Milá Sally…

Dear Sally,
As you already know, I turned fifty last year.
And as I have already written to you, at the end of February this year, after Eugenin Onegin Opera visit in Milan I sent a request to the Universe to send me Gremin into my life. The prince who loved his wife Tatiana so beautifully, sincerely, and deeply. That Tatiana, who vainly pined for Onegin some time before she met Gremin. Pushkin’s well known story about passion and true love did catch me there.

„Love blooms at every age, even an old man’s head gets turned,“ sings Prince Gremin in his aria, explaining to Onegin how deeply and passionately he loves his wife, even though he’s not exactly a young man anymore.

So, dear Sally, pay close attention — they really sent him to me! They (whoever it does mean) fulfilled my order perfectly! No, his name isn’t Gremin, and he’s not a prince, although he comes from an old noble family on his grandmother’s side, and of course he’s not Russian, nor entirely Czech, although he holds Czech citizenship. His mother is Hungarian, and so is his father — hot-blooded and passionate. I won’t tell you more about him today because this story isn’t about him, although he arranged it for me by trying to ensure my travel comfort.

It’s clearly visible, dear Sally, how differently men operate, and we women can’t (or shouldn’t) be angry at them for that. They mean well; it’s sincere. Sometimes things turn out a bit unfortunate or just plain wrong, which can happen.

And so, my prince also truly meant well, and he decided to take me for our first extended weekend together to his favorite historic spa town Győr, where even the old Romans bathed in thermal springs. He hesitated a bit when booking train tickets, and unsurprisingly, on the day of departure, he couldn’t get a ticket with his favorite provider. Surprisingly for me, he didn’t choose the competing Czech Railways, which send several excellent Hungarian trains daily, serving Hungarian goulash and red wine in the dining coach. Instead, my prince secured a seat in the back row for me in a brand-new BMW with his friend! The one friend, who was planning to go to wellness as well and because he just had called for a chat with my love and asked what he was going to do for the upcoming long weekend, the word was the word and the gentlemen agreed that one would help arrange accommodation and make a guide through the Hungarian town and the other could take the car and arrange transport.

Had he asked his love (meaning me) if she ( meaning me again) was willing to accept such a service — with the condition that we would be socializing with his friend and his girlfriend the whole weekend — he would have quickly learned that it’s NOT a good idea to go on a shared weekend with friends when it’s your first trip with your new love…

But dear Sally, since he’s an honest man and gentleman, and also extremely vain man, he had no intention of asking, double checking or even consulting. He wanted to prove to his new love that HE’S a man who can take care of everything! To make it clear that he intended to have this weekend totally under his control and to show off his best organizational skills, he explicitly asked me to kindly leave everything to him and simply enjoy the trip. Me, very demanding and detail oriented person, who is used to organizing and arranging a thousand and one things simultaneously for dozens of people, always with backup plans B and C — to ensure everyone’s satisfaction. I have set the bar very high in this regard. But OK, let him shine.

He’s attentive and cares about my comfort. It’s not his fault that things don’t always go smoothly; everything takes time… even the realization of what does mean comfort for me.

Certainly, comfort for me does NOT mean sitting almost five hours in a car with people I’ve just met, having to be polite and grateful for a ride, listening to them instead of reading a book, listening to radio or chatting with my freshly new love in a train. I generally like people, and I have no problem talking to them — I find it interesting when they are interested in something or I can learn from them, get inspired, or laugh.

In this case, however I quickly understood that I wouldn’t learn anything new or inspiring, and it would be quite exhausting to keep the casual conversation going and maintain good mood. Partly, this was also my prince’s fault — he didn’t like that his friend loudly welcomed the chance to chat with someone new and interesting (like me) and basically didn’t even let his friend get a word in, which irritated him. Because the friend’s partner was a kind and rather shy young woman, the conversation about various topics was mainly kept between the two of us — the friend and me. Sometimes I would clench my boyfriend’s hand when I saw that some remark from his friend would make him angry and almost throw him out of his seat, with his ego or pride about to burst. At other times, I held onto the seat with both palms, trying to control my emotions, stay kind and polite, and avoid crying out loud or immediately asking to stop so I could get out.

I’m experienced enough to understand when it’s pointless to try and explain someone’s mistake, especially when that person has very limited knowledge, a narrow general awareness, and limited opinions. Only occasionally did I feel the strong need to express slight disagreement — like when I simply couldn’t take it anymore… for example, when my friend tried to tell me that people either make it in the world as a lucky „cliker“ (a lucky person), who has everything for free and basically has to do nothing, or they are disadvantaged, hardworking poor loosers who struggle and struggle, but it’s all pointless.

That „cliker“ — in his eyes — was my dear prince, because he was born to a Hungarian mother and thus has a free knowledge of Hungarian (!!!!!) and can easily find his way around in Hungary. That he, as a five-year-old, had to accept and deal with being relocated from his native Budapest to Prague, where he didn’t understand a single word in kindergarten and had quite hard time in a foreign country as a small child— of course, that played no role in his friend’s eyes. My prince still was a lucky man.

