Romantically Challenged

by Sami Lukis

  I briefly thought about texting my GPS coordinates to my mother back in Brisbane but I realised that might set off some major alarm bells and lead to a chain of events I could not undo, possibly involving Interpol and a very expensive international rescue mission. So I took a deep breath and hoped for the best.

  When we reached the end of a very long driveway, I saw the strangest thing – two ginormous topiary sculptures. One was shaped into the number fifteen. The other was a full-sized topiary motorbike. I knew, in that moment, that we’d arrived at the home of someone who was famous either for riding motorbikes or for owning a company that makes them. I quickly phoned my flatmate, Steven, who’s obsessed with motorbike racing and asked him if he knew of a Spanish motorbike rider, who might have some connection to the number fifteen.

  ‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘Sete Gibernau. Why the fuck are you asking me that? I thought you were in Europe?’

  ‘Yep, I am. And I think I’m at his house. And, oh my god, I think he’s standing in front of me half-naked right now. Gotta go. Thanks. Bye!’

  There was a shirtless, delectable-looking guy standing at the end of the driveway, covered in mud, hosing down a dirt bike. We parked the car, got out, and BB1 introduced us to the hot dirt-bike dude. Sure enough, it was his dear friend, Spanish Moto GP champion Mr Sete Gibernau. Standing there covered in mud, Sete very politely welcomed us to his home and thanked us for agreeing to join their party on the yacht. He invited us to look around while he disappeared to shower and change.

  It was a spectacular contemporary Spanish villa and looked like something straight out of the pages of European Vogue Living. As I stood there and took it all in, I thought to myself, How the fuck did I end up here?

  Then I noticed some photos scattered around the living area of our host with a strikingly beautiful woman. She looked familiar. I knew I’d seen her face. Like, a lot. I asked BB2 who she was.

  ‘That’s Sete’s ex-wife. Esther Cañadas. The Spanish supermodel.’

  Yes. Right. Of course she is. Could this day get any fucking weirder?

  They had only recently divorced but, as a couple, these guys were to Spain what Posh and Becks are to the UK. Or what Beyoncé and Jay-Z are to America. Or what Bec and Lleyton are to’Straya. Totes Celebrity Royalty. They would probably have their own Brangelina style moniker, if anyone could think of a good one. Seteñadas? Esthernau? Giberñadas?

  See? It doesn’t work.

  Well, things got even weirder when we arrived at the marina to board Sete’s stunning yacht. And we realised that our wild party consisted of five people. Me, Mary, BB1, BB2 and Sete. That’s it.

  I was kind of hoping the party I’d just driven two hours from Barcelona to attend (and possibly risked my life for) might resemble something more like the opening scene of that Entourage movie: a bevy of beautiful people gathered on a mega-yacht, partying like rockstars, with a jacuzzi, a private DJ and copious amounts of champagne. But, instead, it was just the five of us, and some music being played off someone’s iPhone in the corner.

  I don’t know what happened to the other guests. Or if they even existed in the first place. Maybe something had been lost in party-invitation translation. Mary and I had a good laugh about it but, to be honest, we were just excited to cruise around Costa Brava and enjoy the magnificent scenery and the company of our lovely new friends.

  Just when I thought things really couldn’t get any weirder, the day hit a whole new level of bizarro when I discovered, much to my horror, that there was only one bottle of champagne on board. And no other alcohol. I shit you not.

  I would have happily brought my own, but the guys told us not to bring a thing. And, look, I don’t want to appear ungrateful or anything, but how on earth did they think five people were supposed to survive on a yacht for several hours on just one bottle of champagne? I mean, seriously. Had Sete spent all his money on the topiary?

  They didn’t scrimp on the food, though. The most enormous dish of paella I’ve ever seen in my life appeared and I am not exaggerating one bit when I tell you that the dish was the size of an average car bonnet. Basically, it was a fuckload of paella. Maybe they had been expecting more people after all?

