Just Looking for Love

By Beth


It was raining.

I remember the rain the most, because I had been determined to go even despite the foul weather. It had stopped everyone but me.

That's right: me, it would not stop. So I went on my adventure alone.

The town was called Montemor-o-Velho, roughly translated to something that what was derived from “The Old Mountain and Wall.” And that's what it was, a few houses skirting a hill with a castle on top. The stone wall on the old mountain. A speck in the distance from Coimbra, Portugal, where I had been living over the past year. Where Coimbra had cell phone stores and shopping malls, this town had rice fields and wandering farm animals. Everyone knew everyone else. There were few visitors.

The nearest train station: perhaps a two hour walk away. But I hadn't quite had enough of castles yet, and the whole day was in front of me. I hadn't minded the idea of walking two hours for an adventure.
I was lucky on my way there. Two women in a car picked me up along the route, displaying sympathy for my wet walk and explaining the pride they had for their little town far from any sort of urban development. I spent the afternoon exploring the storm-soaked castle grounds, watching old fountains overflow, a haze sweeping over countless fields and unoccupied houses. It was a safe town, that was for sure. Quiet, to say the least.

Until I began my trek home.

I had walked for nearly an hour, splashing in puddles, dreaming up romantic stories about the people who lived in the houses far across the foggy meadows. A few cars passed, but not many. Until one pulled up.

Inside was an old man. He was small and wrinkled, not younger than 70. He rolled down the window and signaled to me. “Come in,” he shouted. “I'll take you the rest of the way.”

Remembering the kindness of the two women just hours ago, I didn't think twice to hop in. Inside, the car was warm and cozy. I felt my body thawing through the heat vents, reaching dry satisfaction just one bit at a time.

The man looked at me. “So cold,” he said, with worry on his face. He touched my hand. “Your hands are so cold.”

I smiled and told him I was fine, but he turned up the heat so that it blasted in my face and on my hands. He let his hand linger on the heat knob. Then he slowly returned to my hand again. Then my knee.

He held it there for a moment. I brushed it off, and it returned. It always returned.

His face was calm. He began to ask me where I was from and where I was going. I was familiar with the flirtatiousness of Portuguese men, even older Portuguese men, and tried to wave the gesture as a cultural difference while I focused on his question. I explained how I was studying at the University of Coimbra, and he said he was very familiar with the town and its university. In fact, he used to work in Coimbra, and knew the drive from Montemor quite well. He also was familiar with the train station I was heading to. I listened to him with the acute concentration of a foreigner, but it was hard to ignore the movements of his fingers. The way I felt them pulse on my knee.

He looked at me. He looked at me for longer than he needed to. I told him to keep his eyes on the road.
“You are so beautiful,” he said to me. “I'm just a young boy, you know. A young boy, looking for love.”

I could have smiled...but I was busy trying to figure out how I could communicate to him that I wanted to walk from here.

But he insisted to take me the rest of the way. The train station was not a far drive, and it was too rainy for me to be outside. And the car was so warm...

He kept looking back at me, these long gazes. He held my knee and rubbed it. He offered me a ride all the way back to Coimbra in exchange for a kiss. I told him the train station would be just fine.

When we approached the station, I let out a long breath. I knew the ride was almost over. I didn't feel endangered, per se. There was little he could do to harm me- he was too feeble, and anyway, Portugal was not known to be a dangerous country. Yet I was still pretty...grossed out. He smelled like my grandfather. I imagined my grandfather hitting on me in a small car in the middle of Portugal. I withheld a gag reflex and tried to maintain my composure.

At the station he continued driving at a steady pace. In fact, he passed it.

“Did you want to get off here?” He asked.

“Yes,” I told him.

“Okay. Then give me a kiss and I'll let you out.”

I wasn't sure if there was a way to avoid this. Either I gave him a kiss, or we drove around with his hand on my knee for what seemed like it could be the rest of my life. I weighed my options. Would I see this man again? No. Would I make his day, a young girl giving him a little peck on the cheek? Maybe. Could it be some form of payment for the free ride he just gave me, saving me from a long, cold walk outside? Okay, probably so.

I turned to kiss him, his cheek stubble in my line of vision. His agility surprised me. At the last minute he shifted his head, and I kissed him smack-dab on the lips. SMOOCHHHHHHH. It was about as wet and as delicious as you can imagine, sweet, juicy apples on a crisp September morning. Crunch. Slurp. Smack. Gulp.

I looked at him in horror, jumped out of the car and ran to the train station. The ride back went much faster than I had expected. I laughed nearly the entire way home.