

As we do a bit of googling, we discover that our low-cost strategy of sharing a room and bed might not fly in North Africa. Though not as strict as others in the Middle East and North Africa, Morocco and Tunisia are still predominantly Muslim countries. This means that unmarried couples can encounter troubles getting shared hotel rooms and doing activities. Colin and I are in a bit of a pickle, but we aren’t going to let this stop us. Colin is so enamoured with the concept of travelling with me by now that he is prepared to do anything to continue it.

Colin and I talk, and we completely agree: We have no choice but to get married.

I guess I’m exaggerating because we aren’t completely crazy. I'm not ready to give Colin half of my cryptocurrency holdings in the very likely event of a divorce, nor am I ready to inherit half of his student debt. We decide that we won’t do it legally or formally; we’ll fake it. In the unlikely event that some Moroccan man asks for proof, I will use my forgery skills to falsify a Canadian marriage certificate on Photoshop. Colin, on the other hand, will do his best to make it seem like we are newlyweds.

On our last day in Lisbon, Colin and I split up for the first time. He tells me to stay at a restaurant patio, while he goes to find a bathroom. First off, we are at a restaurant with a bathroom, so there is no need for Colin to run off. Second, Colin is a terrible liar. As he tells me he is leaving, his grin is enormous, and the tone of his voice is completely different. I know something silly is to come, but I don’t know what. He disappears into an H&M and comes out a few minutes later empty-handed. We finish our drinks and go back to our penthouse.

There, Colin asks me to cook something nice for dinner because he can’t make anything beyond microwaved ravioli. I buy a John Dory and stuff it with lemons and fresh herbs. I roast some potatoes and put together a salad. He helps with the chopping, as usual, but then disappears again. What I don’t know is that, while my fish is roasting, Colin is scattering rose petals and lighting candles up the stairs to the rooftop deck of our penthouse. He is about to propose.

When dinner is ready, I make my way up to the deck with fish guts on my shirt. The lit-up skyline of Lisbon is stunning, but the moment’s potential romance is offset by Colin’s choice of music. It is, as usual, Nate Dogg. I have gotten used to that, though, and understand that Colin has good intentions – he just isn’t a romantic. He is a 22-year-old straight guy, who has never had a relationship beyond a one-night-stand. But here he is making an effort for a lesbian.

We enjoy the dinner and reminisce about Lisbon. We laud each other for still getting along a week into the 4-week getaway, and for making such a risky and rash travel booking a lovely time for each other.

By this point, I have spent every breathing moment of the last 7 days with Colin. It is shocking how fast his mannerisms have rubbed off on me, and it is even more shocking that I know the lyrics to “I Need a Bitch” by Nate Dogg already. I know the lyrics because that is the song that plays in the background all the time. Whenever Colin and I have a pause in conversation, I get to hear a new snippet of what Nate Dogg needs in a bitch.

This particular night is no different. I make some poetic comment about how the moonlight reflects off of the ocean, and Colin doesn’t really know how to reply, so he says nothing. Nate Dogg, though, says that he needs a bitch with some big ol’ thighs.

I feel bad that I have stumped Colin with my artistic bullshit commentary about moonlight yet again, so I just begin singing along with Nate Dogg about how I need a fine-ass motherfucking bitch with some pretty-ass eyes. This makes Colin happy and we sing along for a bit together, him dancing in his chair with a shoulder-shuffle, me smiling at him. Then, he looks directly into my eyes and tells me that I’m his favorite bitch. Sweet, right?

Leading with that, he gets on one knee and pulls out a set of 8 rings from H&M. He says “Natters, you’re a fine-ass motherfucking bitch, so would you like to pretend-marry me, so that I can continue pretend-blamming you in Morocco without getting stoned to death?”

Hold your tears; I say “yes”. Using ‘blamming’ to mean sex is simply poetic and irresistible.

We run downstairs to find a knife that can cut through the little plastic zip-ties that are holding the rings in place. We pick the ring that looks most believably like an engagement ring. I put it on, and from that point forward (at least for the next 10 days in Morocco), we are Mr. and Mrs. Colin Harper: a newly-married couple on their honeymoon.

Us newlyweds wake up the next morning and walk the twelve progressively-less-excruciating flights of stairs down to the pastry shop beside our place one last time. One last time, we point at what we want to try without using any language. One last time, we successfully get a box full of Portuguese pastries.

With pastries in our bellies, and snacks in tow, we get on our flight to Split.

We land on the Adriatic Coast at dusk and walk the seaside. The old street lights romantically glimmer the night. It is the perfect setting for the beginning of our lives in holy matrimony.