  I really don’t know why we were invited on the yacht that day. For a brief moment I wondered if they thought we were hookers (like that Turkish bloke in London) or if they were patiently waiting for our stripper show to start. But these guys weren’t sleazy or rude or arrogant. And they clearly weren’t trying to ply us with alcohol. They were total gentlemen who treated us with the utmost dignity and respect.

  There was a moment when the five of us were sitting around the comically large paella dish, eating and laughing and joking and just enjoying each other’s company and I remember thinking to myself, Now this is what life’s about! Discovering new places. Meeting new, interesting people. And taking a chance on random unexpected experiences like this. It was a moment I’ll always cherish.

  I thought I noticed some subtle flirtatious eye contact from Sete on the yacht, but I couldn’t be sure if he was interested. Every now and then I’d catch him looking at me and we’d share a glance and a flirty smile, but I convinced myself that it was probably nothing. I mean, let’s be honest, how could the guy be attracted to a mere mortal like me, after he’d been married to a friggin’ Spanish supermodel?

  We cruised back to the marina and I could easily have driven back to Barcelona (I’d only had two glasses of champagne all friggin’ day) but we were loving our new friends, so we agreed to stay the night at Sete’s villa. We dined outdoors by the pool. A dinner party for five, and staff to serve it, magically appeared in front of us. Thankfully, this time there was no limit on the amount of wonderful Spanish red wine and I started feeling more and more attracted to our host by the second.

  After dinner, we watched a movie in the private cinema (yes, of course he had a fucking private cinema in his holiday home). By that stage I had a nice little red-wine buzz going on, so when Sete came and sat down beside me, I was tempted to reach across in the darkness and find his hand and take my chances. But I was too shy (plus, I reminded myself, I wasn’t a supermodel). So I just sat there awkwardly beside him, wondering if he would make a move.

  He didn’t.

  After the movie, we all retired to our own private quarters. I had just cosied up in bed and turned out my light when I heard a knock on my door.

  ‘It’s me.’ It was Sete.

  And I thought, Oh my god, this is it. He’s going to come in, grab me, kiss me passionately and tell me he’d been dying to do that all day. And I wouldn’t resist. It would be the perfect ending to an incredible day. And who knows? Maybe it would be the start of an especially glamorous new love affair. I was sure I’d be able to make myself very much at home in this magnificent Spanish villa in Costa Brava.

  He opened the door, looked in and said, ‘Is everything okay? Do you need anything?’

  I froze. ‘No, I’m all good, thanks. Thank you again for a wonderful day.’

  There was a brief pause when neither of us said anything.

  Then he said, ‘You’re very welcome. Buenas noches.’ And he shut the door and was gone.

  The next morning when we woke up, Sete had already left. He’d asked BB1 to pass on his goodbyes. And that was that.

  Mary and I drove back to Barcelona in a daze, wondering if the last twenty-four hours had actually happened.

  I never saw or heard from the Spaniards again. But that encounter will go down as one of the most unexpectedly amazing holiday experiences I’ve ever had. And, most of all, it was a nice reminder that good, kind, decent gentlemen are out there. Even if you have to go to Spain to find them.

  Single ladies, grab a pen and listen up. If you’re looking for a sexy little winterlude, head to any ski resort in Austria. The skiing is sensational. The scenery is spectacular. And there are more men in those mountains than you can poke a ski pole at.

  In villages like Sölden and St Anton (or ‘St Man-to
wn’ as it’s commonly known), the ratio during ski season can be as high as eight men to every one woman.

  The guys are mostly German and Dutch. There are plenty of Poms. And Swiss. And there’s always a good contingent of appealing Scandinavians – lots of Swedes and Norwegians and Danes.

  And it’s eight to one, ladies. Eight to one.

  Maybe that’s why I have no trouble meeting men during my Austrian sojourns. Or perhaps I just radiate a more carefree holiday aura of alpine abandon. Either way, I’m certainly not opposed to the occasional Wiener schnitzel.

  The Euro guys I’ve met have all been chivalrous and courteous and considerate. They seem to take more pride in their appearance than the average Aussie bloke and they usually have a decent sense of style to match. Sometimes there’s a little language barrier, but that can just make the flirtation all the more fun. (Just for the record, I reckon the Norweigens are the hottest. But maybe that’s just my secret Viking fetish?)