Moreover, I was also considered a damned „cliker“ in his eyes because I speak Russian, German, and English, and I can handle everything myself while traveling — organizing and arranging things. That’s a big luck — a luck he doesn’t have, poor thing, because unlike me, he was born without a talent for languages… Yes, he tried to learn English. No, he doesn’t watch movies in English, doesn’t read books, and doesn’t listen to the radio…but he poured a lot of money and energy into it. He’s simply a poor guy.

As a poor guy, he is condemned to work hard all the time till his death, otherwise he would not be able to survive. When I asked him if it wouldn’t be better to sell the huge house he lives in alone so he wouldn’t have to pay the huge mortgage and could get a smaller apartment that would suit him better, he admitted that he had never thought about it that way. Poor guy, he won’t even have a pension because, as a self-employed person, he’s not entitled to one. When I asked him if he contributed to the pension insurance system, he assured me that he wasn’t crazy enough to pay anything to the state, because then he wouldn’t have anything left to live on from his hard-earned money.

Of course, he hasn’t had much luck with women either. I managed to learn all about that in great detail during those five hours. In the presence of his partner, who has been with him for about ten years. While she kept handing him carrots, blueberries, chocolate, and other snacks from bowls she had perfectly prepared, he lamented that fate had never sent him a woman who would take him somewhere, lift him up somehow. Somewhere to an event, among people. To a cultural event. To a banquet. To an exhibition. Just somewhere. When I asked him when was the last time he had actually been somewhere with his partner, who was present in the vehicle, he admitted that he was lazy about buying tickets and planning anything, so the poor guy didn’t really have the opportunity to take her anywhere. And so he wished he had a partner who could arrange, organize, and come up with something for him!

This time, I looked at my new boyfriend next to me with a twinkle in my eye, and our recent conversation flashed through my mind, when he sincerely asked me to slow down and not overwhelm him with such a dose of culture and other activities I was ready to arrange for us.  He told me he couldn’t go from zero to a hundred so quickly, he was an older man, he was fifty-one last year. Incidentally, it was on the very same day that I turned fifty. The universe apparently needed to emphasize that we belong together. And to make it clear even to the less perceptive, we both have the very same birthday. So this year I am celebrating my birthday on the same day as my Gremin’s birthday… As he told several times – he’s just an ordinary guy and I’ll NEVER get him to go to the ballet, but he says he’ll go to the Municipal House for the closing ceremony of the Prague Spring festival. And to the Rudolfinum concert hall in Prague for a classical music concert, too. It’ll work… slowly, but surely. I will give him all the time he needs.

I politely offered to get my friend and his lovely partner tickets to the theater, which I know quite a lot about because I enjoy being an amateur cultural advisor for the wider community. And if they wanted a weekend trip to Vienna, for example, that would be no problem either—I know the city well and love it, so I would be happy to put together an itinerary for them. Or to Bratislava. Or to Milan. Or to Florence… basically, whatever they wanted and wherever they would enjoy themselves. Ah, it would be great, but what about the poor guy who doesn’t really want to travel abroad with his partner because no one takes care of him there and neither of them speaks the language? Well, that’s complicated, I understand.

And on top of that, after 10 years, his partner is showing certain flaws. THIS, dear Sally, seemed very harsh to me. So harsh that I leaned over to my darling and whispered to him that under no circumstances would I use plan B and that I would only go back by train, even if I had to stand in the aisle the whole way.

Can you imagine, dear Sally, a man telling a complete stranger he’s only known for a few hours about how imperfect his partner is? Oh, you can. Okay. And can you picture this man discussing it openly in front of his partner while she feeds him carrots, blueberries, chocolate, and other snacks? No, seriously—NO.

So, I found out—and felt sorry for the nice girl—that she had gained quite a bit of weight over the past few years. And he doesn’t like that. He just isn’t lucky enough to have a woman who stays slim the way he prefers. His ideal type is a slender Asian woman, preferably with small breasts and a petite figure. When they met, she was nearly that way, but she isn’t anymore. She should lose weight, and she shouldn’t smoke. He doesn’t like that either. She’s aware of it, but she keeps smoking anyway. He’s just a poor guy, and the whole world around him seems full of lucky people, “clickers”

His partner responded slightly irritated—I would have snapped at him if I were her—saying she smokes because he stresses her out. When she’s stressed, she needs to smoke. When they first met ten years ago, she was a cheerful, easy-going girl. But ten years with him has drained all her energy and joy, leaving her under severe stress and discomfort, which she tries to cope with, at least sometimes, through smoking. So, she asked him kindly to leave her alone.

Her friend – driver took a breath to respond, and for a moment, it seemed like a domestic argument about to unfold—on my first weekend with my new love. Luckily, it wasn’t ours. The argument didn’t develop fully because we were finally arriving at our destination.

Upon arriving in the city, she briefly forgot about her argument with her partner, ignoring his last remark—“Try not to smoke for at least a few days here”—and changing the subject. She announced, “István, historically, mainly Gypsies live in Hungary, right?”

Istvan, my Hungarian nobleman—the blue-eyed, dirty blond with a slight reddish tinge—didn’t skip a beat and calmly replied, “Of course! They’re all Gypsies—just look at me, a typical Gypsy!”

