The room for orientation was way too small—only 30 chairs for 80 students—so even though I arrived on time the first day of my master’s, I had to tiptoe around a horde of classmates seated on the floor.
When I spotted a vacant plot, I seized it by leaping into a cross-legged position like a yoga transition. In my haste, I landed on the shoe of a lucky chair occupant. I shifted my weight to release the person’s foot as I turned my head to meet its owner. I intended to swivel, apologize, and swivel back, but I couldn’t look away. It was the most gorgeous face I’d ever seen, freshly tanned with blonde highlights gracing thick brown hair as if he’d just been sailing in the Mediterranean, which I’d learn was indeed the explanation. From his posture to his stubble to his well-fitting sweater, I sensed a European sophistication. I read his nametag—Paolo Fresia—and asked, “Italian?”
He confirmed and read mine back, “Melv-wah? You’re French?”
I’d never gotten that before and chuckled. “It’s Melv-oin, like groin. I’m from L.A.”
His disappointment was evident, so I quickly tried to impress the anti-American bias out of him by bragging about my Mandarin skills and time abroad. I could see it working.
At the many events that followed, we always ended up deep in conversation, so much so that other people asked how long we’d known each other. But in all those lengthy chats, our sexual preferences never surfaced.
For Paolo’s part, I now know that he held the typical European view that a person’s orientation is fluid and private. “I don’t owe anyone that,” I’d later hear him say.
For my part, I was figuring out how to broach the subject with new acquaintances. Saying “I’m gay” felt weird in my mouth, more a confession than a description. After years of suppressing those two words, it took time to overcome my discomfort. Time and practice. I kid you not, I stood in front of the mirror repeating, “I’m gay.” (Don’t whisper it, Charlie.) “I’m gay.” (Louder!) “I’M GAY!”
So, uncertain of the other person’s status, Paolo and I took gradual steps around the borders of a typical male friendship—an extra touch here, a flirty text there—until he had enough confidence to make a move at the big welcome night for new students. In a mob on the dance floor, he leaned over to whisper, “Want to get out of here?”
My heart leapt. I don’t remember if I nodded, smiled, verbalized enthusiastic consent, or all of the above, but he knew in an instant. We rushed out of the party, shirts drenched in sweat and then rain as we raced the few blocks to my room. The second we stepped through the door, as if under a very potent mistletoe, we grabbed each other and kissed.
He slept over that night and every night thereafter.
The following week, while dancing in a club called Fez, I drunkenly yelled in his ear, “I’ve always wanted to go to Fez!”
“My grandma lived in Morocco,” he yelled back. “I know Fez well.”
We booked £15 flights leaving the next morning.
True to his word, Paolo didn’t need a map in the maze of the old medina. He led me through its bustling alleys like a tour guide. With mosques on every block and megaphones blasting daily prayers, it was hard to forget we were in a conservative Islamic country, but the need to conceal our budding romance fueled our desire. Small actions took on outsized meaning: refilling his cup of mint tea, brushing hands as we squeezed through a crowded passageway, posing for photos in a side hug, and just staring at each other for long stretches as if to say, “On this planet of eight billion people, I found you.”
After Fez, we booked an equally spontaneous jaunt to Rome, then Paris, then Brussels—it felt like a fairytale, zipping around with nothing but a backpack and, in my case, a niggling sense of guilt for missing class. But, as Paolo was quick to remind me, our grades would come down to one exam or essay at the end of the year. In that light, it wasn’t a tough decision: explore the continent with a dashing Italian or attend lectures that were essentially optional?
We were on a plane or train every other week, and then it was December and he offered to visit me during the break. Just three months after coming out, I was bringing someone home for the holidays.
I paced around the house all morning, counting the minutes until his taxi arrived. When I saw it through the window, I summoned my parents and Nick to join me at the door. The four of us stood outside as Paolo walked up. Then just as I was about to introduce everyone, he cried, “A dog stole my sausage!”
We were all in stitches, first from the abrupt exclamation and then from the story behind it: an LAX beagle had sniffed out the food he brought us from his hometown, Turin. Customs officials then searched his suitcase and confiscated a gourmet mortadella. “I hope they eat it,” he said while unpacking the other items.
But it was Paolo’s personality, not his prosciutto, that won my folks over. One minute he was geeking out with Dad over sailing and opera; the next he was dazzling Mom with his knowledge of wine and cooking. By the end of the visit, Nick was calling him “Paolbro” and my parents joked—but in all seriousness—that they liked him more than any of the girls we’d ever brought home.
The last time I’d seen my parents, in London, I’d sensed unease in them. They seemed excited for me but scared. I’m guessing they asked themselves questions like, If we didn’t spot THIS part of our son, what else don’t we know? Depression? Drugs? Will he be the same when we see him again?
No. I was ten times better.
For the first time in my life, I had a true companion and didn’t carry the burden of conflicting internal and external realities. Paolo and I were so comfortable with each other that my family found it hard to believe we’d only been together three months. It must have been a huge relief. Not only had I not become a depressed junkie, but I was in a serious relationship that already hinted at marriage and even kids. Against all odds, their gay son was in the lead to give them grandchildren before their older straight one. Not that it’s a competition. (It’s always a competition.)
During our few days in L.A., I also introduced Paolo to friends, some of whom didn’t know I was gay yet. It was so much nicer to share the news this way. I could skip the grand declaration of “I’m gay,” which made me feel like a deviant, and simply present my first boyfriend, which made me feel like a debutante.
Despite missing a high number of classes, I’m pleased to say that Paolo and I both passed. The day after graduation, we bought matching silver bands to signify our commitment before a year of long distance, Haiti to Beijing; he then joined me in China.
Fast forward to 2015. In a stroke of luck, we moved to the U.S. the same year the Supreme Court legalized gay marriage nationwide. We were already wearing rings, but I’m the product of Hollywood rom-coms and wanted to do it right, to seize my right. I got down on one knee to make it official.
Seven years from the day I sat on Paolo’s foot, we were rehearsing our vows with Rabbi Ken.
And it’s a good thing we rehearsed because Ken took it for granted that we both knew the final part of the ceremony:
“Do you take…”
“I do.”
“I do.”
But Paolo, ever the stickler for details, wanted it spelled out. “Okay, so we do the Havdalah service, Seven Blessings—all that Jewish stuff, and then Ken asks the big question, and I say, ‘Yes, I want it.’”
I laughed like a child. Ken remained a consummate professional and merely grinned.
Paolo asked, “What? That’s not how it goes? In Italian, we say, ‘Do you want to marry this person?’ ‘Sì, lo voglio.’”
Can you imagine? We’re under the chuppah in front of two-hundred people, and Paolo—too distracted to register Ken’s words—responds, “Yes, I want it.”
Instead, our friend Lindsay delivered the most memorable line of the night when she ended her toast with, “Cheers to these two Sinophiles getting married in 2017, the Year of the Cock.”
Editor’s note: Chapter 3 will be published on Wednesday, October 1
