A few summers ago, I spent a handful of days in Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe between filming assignments. In that charming, but unlikely place, I met a beautiful young woman named Claire. Tall and slender with skin kissed by the African sun, she was smart, funny, and spoke fluent French. She drove an old safari land cruiser (which she could fix in the dark on a dirt road), and wore a claw around her neck from the leopard that attacked her father in their backyard. Victoria Falls was her hometown, and she was one of the most enchanting girls I had ever met.
We spent five electric days together in that impossibly romantic setting, visiting her favorite places, photographing, watching sunsets, bungee jumping, and falling in love. And then I left for Tanzania.
In the ensuing months apart, the remoteness of Africa made communication difficult, but we managed to keep the pages of our storybook romance turning. I wrote to her every day in a hand bound journal of cape buffalo hide, pouring my soul on paper and using the pages to try and explain who I was as a person, then had my friend hand deliver it to her in Zimbabwe.
After 4 long months, we reunited in London, and I even brought her back to Texas for Christmas and New Years.’ But as time passed, the reality of western life set back in, and we grew apart. It seemed that our romance was not so storybook outside of Africa, and the love we had was lost. She left for London, called things off, and we’ve spoken very little since.
Despite our painful parting, I still think back to the magical time we shared together in Zimbabwe fondly. The fact that our story did not end happily doesn’t mean that it wasn’t a good book. Though it is a tale of heartbreak, it is still part of the library of my life, and I am not one to get rid of books, nor ignore their lessons.