She wasn’t discouraged, because after a while she excitedly pointed out that this was proof: Hungarian street artists seem to have music in their blood and rhythm in their bodies. “That’s what Gypsies usually have, isn’t it?!”

“Yes, of course, it is typical for all Gypsies, very musical and talented are people in Hungary…” my friend replied quietly, with a hint of laughter in his voice. Even then, she didn’t quite realize…

And the third time, I nearly collapsed when she, on her way past the refreshment window, pondered very seriously and loudly about where Langosz actually comes from… She added that she doesn’t read at all, hates it, and that her education wasn’t something she overdid—she got herself expelled from the dance conservatory where she studied ballet. She doesn’t mind at all because she didn’t care about school anyway and didn’t enjoy dancing or ballet (so why the heck did she go there?!). She also mentioned that she doesn’t have a high school diploma, which affects her job classification. To support herself, her daughter, and keep the fridge stocked at her divorced boyfriend’s place, she works part-time jobs in addition to her regular one.

Honestly, for me, this felt like an unbelievable social survey. I definitely don’t have people like that in my circle. I took the opportunity to calmly say several times that I’d like to be alone with the man of my dreams, to get to know him better, and to talk to him exclusively. After all, we haven’t been together for ten years, and instead of a joint discussion, I would prefer a conversation between just the two of us.

For a while, my friend and his partner pretended to understand and not get mad, but then reality set in—they realized they weren’t familiar with the place, and on top of that, my responsible prince made a promise he had to keep. He promised not only to provide accommodation but also to be a local guide.

So I continued with a sigh, comforting myself in my mind with the thought that I’d probably never get to meet such an interesting company myself, and—at least—I’d have something to write about.

My legs gave out twice more that weekend. Both involved a friend and his partner.

The first time I nearly fainted was in a cathedral. In Győr, they have one of about 13 Minor Basilicas—very significant from spiritual, historical, and architectural perspectives. The Pope grants this title, and we have a few in Prague as well: for example, St. Vitus Cathedral in Prague Castle, and St. Peter and Paul Basilica in Vyšehrad—just to give you an idea of how important this spiritual place was. And the spirituality was palpable—something difficult to put into words, something that touches the soul directly.

At that moment of my spiritual reflection during thanking for all the blessings lately, sending a prayer for help with a pressing issue, and thinking of my grandmother, who constantly intercedes for me—I was approached by my friend’s partner, who leaned in and asked in a low voice if I’d ever had a sex in a church before… I looked at her in incomprehension, still lost in more spiritual spheres, and she repeated that she was asking about some spicy experiences from my sexual life in any church. After that, she no longer seemed as nice to me as before.

But the most spicy thing from my perspective happened during our last dinner together.

After a quick trip to the restroom, I noticed an awkward silence at the table. My sweetheart looked slightly irritated and upset. His friend and the friend’s partner, sitting at the same table, looked a little embarrassed and guilty. What on earth had happened while I was away?!

That’s when I realized that this “friend” wasn’t actually close but more of a longtime colleague from business. And this was, in fact, the first time my sweetheart spent time with him and his partner in such a personal setting—and he looked just as stunned as I was.

Apparently, while I was gone, his friend had openly shared a theory: that my Istvan was quite lucky to have snagged a “hooker” who’s already made her fortune. The jackpot, right? Wait, Sally—not just any hooker, but the “high-class” kind, like in Pretty Woman. You know, a companion for high society! Makes sense, doesn’t it? I speak several languages, I fly often, travel extensively, wear expensive brand, and carry myself with confidence and charm. So, of course, I must be a high-class escort, since I hadn’t revealed exactly what I do for a living or my job title.

So, they said, “Stick with her, István, and make as much as you can while it lasts!”

At first, I didn’t know whether to laugh or be angry. ME?! Like… ME?! A hooker?! A prostitute?! A paid companion?! Me, who works tirelessly late into the night, always at a computer, flying around the world strictly for business meetings, dividing my time for years between caring for my family and excelling at my job—and now, in their eyes, I’m a HOOKER?!

On the other hand—looking this good at fifty? Not bad. Maybe I should just laugh and take it as a backhanded compliment. Sure, I chose a very different way to earn my living all those years ago, and I think that choice hasn’t let me down. But who knows—perhaps another body organ than my brain would’ve brought in more money and in less time 😊

Recently, that same friend visited my partner’s workplace for coffee and a chat—ostensibly to find out if we were still together. “Of course,” my love proudly and happily replied. And in the process, my dearest learned something new about his friend’s life. The friend boasted about discovering a slender Asian girl, barely older than a teenager. He even showed a photo. He was thrilled—finally, in his words, a stroke of luck!

And what about his smoking partner, who was with us in Hungary? Well, SHE has no idea, because someone still needs to stock the fridge, clean the house occasionally, and prepare fancy snacks.

I’m very curious, dear Sally, to see whom István will introduce me to on our next joint weekend! There will certainly be plenty to write about!

For full transparency, my dearest was the first to read this story, and I’m sharing it with his kind and indulgent consent. That’s one of the reasons I love him.