The next day, we rent bikes to make our way to what is apparently the most beautiful beach in Split. During the bike ride, I bike across a particularly slippery patch of sand and lose control of the bike. I end up tumbling down a flight of stairs on the bike. I hit the back of my head against the jagged edge of a stair and pass out. I have no helmet. I wake up a few minutes later to Colin crouching over me with genuine fear in his eyes, his shaking hands covered in blood. Not realizing my own injury, I ask him why he is bleeding.

He tells me to stay where I am, as he flags down a guy standing on his balcony nearby. The tall man comes down from his balcony, sees my tattered clothes, blank expression and blood-drenched shirt, and immediately offers to drive me to the hospital. I feel fine, but the man insists we go with him, and Colin seconds him. I begrudgingly agree.

Colin picks me up and plops me in the car, though I feel completely able to walk by myself. As I arrive at the hospital, Colin receives word that they won’t treat me until they have my passport. The tall man drives him from the hospital to our AirBnB to get my passport, and back again. Meanwhile, I get put in a wheelchair and rolled to a dressing room where my clothes are changed, and gauze is applied to my gashed head. Colin comes back, still panicked, and sits in the waiting room as they take me in for stitches and x-rays.

I start worrying as hours go by that Colin will go hungry, or get irritable because of his lowering blood-alcohol content, but he doesn’t.

I return to the waiting room with a turban of gauze and cloth on my head. I pay my bill; Colin rushes up to me. For the first time, the childlike excitement in his eyes is absent. He looks lifeless and hurt. He has surely been crying, but he won’t admit it. He gives me a hug and tells me he’s grateful I made it. I smile and ask if he’s hungry, to which he smiles softly and replies affirmatively. We go across the street to have a meal, and then he calls an Uber to take us back to our place.

Colin has had many concussions from his days of playing football, so he knows what to do. He bans me from looking at my phone or any other bright lights, and tells me our trip is on pause until I get better – no more landmarks, no more beaches, no more activities. In this nothingness, all we can do is eat. We fill our time with audio episodes of Jeopardy. Colin and I have a mutual interest in trivia, so it works well.

Despite Colin waking me up once an hour to ensure I am not having a brain bleed, these few days are the most peaceful moments of my life. We live in a bubble where stereotypes don’t exist. He is not the frat boy, I am not the lesbian, we just are. We talk about our future plans and life hopes. Colin tells me how badly he wants kids and mentions, through his tears, that I’d make a great mom. Shaken by his large frame crying, I tell him he’d make a great dad, and start crying myself. I realize in that moment that I am in love with the antithesis of my being, but that it’s ok because, all labels aside, Colin is a good human.

Then he says it to me.

He can’t enunciate “love”, but he says “Natters, I luh you”.

I tell him I feel the same.

We cry and then we hug. Then, I do him the straight-girl courtesy of putting my head in his lap – it feels appropriate and I'm used to it by now. I've had to do it a few times already, so that he can clean my wound.

Needless to say, the rest of our trip is cancelled. We go straight back to France, where Colin insists I live with him while I recover and beyond. I do that.

Every day, I realize what a huge capacity for caring he has. We talk, listen, uplift and support each other. Each morning, he brings me an avocado because I like avocado toast. I bake him brownies, do the laundry and manage our spending.

We are a married couple: We trade emotional and mental discourses, dinners, and occasional disputes, but never bodily fluids. My husband wears no ring, but worries about me more than anyone else ever has.

Four months later, the semester is ending and an impending doom of return to Canada is looming. Is this a terminal disease?

We cry nearly every day.

For the first time, Colin refuses to drink. He wants to finally feel emotions, he says. He doesn’t want to go back to his mom and sister when he has me. Neither do I. He tells me he is going to look at internships in Vancouver, so that we can be together again. That makes me happy.

As I get on my plane to Vancouver, I realize I have lost my wedding ring. It has fallen off on my way through customs. A sign that our isolated married bliss can’t last forever.

It doesn’t. The internships never happen. He goes back to Toronto, and finds a girlfriend there shortly after. She seems nice and pretty, so I worry that she’ll steal him from me. She does because she’s the whole package. She provides all I do, as well as bodily fluids. Eventually, I find a girlfriend, too.

He never comes to visit me in Vancouver and we slowly fall out of touch. Apart from occasionally wishing each other happy holidays, we don’t really talk anymore. I miss him, but I’m still grateful and happy for our time together, though I wish I had more of it.

Whenever I wash my hair and feel the spot where the stitches used to be, I think of Colin and how, though I never made it to the Middle East, I found something much more meaningful than dancing cobras: I found the kind of love that only a concussion could bring to a frat boy.

Love
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