7:50 pm, Salzburg Railway Station, Austria.
The train would be departing soon. The platform was a sea of blonde heads, except for one brunette. It was just the smallest patch of luxurious wavy brown hair amid an ocean of golden locks. I've always been attracted to brunettes, which undoubtedly explained why my eyes gravitated in her direction. She was hard to spot because she was shorter than most of the Austrians surrounding her. I estimate that she was probably about 165 cm tall, or 5'5" on the old scale. For some reason, I've always gravitated to women who are at least 15 cm shorter than me - six inches if you prefer. Fortunately, at 185 cm (6'2"), I'm reasonably tall so that did not limit the field greatly. Some might say that this was my fragile male ego at work, and perhaps that was indeed a factor. However, when a woman presses herself against you, there is something wonderful about them nestling her head against your shoulder and tucking your chin against her crown. It brings out this strong protective instinct, and an overwhelming urge to cherish the person pressed against you. You simply don't experience this when a woman's height is the same as yours.
Did her eyes briefly lock with mine, just for a split second? Was that my imagination?
We started boarding the train and she entered the carriage behind me, so I put her out of my mind. Never mind. Tant pis. Keine Ursache. Kinishinai de. I counted that I could say it in four languages.
Imagine my surprise when a few minutes later, she walked into my compartment. It was one of those old-fashioned compartments with bench seats accommodating three people per side facing each other. I always liked to grab the seat by the window if I could. An elderly man was seated at the other end of my row, leaving a gap between us. She sat down between us.
There was no hesitation on my part; I turned to her and said, "Hi".
I didn't say "Guten abend", so she would know right away that I was an English speaker. She turned and gave me the most delightful smile and said "Hello". It was definitely a "Hello", not a "Hallo". Nevertheless, her English hinted at a German accent.
I then tried speaking some German, as I like to practice, "Woher kommen Sie?"
I'd studied German for three years in high school but that was six years ago and I'd forgotten most of it. She replied, "Vienna", not "Wien" the way Austrians and Germans said it.
She cast another wry smile at me, a smile that gently let me down telling me, "It's OK, we can speak in English, rather than endure your rusty German".
At this point, I switched to English. She told me her name was Hannah. I'd just been to Vienna a few days ago and casually mentioned how much I enjoyed her city. I was an Aussie backpacker and had been traveling through northern Europe for six weeks by now on a Eurail Pass. We started talking about my trip. Hannah's English was very proficient. I learned she had spent some time in the UK.
I mentioned, "I'd visited Hagenauer Haus earlier that day, Mozart's birthplace. I'm not a fan of classical music, but I found the story of his life to be fascinating. Have you been there?"
It was a silly question. Hannah replied, "Of course! Every school student in all of Austria goes there. It is one of the most famous museums in the country." Then that smile again.
We were both going to Italy, which was just well because that meant I was on the right train. She was going to Bologna whereas I was going to Venice. We would enjoy each other's company as far as Verona, where Hannah needed to change trains.
We talked for hours. At some point, the elderly gentleman at the other end of our bench seat started to snore very loudly. We both giggled quietly but suppressed laughter at the din that was now filling the carriage. Hannah moved closer to distance herself from the racket. We were suddenly pressed against each other, her head at my shoulder. It was that position, the position that I loved. I felt this urge to cherish Hannah, a person I barely knew.
It was June but the night was cold and as we passed through the Alps the cool mountain air crept into the carriage. We both reveled in the extra warmth of each other's bodies. We were barely touching, but it was as noticeable as it was delightful.
I thought, "Alan, it is now your move", so I slowly slid my left arm around her shoulder.
Hannah did not object. She seemed rather pleased that after she had nudged closer to me, I had reciprocated in kind.
When people talk about "chemistry" between two people, what do they mean? Chemistry is a simple binary emotion between two people. You either have it, or you don't; like a light switch that is either on or off. It is an instinctive feeling, a feeling that you somehow belong with the other person. Much later in my life, I read some research that suggests that not everyone experiences "chemistry", and that it occurs most often between people who are sincere and open, and perhaps a little impulsive. All I knew then was that, somehow, Hannah and I had chemistry.
With my arm that was by now around Hannah's shoulder, I delicately cupped her neck then breathed ever so lightly on her nape, and savored her skin's fragrance. Hannah wriggled with delight. I very gently pulled her head closer, so our faces were now centimeters apart. Her eyes were like placid pools of a high mountain lake, beckoning me to continue. First kisses can be flimsy tentative affairs, as one person or the other slightly holds back, not quite sure how quickly to surrender to their feelings. Our first kiss started whimsically as I gingerly brought her face to mine and gently pressed against her soft lips. All pretense of subtlety soon vanished, as gentleness yielded to intensity. The sensuousness of that first kiss was in stark contrast to the snoring of the elderly man, which no longer mattered. It was as if we had the carriage to ourselves. There was mutual desire from the instant our lips first touched; I could feel it as easily as the warmth of our bodies. That was all that I needed to know; I twisted my body to face Hannah more squarely and used my right arm to bring her more tightly against me. We kissed again and then again.
We kissed and talked and laughed, then kissed and talked and laughed some more, for hours, losing track of time. We were like two little kids. Well, I suppose we were two little kids. I was twenty one and Hannah was twenty.
Then, before we realized, the announcement: "La prossima fermata รจ Verona" ("The next stop is Verona").
Hannah got up to get off the train and I stood up too. For the first time, both of our bodies came in full contact, her breasts pressed firmly against my chest, her head snugly tucked under my shoulder. We savored the moment as we embraced. Hannah then slowly raised her head so we could kiss. Was it a farewell kiss, or more, an invitation? It was sumptuous, more than a kiss but less than a conversation; our mutual chemistry was communicating in non-verbal ways that I could not decipher. We let go, she walked to the door of the compartment and turned around to face me. There was a hint of sadness in her eyes. Hannah said nothing; she was not asking me to follow her but I somehow sensed that in her expression.
Later at grad school, I studied a subject called "decision theory", a branch of mathematics which determines optimal decisions given constraints and assumptions. An earlier decision might constrain future decisions while opening up new possibilities. You might have heard of "game theory" which is closely related. Decision theory, like game theory, assumes rational decision making, which is of course why it is hopeless in matters of love.
I thought, "I could go with Hannah. Why not?" That decision seemed both rational and irrational at the same time. It was rational because I had no particular reason to go to Venice, other than to become yet another silly tourist clogging up Piazza San Marco. It was irrational because I had only just met this woman. In less than two weeks I was scheduled to fly from Amsterdam to Tokyo, to begin my new life as a software developer in Japan. Why shouldn't I change my plans; why should I change my plans?
I was at the fork in the decision tree of my life: the first branch, one of mystery, affection, and the promise of love; the second, one of an exotic land, my first real job, and love unknown.
I waved goodbye, turned around, and cried to myself.
[Originally published in The Writers and Readers Magazine, September 2020.]