“Are you working your way around the Mediterranean?“
These were the words of a doctor in the sexual health clinic when I went for a check-up. I’d mentioned Italian and Spanish boyfriends, and an Egyptian liaison – but little did he or I know then how far I would eventually go around that sparkling blue domain.
Several years after that appointment, and much more travel, I’ve had more than my fair share of romances with Mediterranean men. Sometimes they’ve led to something more solid, sometimes they’ve been little more than brief encounters. But the “Med” has had its pull.
I was a Late Starter, romantically speaking. I came back to the UK from Kenya when I was 13, and spent my teens longing for a boyfriend. I’d been a swimmer in Kenya, so I joined the local club – only to watch shyly from the sidelines as one boy after another succumbed to the advances of the bolder girls.
In the holidays, my father dragged us all round Northern Europe in a campervan – the only glimpse we had of the Med was brief, from the east coast of Italy. At campsites I lusted after French lifeguards, but got nowhere near them.
Even at university, the men stayed firmly in the distance. But it was around this time I started being able to travel to Europe independently in the holidays.
In Rome, the policeman who showed me his pistol in the toilet on the Capitoline Hill was my very first near-sexual encounter.
Then there was the waiter in Crete who admired my large eyes and offered to winch himself up to my room later in the evening in a basket. In Corfu, there were men on small boats, but also Greek crew on the Brindisi overnight ferry, only too keen to make our lives more exciting.
In Egypt, still so naïve, I met a tall man with a blonde beard on the night train from Luxor to Cairo. He was the Egyptian tour guide for a group of French tourists, but off they went to bed and off we went to the buffet car. I mooned over that man for months, but lost contact.
My first proper boyfriend – at the age of 25 – was Spanish. He was working next door to me and we rapidly became more than friends. I loved the Spanish. But on trips to Madrid with him I soon discovered there was a shadow – his former girlfriend – and she came between us in the end.
Teaching English in a crowded Berlitz school in London, I met a gorgeous Italian, Giacomo, who invited me to visit him in Milan. Before I knew it, I was packing up my life in London and going to live with him. Had I given any consideration to what my life would be like there? Of course not.
Mary with her Italian boyfriend Giacomo, pictured near the Taj Mahal in India when they were datingLiving in a stiflingly small flat together, I soon discovered his priorities: meals at his parents’ every weekend, and spending all our free time either there or with his old friends. His mother ruled our lives and there was to be no independent living for us as a couple.
In my thirties, I discovered group holidays, which opened up newer (to me) countries on the Mediterranean, countries like Syria, Lebanon and Morocco. I got close to the guides on these trips – and had an encounter with the Syrian bus driver on a tour of ancient archaeological sites.
I met a Macedonian on my first night in Perth, Western Australia, at a pizzeria on the pavement. I’d only planned to be there for two nights, and who knew that extending that to four would lead to a relationship of four years? Vassil was Australian-born, but brought up in a Macedonian community and I was soon immersed in that – and there was a mother, again, of course.
Years after Giacomo, here I was again at a table with the parents, listening for hours to a language I could barely understand. Macedonian food and customs and weddings – in the end, all too much “him and his” and not enough “me and mine”.
Mary and Vassil the first time round (2000 – 2004) on Rottnest Island in Western AustraliaA few years later, I went to live in a small town in Andalucia – where I helped out in a local hotel. After a lonely couple of years, it felt wonderful when Antonio set his heart on me. He had the loveliest smile, and showered me with attention – but it wasn’t long before his jealousy appeared, and I could no longer look at anyone else or go out on my own. For once the mother was actually a relief – she came down from Granada at weekends and I felt a bit lighter.
A lot of people ask me why I’ve had so many relationships in the Med and not in the UK – I think the answer is quite complex. For sure, a big part is because, coming from Kenya in my teens, I’ve never really felt I belonged, and always wanted to get away. So when I’m overseas, I am a lighter, freer person – and men probably find that quite attractive.
I am also always very interested in learning languages – and that seems to be quite a turn-on. Not just with men, of course – making an effort in other people’s language has opened doors all over the place. I think foreign men are quicker to respond to me – and I need that: subtle game-playing has never been part of my psyche.
Mary in Morocco more recently – she’d always planned to guide people around MarrakechI have had a couple of relationships with Brits: one lasted quite a while – probably because he had a brilliant mind which attracted me a lot, but he was unavailable a lot of the time. The other Brit was just too conventional and wanted to settle down, and that was never going to suit me.
After the man in Andalucia didn’t work out, once again I fled, this time crossing the Strait of Gibraltar to Morocco, to pursue a plan I’d had for a while – guiding people around Marrakech.
The first year went well, but predictably (inevitably?) I met an attractive man, working at my favourite bar. Did I learn? Again, I fell too hard and became enmeshed in his problems. And, of course, there was a mother, whose totally unexpected arrivals from Rabat would often mean I could not “see” him at all. I wondered if she was just a ruse when he couldn’t face me.
Mary and Vassil on a friendly holiday a couple of years ago at the Parthenon in Athens, GreeceAs I grew more peeved, he grew more surly – and neither of us could really tell the other why, partly because my Arabic was as bad as his English. Communication failure, yes, but also cultural confusion, I think.
To end on a positive note, I re-met Vassil a couple of years ago and took him to visit his parents’ homeland in Greece. We had a truly wonderful time, but hey, it was just a holiday.
Mary’s travel memoir, ‘In Spite Of Myself’ (published by Bradt Guides Ltd, £9.99) is out now
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