  My favourite thing about the men I meet in European ski resorts is that they’re all super fit. Most of these guys could ski before they could walk, so they’re not afraid to literally throw themselves off the side of a mountain and attack the highest, steepest slopes in the Alps. It’s a super intense and often dangerous workout getting to the bottom, so it’s not for the faint-hearted. You know how some girls are turned on by a guy’s eyes or his tattoos or by the car he drives? Well, I’m turned on by a man’s avalanche pack. No, that’s not a euphemism. It’s a backpack filled with beacons, shovels, airbags and any other gadgets one might need to survive an avalanche. If a guy is wearing an avalanche pack, it doesn’t just tell me that he’s an expert skier who pushes his passion to the absolute limits. It also suggests that his man energy is insanely high, with appropriately sized cojones to match.

  I have definitely met more men sporting the avalanche accessory in the Austrian Alps than anywhere else in the world.

  However.

  The one thing that remains the same for me on any continent and at any elevation is that I still manage to attract my fair share of weirdos. There’s clearly no translation issue when it comes to that big fat neon ‘freaks welcome’ sign that always seems to shine so brightly on my forehead.

  Case in point: the Kinda Guy.

  The Kinda Guy was ‘kinda’ this and ‘kinda’ that. And in the end, I kinda wish I hadn’t gone there. I was with Gusband Tim in the ski resort of Sölden. We met the Kinda Guy in the kinda après bar where everyone was dancing on the tables in their ski boots by 4 p.m. Austrian après bars transform into full-blown nightclubs from mid-afternoon, with DJs, thumping music and flashing lights. And those Euros sure can drink. The busiest après bars in Austria sell more beer per hour than any other venues in Europe.

  That bar in Sölden was mostly full of Dutchies. With our blonde hair and blue eyes, Gusband and I blended in nicely. My mum was born in Holland before emigrating to Australia as a young girl, so technically I’m half-Dutch. And Gusband is my pretend sibling, so that makes him half-Dutch too, by default.

  The bar was packed, probably peaking at around 200 people above capacity. Which made it ridiculously unsafe, but also ridiculously fun. You had to do a full-on body-press with every single person you walked past anytime you ventured to the bar or the loo.

  I met the Kinda Guy during one of those random, awkwardly intimate, full-frontal moments. As I squeezed past him on my way back from the loo, our body-press was enhanced by a two-second eye lock. He was cute. And I noticed he was carrying an avalanche pack.

  Bingo.

  The Kinda Guy was from Amsterdam. He had the quiet confidence of a man who knows he’s always going to be one of the best-looking guys in the room. His bulging biceps and rock-hard chest were bursting out of his tight thermal top. He was also very outgoing and incredibly generous – always the first to shout another round whenever he noticed people’s drinks were empty. I did think it was a bit lame, though, when he told me he was ‘kinda’ an entrepreneur.

  While I’m absolutely in awe of anyone who has the skills and know-how to create their own business and forge their own success, I do think it’s a bit weird when someone calls themself an entrepreneur. I feel like that’s a label you should only use to describe other people, not yourself. It’s like Roger Federer saying ‘I’m the world’s greatest-ever tennis player’.

  Regardless, I decided the Dutch ‘kinda’ entrepreneur could be a fun little holiday fling. So when he snuck in a quick peck on the lips as he handed me another flaming Jäger shot, I didn’t resist. It was that unspoken green-light moment. A subtle acknowledgement that neither of us would mind terribly if this turned into something more. I didn’t resist the next time, either, when the peck lasted a little longer. Or the next time, when it turned into a full-blown, embarrassingly PDA-style pash.

  I blame the avalanche pack.

  Then Gusband bought a fourth round of flaming Jäger shots and the afternoon kicked into high gear. I casually mentioned to the Kinda Guy that I was keen to visit Amsterdam one day and connect with my Dutch roots, and he got all serious and said to me, ‘Look, I have to warn you about something. If you look me up on Facebook, you’ll discover something about me.’

