Paula Brukmüller - Flowers from Greece - The Autobiography of the Journalist Who Turned a Personal Tragedy into an Inspiring World Tour

The band played John Denver once again, but at the height of the singing, the microphones were turned off. General frustration. The doors of my pub closed earlier than I expected and I found myself once again standing in front of Dublin’s most iconic place: the Temple Bar. I had already taken my picture on the flowered, lighted façade in the previous afternoon, but something invited me in again.

I ignored my intuition and continued walking down the cobblestone street, wet by the light drizzle that was still falling. I was trying to convince myself it was time to go to bed, but I looked at the clock and decided to go back. When I remember this moment, I always think of what they call universal consciousness. I can’t explain, but something really called me to Temple Bar that night.

Intuition? Fate? Luck? I don’t know.

The place was crowded, as one would expect from Ireland’s most famous place. The pub I was at had many rooms, starting with a space without tables or chairs, such as a lobby with a bar on the opposite wall. The rustic walls, with the centuries-old bricks on display, had paintings and signs bearing the oldest Guinness logos.

Yes, I talk about Guinness a lot in this chapter, because it’s one of the most famous beers in the world and it was born there. The factory is also a tourist attraction in the Irish capital.

In the second room, the most crowded one, there was a small stage where duos or trios would perform nonstop. The bar never closes. Above the stage there was a luminous panel showing the last record of the house: 114 hours of live guitar from June 12 to 17, 2011.

I grabbed my Guinness and stood by the counter, enjoying the night musicians. Some drunk guys came to ask my name, but drunk people’s accent is even harder to understand in northern Europe. Scotland and Ireland were a challenge to my communication.

I moved when I grabbed my second glass of beer and looked around the other side of the room. I was mesmerized when I saw those blue eyes smiling. Before crossing the room, he was practically by my side, but I hadn’t noticed it.

Thick eyebrows and flushed cheeks with very short medium-brown hair. His full beard, mixed with brown, red and gray strands, was almost an unnecessary charm, but what fascinated me were the eyes. Round and black-lashed, they wrinkled beautifully on the side as he smiled. The blue was so crystal clear that it looked like two shining Christmas lamps. The white shirt with the sleeves folded showed strong forearms and hands.

Along with him there was another tall bearded man and a gorgeous blonde in a tight red dress. I wondered what chances the ponytail girl who came out of the hostel wearing pink pajamas under her jeans might have.

The friend who was with him kept looking at me and my mind created the most obvious situation: the most charming smile of the night could only be “the statuesque blonde dressed to kill” boyfriend. While his friend, who didn’t interest me, should be thinking that I was corresponding to his looks.

I had already learned not to flirt with committed guys, but I just couldn’t stop looking at him. It was magnetic. When I realized that I was looking toward him again, I would look away to see if his friend or girlfriend had noticed and stumble across his friend looking at me. He tried to disguise it but, with a peripheral gaze, I saw them commenting on something.

When I found myself trapped between a German and a Swedish trying to explain something to me about the best beers in Europe, the gorgeous blonde excused herself from the drunk boys and pulled me by the hand.

- Come on, my friend wants to know you – she ordered, while I just thought that the guy who didn’t interest me really thought I was looking at him.

What an awkward situation. The blonde trying to help her friend and me interested in her boyfriend. When I was thinking of an excuse to return to the nonsense conversation between the German and the Swedish, she surprised me by pointing at that handsome man and saying he was her friend Conor. “And this is Mike, my boyfriend,” she said, hugging the tallest and dull guy.

I don’t know if anyone noticed, but I must have had the brightest smile in all of Europe because I couldn’t really believe it.

- You play hard, huh? I tried to pay for your beer, but you didn’t even move. He told me. “I don’t accept beers from handsome men when I’m wearing pajamas under my clothes,” I thought before smiling and saying I really needed to go to the bathroom.

I left my horrible pajamas over the flush tank, unbuttoned an extra button on my shirt, and folded my sleeves for a more casual look. I looked like a teenager and laughed at myself. The fact is, I didn’t expect any flirtatious battles for that night, so I decided to fight using the weapons I had.

I returned to the conversation and found out the Irish accent was harder than I thought. Our friend in red translated almost everything he said to me. I could understand what she said, but I didn’t understand a word spoken by the guys.

He, born in Ireland, single, 37 years old, businessman of the civil engineering field. I, Brazilian, journalist, divorced, 37 years old and a traveler without destination.

He found incredible my courage to travel around the world and wondered how it was possible for a woman as beautiful as me to be alone after six months on the road.

- The lucky guy hasn’t found me yet – I said, shrugging, but full of confidence.

Driven by the beers he’d already had, he was on his knee in the middle of the room.

- Please, marry me.

Me and the couple of friends laughed, surprised, but some people at the pub thought it was a real marriage proposal and started clapping, that made him stand up.

I was having fun like never before, being courted like that, precisely by the man who had gotten my full attention since the first second.

Our conversation became more private and his friends walked away. At that point, we started using Google Translator because I was really having a hard time trying to understand the accent.

At some point, we were stuck in a pointless discussion in which I said I was absolutely sure that he had said nothing like “I want to kiss you” in English. Then, he repeated over and over again. “Of course I said it. I want to kiss you. I want to kiss you”.

- This discussion is going nowhere – he stated. Let’s get serious.

- Well, you already got down on one knee and asked me to marry you and I stayed here. You’re telling me you wanna kiss me and I’m still here – I said regardlessly.

- What does that mean? – he was anxious.

- Do it, please.

The night ended with laughter and a question: will we see each other again? We lit a cigarette outside the pub and said goodbye to Lilly and Mike. He lived a few hours from Dublin and was in the capital for a friend’s birthday. He would go back home the next day and asked me to go to his hotel.

We slept together, but, believe me, we didn’t have sex.

Next morning, after I left, Conor texted asking me about my plans for the afternoon. He was supposed to go home to work, but he said he’d take the day off to stay with me in Dublin.

How to resist a handsome man who changes his plans for me? I gave up on my plans to go to the cliffs and we met at a cafe downtown.

He looked shorter than last night, but still handsome. We talked about our families, work, and I, unenthusiastically, revealed that I had divorced a few months ago, without giving him details of what had happened.

I didn’t like to talk about my story, but I didn’t like to lie either. My impression was that people kept thinking: recently divorced, it’s certainly not over.

I wasn’t sure whether it was over or not. Is there a measure for suffering? Who says if I cried enough and I’m already free to move on? Do you have a deadline to stop suffering? These are the questions that the ego usually asks, but there’s no right answer.