Let’s call him Rory since this is his name. It was not exactly travel, more like a job that brought me to Denmark, but travel around we did, a busload of students and I as a journalist. My last evening in the country, Rory was Irish, a writer and suddenly there.
This was not a romantic encounter. He was much older and it was not that kind of click. But clicked we did. We spent that evening chatting non-stop. I couldn’t understand why I knew him without having met.
We exchanged addresses. I started writing to him and he replied, and this went on for years. We never met again.
This was pre-internet and later, when I could, I never managed to track him down online. Our communication was old school. To receive a letter – nothing feels quite the same. Not even to write one.
And wrote I did. I wrote about everything. I told him plenty. I guess I was intrigued that a writer would find me read-worthy. This went on until I got a feeling that he was only doing me a favour. Then I stopped.
In a way Rory was my first follower, my first reader, long before I thought it would be good to start talking to the world and showing it pictures.
I have no pictures from Denmark even though I was there as a photo journalist. (Don’t ask, it was pre-digital, father gave me a couple of his old cameras and off I went a-clicking, hoping for the best). The newspaper that sent me did post a few. Years later, as it happened, the bag with the photos and negatives got stolen.
If I posted a photo of Rory to go along with this post, he would be standing by the window in his Copenhagen apartment in his tight purple pants, with a round hat, his big wicked grin, and a small ladies’ gun in his hand. A prop or a real deal? The photo exists and I took it but don’t know the answer.
Instead, here are some photos from my farewell party in April 2013 just before I moved to Tuscany, featuring the Danish flag from this trip. We were singing.
For Friendly Friday Photo Challenge hosted by Sarah at Travel with me: Meet
This day in my blogging history