Punk Love

But I’d already paid him for the hot dog. So what did I do?—Damn right I began chasing after him like a rabid animal, demanding he give me my hot dog.

In hindsight, I definitely agree it was not my most demure moment, when I ran after the poor man, shouting “give me that hot dog. I want that hot dog”. However, it was a moment of pure, unabashed freedom, and I will always cherish it.

After stuffing my face with noodles and a hot dog, I wobbled back to Piccadilly Backpackers with Dory. There, we bought the internet package, which cost me approximately an arm and a leg, and I powered up my laptop and got onto MySpace, where I had one message waiting.

Patrick: You here yet?

Me: Yes! Just landed. Phew, pretty rainy here, huh?

Me: Where can I see you?

Patrick: Dublin Castle. The day after the next. Camden Town.

It was a date.

I knew I’d fallen out of love with Alex the moment I met Patrick.

It actually broke my heart a little. Looking at Patrick—six one, blue-eyed, and full of charm—and feeling my stomach sinking, because I knew he was the one, and that I was wrong in what I’d told Alex. It wasn’t going to take a lifetime and a half for me to get over him after all.

Patrick was charming, fun, and devilishly smart. He’d just graduated from university and started a job at a non-profit organization. He had ideals and ideas about the world, but they were pragmatic and adaptable. We could co-exist, even if we grew out of some of our views.

Patrick knew Dory was going to come with, so he brought a friend, too. Steven.

Steven and Dory had NOTHING in common.

It was pretty funny to see them trying to be cultured with each other while Patrick and I were busy falling in love on the bench of the gig room at Dublin Castle, Camden Town.

Patrick and I spent the entire night ignoring our friends—and the world.

By the time I packed my bags to leave for home, I knew nothing about the universities and programs London had to offer me, but I knew one thing—I was going to marry Patrick and move to the English capital, even if it was the last thing I did.

Here was why Patrick and I needed to marry each other in order for this to work:

I looked into studying in London, and concluded that unless my parents won the lottery, or some long-distant billionaire relative of mine dropped dead and decided to put my name in his inheritance, I couldn’t afford to study in London (except if it was in the Open University).

In order to study in the Open University I needed to physically move to London.

Which I had no way to do unless I married a local.

Patrick was a local.

Patrick and I were madly, crazily in love with each other, and nothing about it was hesitant and clumsy like my love with Alex. It was real. And it was happening.

Patrick and I got married on Friday the 13th by the MAYOR OF LARNACA in Cyprus. Yup, folks, I guess the writing was on the wall with that one.

I wore a black dress I bought while waiting for my pedicure appointment that cost me eleven bucks. Patrick was sunburnt and already thinking about the seafood and Guinness he was going to destroy once we finished with the ceremony. Really, it was very romantic.

There were four more couples in the room getting married at the same time, and Patrick and I looked like their newborns, we were so young. Still, no part of me doubted the decision to marry him. It was real love, and we both knew it.

Due to bureaucracy and general life crap, I had to go back home for a few weeks to get my passport and visa before I moved to London. Actually, we were going to live with his mom in St. Alban’s until we found an apartment in London, which suited me fine, since she lived in a wonderful house and was super nice.

It was still weird. Walking around with a ring on my finger. But I loved feeling like I belonged to Patrick and found nothing sexier than watching a good man with a ring on his wedding finger.

My ring was simple. A golden hoop on my wedding finger. But it was so obviously a wedding ring, people had to do a double and triple take when they saw me walking around, barely legal, waving my ring hand as I talked to people.

I had never been happier in my life.

Had never been this excited.

Had never been this whole.

Seven months after Alex moved to Sweden, I was driving my mom’s car on my way to a really good Italian restaurant to pick up some takeout. It was on the highway when I spotted Alex’s Volvo. He was driving in the other lane.