Glasgow Rejection

The new millennium. January 2000. What better way to celebrate the milestone than by travelling 6,000 miles to see the person who was supposed to be my soulmate—my Anam Cara—and subsequently having my heart torn from my chest within 10 minutes of arrival? But I guess I should begin at the beginning...

In August of the previous year, I accompanied my best friend to Dungloe, Donegal, Ireland. She was taking part in a local celebration—the Mary From Dungloe festival. She was representing Irish girls from Philadelphia; I was representing friends of Irish girls from Philadelphia who wanted to meet beautiful women from all over the world.

Throughout the revelry of the week, I did get to know several people from the city, as well as many of the contestants. The one from Glasgow... I shall call her "Aoife" to protect her anonymity. It wasn't until the end of the week that we really got to know one another, and honestly, it wasn't like there were huge sparks. She was spending time with the other Marys. I was exploring the countryside. And quite honestly, I didn't think much of any kind of romance because I was 27 and she was only 19. Keep this in mind for when you feel the need to cringe later in the story.

When we returned to our respective cities, we started corresponding. At first, it was through email, which was (believe it or not) still fairly new at the time. Through our emails, she would tell me about her (mis)adventures in Glasgow, which often involved pints and pints of ale. I would tell her about my education, as I was in a Masters program at the time. But we connected so well.

The more we talked, we shared a book between us called Anam Cara (written by John O'Donohue in case you ever wanted to read it), which loosely translates to "Soul Friend." Maybe I should have paid better attention to the word Friend in that definition. Cringeworthy detail #2... But it was beyond referring to each other as Anam Cara. We'd talk on the phone for hours, using prepaid calling cards. She'd make my mother get on the phone and tell her all about how one day, our grandchildren would be living in Philadelphia. So, that part right there... That one can't really be misconstrued, so I felt pretty certain we had something going on.

Except, I don't know if she actually thought I would ever come visit. But there I was a few days after Hogmany in the new millennium, flying into the Glasgow International Airport, with Aoife and her family waiting for me. Yes, she did rush up and embrace me like a lover would (a la "Louise" by Human League), and she held my hand in the car ride back to her house. For about 10 minutes, everything seemed to be going exactly as I expected it would.

Until we arrived and brought some food and drink up to her room. She was flipping through the television, having a smoke, and for the life of me, I don't remember how it came up. I believe I said something about how I couldn't believe we were here "together," and her response was, "Ya didn't think I meant for anything more to happen, didja?" I was moderately dumbfounded. Slightly astounded. Extremely stunned and confused. But the worst part—that was the first 15 minutes of a 7-day trip... with her... in her family's house.

I drank. A lot.

I met her friends and we drank.

I went to the bar where she worked and I drank.

We went to a carnival and a disco, and I drank at both.

Her parents took me to see Loch Lomand, Sterling Castle, and the Glasgow School of Art. I didn't drink there.

But I did drink when we went ice skating in Edenborough.

By the time the week was up, there were two things I was kind of ashamed of. I didn't try haggis when I had the chance, and her mom caught me crying on one night when I was particularly drunk. And because I was not... you know... sober... I told her why.

The next day, they took me to the airport, invited me back any time, and I boarded the small prop plane that would take me to Amsterdam (where I'd sit on the tarmac for 4 hours in emotional agony) for a connection back home. When I tried to contact her back in Philadelphia, I received one email only: "My mother thinks it would be best if we didn't talk again." And she meant that. We never talked again.

Fast forward 20 years later. I am 47. She is 39. We've never spoken since. I don't even know where she is. I'd be lying if I said I never looked for her, but I never found her. I have a 14 year daughter, and in retrospect, I realize that my coming over was creepy. And the profession I made to her mother—even creepier. I probably would have told my daughter Ixnay on the Mericanay, as well.

But would I change it? Never. It was the single bravest thing I've ever done. I saw a new, beautiful country, visited a castle, had amazing Indian food, discovered Robbie Williams, and experienced a story I could never, ever make up. Yes, if you know Aoife, tell her I was asking about her. She may still be in Glasgow, probably singing Mary Black songs at a local pub. I hope she is happy. And I hope she also doesn't regret me coming out there.