The Story of Ronaldo


Perdono for the sabbatical, guys – I have been on vacation for the past two weeks, which was supposed to inspire me to write more, but has instead inspired me to drink more and completely abandon all cerebral activities. Luckily, I did happened to stumble upon a fun story, the kind of random vacation encounter that leaves one yearning for summer all year long and posting #tbt beach pics until the month of May. Said story takes place in Ibiza, the official party capital of the western hemisphere and quite possibly that Hopeless Place that Rihanna was referring to in that song. Of all the things one can find in Ibiza, non-chemically-induced love appears to be pretty low on the lists.

Nonetheless, I met Ronaldo about an hour after arriving on the island – we were staying at the same hotel, a cute little party hostel flocked with kids from all over Europe. One of my girlfriends decided that it was unacceptable for me to carry my own suitcase and called over group of guys to our rescue. (“Boysss! Can we get some help here?! Boyssss!”) Before I knew it, a strong male hand appeared out of nowhere and snatched my valise out of my hands. I turned around to find a tall, dark guy in a questionable man tank that dipped low enough to reveal an interesting assortment of prison-esque tattoos. Although I resisted the help, I found myself swayed by the display of chivalry (French men won’t give up their seats in the Metro for you), not to mention his lovely British accent that made everything he said sound extremely clever. While not at all my usual type, Ronaldo stayed on my mind and soon became the topic of a many jokes in our boy-crazy party dorm.

A couple of days into the trip, my friend announced that she had a surprise: it turned out that she decided to take matters in her own hands and had gotten Ronaldo’s number for me! In my sunny sangria haze, I decided that I nothing to lose and texted him. An excited response followed, and we arranged to have a quick before heading to the David Guetta concert that the whole island was flocking to that evening. I arrived to the pool area (this was starting to feel like Melrose Place at this point) to find Ronaldo waiting for me with my drink of choice, ready to swoon me with all his British-Lebanese charm. He told me all about his life and upbringing, trying to muster up some pity for his hard knock life of boarding schools, a trick that must work better for his usual 22-year-old target market. I was doing pretty well on my end as well.. That is, until I decided to mention that I write a dating blog. Now, this is a piece of information that I normally share rather easily, as I don’t think French men understand exactly what it entails. Not only did Ronaldo understand, but he asked to see it. Being the idiot that I am, I proudly popped open the site on my iPhone and selected a (semi non-threatening) article for him to read. By the time he was done, the blood had drained a bit from his face.

The exchange that followed goes somewhat like this:

Ronaldo: “Um, this looks very professional..”

Me: “Yeah! Isn’t it great?”


Ronaldo: “So, you’re like Bridget Jones or something…”

Me: “Yeah, kind of!” (Who doesn’t want to be compared to Bridget Jones and her two books and two movies and her Mark Darcy?!) “It’s funny! It’s funny, right?”

Ronaldo: “Right.. So, you pretty much dating just to get these stories?”

(Hell yeah mofo!)

Me: “No, of course not! I mean, if somebody amazing came along I would ditch the blog in a second… I’m a total romantic, I would love to get married.. After all, all my friends are married!”

By that point, Ronaldo’s chair had inched so far away from the table that there was a high chance of him falling into the pool. The bill was paid for about 30 seconds later, and we silently headed to our respective hotel rooms.

I woke up from a nap half an hour later with that sinking feeling that I had f*cked up. Its not that I was particularly upset with Ronaldo, but had I really become so romantically inapt that I couldn’t handle a simple drink date with somebody I hadn’t met on Tinder? I decided to do what any girl in my position would do and pulled out my sluttiest white mini, a minuscule number that hadn’t seen the light of day since 2008. Before leaving, I texted Ronaldo to ask what time they were heading to the concert – after all, he had to see me in my P. Diddy white party finest! I did not get a response, which was particularly awkward when we came downstairs and found him and his friends waiting for their taxi. Now, I knew I had messed up, but this guy wouldn’t even talk to me? And so, I decided to show him what real crazy was all about. I broke the uncomfortable silence and started chatting with him and his friends, during which I informed them that their friend had not been particularly cordial, and that I had indeed come to find true love in Ibiza. As they stared at me in disbelief, trying to figure out if I was f*cking with them, I knew that I had his interest back. Nothing beats a crazy girl in a white dress.

Two hours into the concert (I was in VIP, he was down with the Guetta crazies), he texted to inform me that we had to meet, as he had a “present” for me. As I walked through the labyrinth of Pasha to find our designated meeting spot, a familiar hand grabbed me and led me to a small private area, where my Romeo handed me my gift – a water bottle filled with MDMA. Ladies and Gentleman, romance is alive and thriving in Ibiza. I politely refused the molly and went for a tequila shot instead. Next, Ronaldo led me to the mosh pit, where all Guetta worshippers were bugging out to the jams of summer 2014 as though it was religious experience of their lives (seriously, the whole thing can easily be compared to Jesus Camp). Suddenly, Ronaldo pulled me in and gave me one of the most epic kisses I have experienced in quite some time. After 15 minutes of making out on the dance floor like it 2008 (clearly, the white dress had inspired me), I headed back to my friends, who congratulated me on my accomplishments. I soon receive an interesting message from Ronaldo: “ I think you’re a big book with an even bigger cover. The question is, what’s inside?” Ahh, the power of molly. Of course, I simply replied that the only interesting thing inside was a wedding registry. At this point, even wedding talk couldn’t stop Ronaldo, who was waiting for me by the exit as the entire club spilled out on the streets of Ibiza Town at 7am. Freaked out by the vision of crackhead junkies by day, I decided not to notice him, which clearly sent him into overdrive. Ten minutes later, he proposed that we meet back at the pool for a “drink and dip”.. Never one for much sleep, I agreed.

We quickly changed into our bathing suits and headed to the beach, making a pit stop at the supermarket, where we bought iced coffees and croissants and a watermelon and a coconut that Ronaldo broke against a rock while I tanned in the early morning sun. It was like Melrose Place meets Survivor! Remembering the power of Ronaldo’s hands, I requested a back massage, which is how we spent the rest of the morning. As I lay there, eating coconut chunks in the early morning sun as a 25-year old massaged my back, life was good. I had made my summer memory, something to think about during those cold walks to work and to inspire my #tbt posts for months to come. He had done well, my Ronaldo.


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