| Biographical Non-Fiction posted September 1, 2020 |
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(491 words) How we met and became a couple.
And Then He Kissed Me
by LisaMay
Sentimental Reflections Contest Winner
A fast-track romance more than 10,000 miles from our homes led to us becoming a couple back in 1979. As singles from ‘Downunder’, unknown to each other, we departed from London on a 6-week ‘Scandi-Russia’
coach camping tour with thirty other young travellers.
By Denmark I’d noticed him: dark hair, sweet smile, a reserved nature, helpful and polite. I’d also noticed he was left-handed, like me.
By Norway I’d asked someone else on the coach tour if they knew what his name was: Michael – a country boy from southern New Zealand.
In Finland, we introduced ourselves on a hilltop. We’d arrived there separately, having walked up from opposite sides. The others from the tour group were making raucous whoopee down at the campsite. Alcohol was expensive in Scandinavia, but someone had a stash of Stolichnaya vodka.
Mike and I had each sought the serenity of a forest walk, wondering what wildlife might be on the hill, perhaps deer, and we surprised each other when we met at the top. We sat on a rock talking for a while, then stood to leave. I blushed when he hesitantly asked: “May I have the pleasure of a kiss?” then threw caution to the balmy breeze and leapt at him so enthusiastically that we bumped heads.
In Leningrad (now named St Petersburg) we walked hand-in-hand admiring the art and culture at the Hermitage Museum. Mike began whistling and a stout Russian woman admonished him: “Nyet! Nyet! Nyet!” with her finger to her lips. We burst into giggles, causing further disapproval.
My Dad was a whistler. I thought he would approve of Mike.
In Moscow we became lovers. It was the rain that made it happen. Instead of camping in soggy tents, Mike had secretly booked a cosy room for us and we sneaked out of the camping ground for a comfortable night snuggling.
At Auschwitz concentration camp in Poland we cried together, feeling the horror of the Holocaust. Later, we fed carrots to a sway-backed horse in a peasant’s desolate field while Mike told me how homesick he was for his parent’s farm. He lovingly described it to me: the two-storey white homestead set in lush green countryside by a meandering river, sheep dotting the fields. I could imagine myself living there.
Crossing the English Channel, Mike held me while I vomited overboard being seasick.
Back in London, he left me.
Prior to going on the Scandi-Russia trip, he’d arranged with three other young men to go to Greece in a Kombi van as soon as he got back. He came to see me at my London flat, on the day of his departure.
Mike looked dejected. “Anything can happen in three months, but I’d like to think that if you’re still here when I get back, we could…”
“Yes, yes! I’ll definitely still be here!” I blurted.
And that is how I came to be a married woman, living in New Zealand.
A fast-track romance more than 10,000 miles from our homes led to us becoming a couple back in 1979. As singles from ‘Downunder’, unknown to each other, we departed from London on a 6-week ‘Scandi-Russia’
coach camping tour with thirty other young travellers.
By Denmark I’d noticed him: dark hair, sweet smile, a reserved nature, helpful and polite. I’d also noticed he was left-handed, like me.
By Norway I’d asked someone else on the coach tour if they knew what his name was: Michael – a country boy from southern New Zealand.
In Finland, we introduced ourselves on a hilltop. We’d arrived there separately, having walked up from opposite sides. The others from the tour group were making raucous whoopee down at the campsite. Alcohol was expensive in Scandinavia, but someone had a stash of Stolichnaya vodka.
Mike and I had each sought the serenity of a forest walk, wondering what wildlife might be on the hill, perhaps deer, and we surprised each other when we met at the top. We sat on a rock talking for a while, then stood to leave. I blushed when he hesitantly asked: “May I have the pleasure of a kiss?” then threw caution to the balmy breeze and leapt at him so enthusiastically that we bumped heads.
In Leningrad (now named St Petersburg) we walked hand-in-hand admiring the art and culture at the Hermitage Museum. Mike began whistling and a stout Russian woman admonished him: “Nyet! Nyet! Nyet!” with her finger to her lips. We burst into giggles, causing further disapproval.
My Dad was a whistler. I thought he would approve of Mike.
In Moscow we became lovers. It was the rain that made it happen. Instead of camping in soggy tents, Mike had secretly booked a cosy room for us and we sneaked out of the camping ground for a comfortable night snuggling.
At Auschwitz concentration camp in Poland we cried together, feeling the horror of the Holocaust. Later, we fed carrots to a sway-backed horse in a peasant’s desolate field while Mike told me how homesick he was for his parent’s farm. He lovingly described it to me: the two-storey white homestead set in lush green countryside by a meandering river, sheep dotting the fields. I could imagine myself living there.
Crossing the English Channel, Mike held me while I vomited overboard being seasick.
Back in London, he left me.
Prior to going on the Scandi-Russia trip, he’d arranged with three other young men to go to Greece in a Kombi van as soon as he got back. He came to see me at my London flat, on the day of his departure.
Mike looked dejected. “Anything can happen in three months, but I’d like to think that if you’re still here when I get back, we could…”
“Yes, yes! I’ll definitely still be here!” I blurted.
And that is how I came to be a married woman, living in New Zealand.
coach camping tour with thirty other young travellers.
By Denmark I’d noticed him: dark hair, sweet smile, a reserved nature, helpful and polite. I’d also noticed he was left-handed, like me.
By Norway I’d asked someone else on the coach tour if they knew what his name was: Michael – a country boy from southern New Zealand.
In Finland, we introduced ourselves on a hilltop. We’d arrived there separately, having walked up from opposite sides. The others from the tour group were making raucous whoopee down at the campsite. Alcohol was expensive in Scandinavia, but someone had a stash of Stolichnaya vodka.
Mike and I had each sought the serenity of a forest walk, wondering what wildlife might be on the hill, perhaps deer, and we surprised each other when we met at the top. We sat on a rock talking for a while, then stood to leave. I blushed when he hesitantly asked: “May I have the pleasure of a kiss?” then threw caution to the balmy breeze and leapt at him so enthusiastically that we bumped heads.
In Leningrad (now named St Petersburg) we walked hand-in-hand admiring the art and culture at the Hermitage Museum. Mike began whistling and a stout Russian woman admonished him: “Nyet! Nyet! Nyet!” with her finger to her lips. We burst into giggles, causing further disapproval.
My Dad was a whistler. I thought he would approve of Mike.
In Moscow we became lovers. It was the rain that made it happen. Instead of camping in soggy tents, Mike had secretly booked a cosy room for us and we sneaked out of the camping ground for a comfortable night snuggling.
At Auschwitz concentration camp in Poland we cried together, feeling the horror of the Holocaust. Later, we fed carrots to a sway-backed horse in a peasant’s desolate field while Mike told me how homesick he was for his parent’s farm. He lovingly described it to me: the two-storey white homestead set in lush green countryside by a meandering river, sheep dotting the fields. I could imagine myself living there.
Crossing the English Channel, Mike held me while I vomited overboard being seasick.
Back in London, he left me.
Prior to going on the Scandi-Russia trip, he’d arranged with three other young men to go to Greece in a Kombi van as soon as he got back. He came to see me at my London flat, on the day of his departure.
Mike looked dejected. “Anything can happen in three months, but I’d like to think that if you’re still here when I get back, we could…”
“Yes, yes! I’ll definitely still be here!” I blurted.
And that is how I came to be a married woman, living in New Zealand.
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Writing Prompt Write a true story about how you and your significant other first met. Describe how you became a couple. If you prefer, you may write about your parents instead. Maximum word count is 500 words. |
Sentimental Reflections Contest Winner |
Artwork by MoonWillow at FanArtReview.com
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