After taking several jumps at Sarakiniko, we were ready for lunch. Andrea took us to a restaurant she came to the first time she visited the island. “Medusa”—named after the infamous Gorgon sister, whose eye contact could turn you to stone—was at the water’s edge and nestled amongst a small fishermen’s village. A portrait of the lady with snakes in her hair hung on the wall at the entrance. It was painted in the style of the orthodox icons I was so afraid of as a child.
It was a popular spot. The lilac girl had been raving about her dinner there from the night prior once we told her it was where we were going for lunch. We had to wait a little for a table, but time passes by quickly when you get to sit along the fishermen’s dock with your feet dipped in crystal blue water. Everything on the menu sounded delicious—octopus in vinegar, fresh calamari, Greek salad with local goat cheese. We were eager to ask our waiter to tell us what was best but when he arrived…we were speechless.
“Hello, welcome to Medusa!” a charming Greek accent played from the mouth of an angel. Our waiter stretched to six foot three; he was lean and fair. His face was perfect, borderline godly. The most impressive part were his piercing blue eyes, adorned with small, circular spectacles that looked like that of a chic inventor in a period film. The three of us stared up at him, practically drooling.
“What are your favorites?” Andrea said with a smile and a shrug, still in disbelief. Has there ever been crafted a more stunning man? We hung onto every word he said and ordered all of his suggestions. You could tell he was amused.
“What are you doing here? You should be a model.” Andrea didn’t care to hide her bewilderment. His beauty erased inhibition.
“I am.” He confessed sheepishly, only for our sake. “What about you all? You must work in fashion. You are very stylish.” His flattering worked on me. When someone that beautiful pays you a compliment, no part of you tries to disagree.
The restaurant was busy, but he returned to us whenever he had the time. “Okay, I have two minutes!” We used our two-minute sessions with the model wisely; we needed to know everything about this man. He was native to Milos, but I had yet to see anyone like him on the island. He works at the restaurant only in the high season, returning to Paris to model for the rest of the year.
It was a fantastic meal and by the end of it, Andrea got his number. He promised to pick a spot for us to meet for drinks later. I’m sure he found McKenzie and I interesting, but these plans, of course, were his way of getting to see Andrea. Although the date was hers, I was just as excited.
It was unbelievable. You’re out to lunch on a beautiful Greek island and your waiter, even more beautiful, is ready to sweep you off your feet? It was the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants fantasy I had always dreamed of. I was jealous of Andrea. Because I knew that even if I were lucky enough to meet a cute guy on this trip, it would never happen that easily for me. Straight people have rules and guidelines in their courting, which can be restrictive and misogynistic, but at least there is some structure. What are the rules for gay people? Is it more attractive to want or be wanted, to be picked up or to be the one picking up? What role is mine? And who decides; him or me? Am I too feminine to pick up other guys or too feminine for them to want to pick up me?
It didn’t seem like I’d be able answer these questions on this trip because there simply weren’t enough gay people around me. Perhaps, there were more than I realized. Greece is a religious country, and I wasn’t sure of the local appetite for gay people. But still, wasn’t Greece supposed to be the home of homoeroticism?
All that I had to rely on was Grindr and there were so few gay men on Milos my grid was showing me faces of other tourists 30 miles across the water. Stuck on another sparsely populated Greek Isle asking themselves the same questions.
I’ve never wanted to rely on an app to find love—whether it lasts a moment or a lifetime. Especially one full of torsos, faceless profiles, and crotch shots. I just wanted the opportunity to meet someone organically, to converse without pretense, the chance to discover our attraction. I wanted romance. I wanted to be enjoying my meal, at a lovely seaside restaurant, and get caught with a mouthful of octopus and vinegar, when my gorgeous waiter asks me if I’ve ever been to the clifftop bar in Plaka, “It’s the perfect place to watch the sunset”.
And once I swallow, I’ll say, with a fresh coat of blush on my cheeks, “Not yet, but it sounds lovely.”
There will be some banter back and forth, his thick Greek accent almost as thick as his curls. My man isn’t a model, he’s a little rough around the edges, but he’s beautiful all the same. He’s sun-kissed and has the kindest eyes.
“What’s your name?” I’ll ask with a smile spread sweetly across my face to let him know this is all reciprocal.
“I’m Stavros.”
Gorgeous. He’ll compliment my friends and I on our style, of course, before he gives me his number. When we leave, he’ll chase me out of the restaurant to make sure I wrote it down correctly, concerned that I won’t actually text him. I’ll text him immediately. He’ll meet us at the clifftop bar later that night, with some of his friends who have lived on the island their whole lives but are well traveled and interesting. They’ll entertain my friends with stories of getting lost in Portugal and endless feasts of homemade pasta and red wine in Tuscany. My girlfriends will be rapt just long enough for Stavros and I to slip behind the monastery next to the bar. He’ll kiss me as the sun sets. And when he finds out I’m Greek, he’ll want to marry me.
But no, none of this will ever happen. Instead, I have my screen. At night a grid full of half interested faces glare up at me. Some who have messaged me nude photos, others who have asked me where I’m staying, and a few who wondered how my day was going. But all of them stop messaging, when it gets too windy, and their weightless bodies are blown in a different direction.
As the girls and I were finishing our meal, I catch eyes with the actor and his lilac girl as they stood on line waiting for a table. We had told them where we planned to get lunch; were they trying to run into us? I felt a little embarrassed for him. You knew where we were eating, why not just ask to join us? There is no need to hide your affection, our imagined conversation filled my head.
After we paid the bill, I decided to put him out of his misery. But when I got to their table, I was nervous again. The lilac girl was gone; I hadn’t planned for us to be alone together. His eyes met mine and suddenly I wasn’t feeling so bold. I offered him a smile and a weak wave, “Hello”.
“Hi”
“Did you enjoy your meal?” Small talk is easier in a restaurant.
“Yes!” His smile was polite.
“What did you eat?”
He listed off a lot of fresh seafood dishes and I told him he had to try the zucchini fritters.
“I am celiac, but I’m sure they’re delicious. Everything is delicious,” His French accent was delicious. “We had to come back.”
“Oh. You’ve been here before?” I thought the lilac girl had taken him here because it was his first time. But maybe she took him here so that he could see me again.
“Yesterday.”
When we ran out of things to say, I reached for my failsafe, “Where did you get your bracelet?”
He stammered, “Uh, my ex-girlfriend made it for me.”
Fuck. My illusion crumbled right in front of me. Lights out, curtain closed. I was in a dark room, struggling to find the exit, “And you still wear it! That’s nice. I’ll let you enjoy your meal. Maybe we’ll see you later.”
I guess there could only be one meet-cute a day; Andrea got this one.