  Okay, that was a leap. Just because he’d had his tongue down my throat didn’t mean I necessarily wanted to friend him on Facebook. Still, my mind jumped to various conclusions about what this shocking discovery might be.

  Best-case scenario: he’s a famous Dutch soccer player.

  Not best-case scenario: he’s actually a woman.

  Most obvious scenario: he’s fucking married. Arsehole.

  ‘I’m not married,’ he said.

  ‘So do you have a girlfriend?’ I asked.

  ‘Um. Kinda.’

  He said I’d find photos on Facebook of him with a ‘kinda’ girlfriend. After having an on-off relationship for a few years, they’d recently got back together. But they had also agreed to ‘explore other options’.

  ‘What do you mean, “explore other options”?’ I asked him.

  He hesitated for a moment and then he said, ‘Well, we can have sex with other people.’

  ‘Ohhh. So, you’re in an open relationship?’

  ‘Well . . . kinda,’ he replied.

  I was fascinated to meet a real-life swinger (and a guy who was so attached to the term ‘kinda’). He was shocked when I asked him to tell me how their arrangement worked.

  ‘Are you sure you want to hear this?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ I said enthusiastically. ‘No judgement here whatsoever! I only just met you so I really don’t care what you do in your private life. I’m just curious to know how an open relationship actually works.’

  He told me he and his ‘kinda’ girlfriend loved each other but they both knew they needed something more, sexually. So they signed up to a local swingers group that meets for monthly dinner parties, where partner swapping is the featured dish. Only couples are allowed in the group. And only four couples are invited to each dinner.

  He told me they all dressed up in black tie for the dinners, which sounded like a superfluous amount of effort for people who are only meeting up so they can get naked. Maybe they thought the formal dress code added a level of sophistication to an evening when you’re basically going to watch your partner screw a stranger?

  They enjoyed a delicious three-course dinner and then the partner-swapping sex stuff happened. He said they’d been attending the parties for about six months. So far he’d had sex with three other women. His ‘kinda’ girlfriend had shagged five other men. And they’d also had a few threesomes with other ladies. He laughed out loud when I asked if he’d ever had sex with any of the other guys. It was a hard no on sex with men.

  He said he honestly believed their relationship was stronger with the open door policy. They were both enjoying the experience and they had no plans to go back to a more traditional relationship anytime soon. Finally, he assured me that his ‘kinda’ girlfriend would have absolutely no issue if
he slept with other women on this ski trip. And by ‘other women’, he was referring to me. Then he apologised again. I guess he was worried I might be turned off by his alternative lifestyle choice.

  I hate to admit it, but he was absolutely right. After assuring the Kinda Guy that I was not judgemental, I suddenly felt extremely judgey and I had zero interest in sleeping with him.

  Me: Wow, that’s so interesting. I wanna hear all about your non-monogamous, super modern, open relationship. No judgement from this totally open-minded super cool, non-judgemental gal!

  Also me: Hell, no! There’s no way I’m sleeping with you now. You creepy, kinky, partner-swapping nympho.

  Look, I appreciated his honesty. Really, I did. And he didn’t seem like a sleazebag. But, as open minded and accepting as I like to think I am (and try to be), I just couldn’t go there. I think the fear of STIs was what put me off. Or maybe I’m just not that open-minded after all.

  So I thanked him for the drinks and the fun afternoon and I wished him all the very best for continued fulfilment in exploring those ‘other options’. He tried one last time to convince me to continue our conversation back at his hotel. But I was a hard no on sex with the swinger.

  Then something kinda hilarious happened.

  As I was saying my goodbyes to all our new-found après friends, I noticed that the Kinda Guy was having what looked to be a fairly intimate conversation with Gusband Tim. He was whispering in Tim’s ear and they both looked very serious. Later I apologised to Tim if our new Dutch friend had been harassing him into convincing me to go home with him. But apparently Dutchie had already moved on – he had started hitting on Tim instead! Turns out the Kinda Guy was in fact ‘kinda’ bisexual, as well.