I must have mentioned in my vacation journal that I don't speak Hungarian. Or German. Or Slovak. Or Czech.
Then add that I spent majority time with my fine-boned, strong-armed organ virtuoso friend who can do 170 kmh on the Autobahn without flinching and speaks at least some of all the languages listed above and was willing to tell the waiter my order in any of them. So, generally, I didn't have to.
Which means, I was doing very little attempted picking-up of other smoldering Eastern Europeans .... in part because, frankly, there were few to be picked-up. In return they must have looked at my smoldering friend, ordering on my behalf, and figured I was unavailable. Or just sensed my fear of speaking, in general, and mistook it for shrinking violet.
So that's that. (And so much for the bikini body .... now to be mourned under the layers of Milka chocolate around my waist.)
Now I'm home. Digging out from under the mounds of Schwab applications, at the office until past 7 the last 2 nights. Observing -- but not yet feeling the energy to clean up after -- the shed job my cats did in my absence. Sweltering outside. Freezing inside. Libido itself in the deep freeze.
(Why could these temperatures be not reversed?)
The day I flew to Budapest, I e-mailed the 2 men with whom connections had either ignited (Mr. Reach-the-Beach inquiry) or re-ignited (C-2) just prior to leaving. (Because in the Bible of Single Life, of course, such things never happen except just prior to a prolonged absence with no guarantee of continuation upon return. I have other examples.) To both I said, in essence: let's not let this connection go .... and both replied, in essence: no, let's not, let's get together on your return.
It's my third night back. No getting together on the horizon. Either I'm too tired to make the effort or they're too ..... hmmmm .... hopefully the same. Hopefully not not-guaranteeing the continuation.
Perhaps by the fourth night, none of this life will feel like the slog of the last three.