The Monk Who Ghosted Me

In a region known for being one of the most romantic in the world, I met my soulmate and fell in love. The rest didn’t exactly go as I’d planned.

Illustration by Julie Benbassat

A few weeks ago, we announced the winners of the True Romance Writing Prize and shared the grand prize–winning essay in the shortread category, by Maggie Hart. This week, we’re super excited to share the essay that won the grand prize in the longform category, this one from Olivia Shaffett. One of our submissions readers, Banchiwosen Woldeyesus, championed this essay from the beginning — here’s what she had to say about it:

“It was a joy to read this heartbreaking love story, which is different from other love stories we read about and see on TV, one of the hallmarks of a Narratively piece. After reading just the first two paragraphs, I knew I was going to pass this essay forward. There’s tension and forward momentum. I wanted to know what happened next so badly. I’ll remember this story for the telling details that made me see the love and the heartbreak unfold in real time.” We hope you enjoy this one as much as we do!

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On the morning of my 30th birthday, the chef at the Michelin-starred restaurant in the French village where I was staying stabbed his landlord 11 times in the chest. I had made a reservation there to celebrate the day. But I wasn’t much concerned with the homicidal chef or the gossip of the town. Not even the news of such unexpected violence could break my singular focus at that moment. A man had murdered another man in cold blood, and all I could think was, Why hasn’t he texted me back?

It was a troubling start to a new decade. I had exiled myself to a remote corner of France with only the cows to keep me company, foolishly believing that the French man I had fallen hopelessly in love with three months earlier would appear, or at the very least respond to my recent WhatsApp message. And as I waited and waited for a text to arrive, I began to understand how fury can form in a person, suddenly and without warning.

It was a warm November day on the Côte d’Azur (the French Riviera) when I met the source of this agony. Almost everyone was sitting in bars and cafés outside, soaking up the last days of unclouded sunshine before the season turned for winter. Finding an outdoor table by the sea had become the holy grail. But I was on the hunt for something different: a spot inside a small bistro, a place one local deemed the “best in town.” A family-run restaurant, open only two days a week and serving just one dish (cash only, as well, if you can believe it). I had stopped by the restaurant twice already to see if a seat was available. On my third (and final) try, an older French man sipping his Sancerre in the corner leaped up in response to my inquiry, declaring to the entire restaurant, “American girl, I will give you my seat! And be rewarded for my courage!” The restaurant roared with applause. If I had any pride, I would have turned and left. Picked up a sandwich by the sea and called it a day. But I was committed to my quest.

I ordered the aïoli, a traditional Provençal dish, and the only one on the menu. Served with cod and steamed vegetables, it was so delicious it made me cry (just a small tear, not a full-on weep). The sole server in the place, a young man with wild, curly hair and extreme reserves of patience, asked me about my plans for the day. I only had a few hours before I had to catch a train back to Nice.

“I’m just looking for a place to walk along the sea after this. I think I’ll go left toward the marina,” I told him.

He smiled. “You should go right. Toward Cap d’Antibes and watch the sunset there. I go every day.”

I hadn’t realized I could go right. It was already 3:30 in the afternoon. The November sun would set in a little over an hour.

“I get off soon and could drive you,” he offered.

I was acutely aware that this man was a stranger, and I was alone in a foreign country.

“I think I’ll walk,” I responded. He gave me his number in case I changed my mind, in case I found myself in need of a driver.

He must have known I would not make it to the Cap in time for sunset, that the winding roads along the promenade would take well over an hour to traverse. But he wasn’t the kind of person to say, “I told you so.”

A few minutes into my walk, I broke the cardinal rule for female solo travelers and sent him my location. I figured a view worth visiting every day had to be experienced, and I felt I had watched his gentle placement of cutlery for long enough to infer that he was likely not the kind of person inclined toward violence. At least not the physical kind.

Some people should come with danger signs attached. Caution: If you get in the car with this man, you might fall in love and lose your head.