Falling in love during a pandemic? I wouldn't recommend it

Last year was the unlikeliest for a long-time singleton like myself to end up in a relationship. Like most, I hardly left the house after the announcement of lockdown last March, let alone the country. But there were those fleeting few months of freedom towards the end of summer when we were permitted to venture beyond the borders of our own kingdom, and given the rare absence of tourists on the Greek island of Santorini, a picture-perfect magnet for ghastly influencers, which I’d always avoided for that very reason, I seized my opportunity to travel.

I met Julius, a German helicopter pilot working there for a season, through a series of flukes, and via his colleague Philipp, who found me on Instagram and invited me on a scenic air tour; presumably mistaking me for an influencer.

Philipp invited me on a dawn flight. I hate mornings, and I knew I’d be cutting it fine with timings given I had an important call scheduled straight after landing, but after several months of living under house arrest, I was stuffed to the gills with pent-up carpe diem, and so I accepted.

Julius was lingering at the helipad when I arrived sleepily the next morning, and struck up a jovial conversation with me while Philipp prepared the helicopter. I dislike small talk about as much as I dislike early mornings, but nonetheless, it was one of those rare interactions with a stranger in which your brain, somehow sensing it might be important further down the line, sticks a pin in to remember the moment.

The flight was thrilling and the aftermath stressful; I couldn’t get reception on my phone for the call, so Philipp rushed us to the nearest place with reliable Wi-Fi: the house he shared with Julius and another pilot. I got chatting with Julius again just as I was leaving.

“I’ve got a plus-one for dinner later at a very fancy restaurant, if anyone wants to join,” I said, uncharacteristically for someone so accustomed to travelling alone; lobbing out the invitation in no particular direction, but very much hoping Julius would be the one to catch it. He did.

That night, we feasted at Lycabettus, rightly renowned as Santorini’s most romantic restaurant, perched over the tumbling white caves of Oia. We worked our way through a nine-course tasting menu as the setting sun threw glitter across the sea below. Our conversation – fast-paced, wide-ranging, comical, and at times almost urgent, we had so much to say – stretched far into the early morning.

“It’s so nice to see a couple with such good chemistry,” our waitress remarked as we signed the bill. We weren’t a couple at all at that point, and nor did we think we’d become one.

Despite the sudden and profound mutual attraction, neither of us wanted a long-distance relationship; not ever, ideally, but especially not during the pandemic. We just wanted to talk more. And talk we did, for several hours a day on the phone and via voice notes, from the time I left Santorini that following morning to the time I returned several weeks later to visit. Our alliance was a runaway train by this point; there was little either of us could do to stop it.

In many ways, Julius and I could hardly be more different. He’s social, enthusiastic, likes mornings and wears a bumbag; I am quiet, introverted, prefer darkness and wear only black. He’s musical, good at maths and genuinely enjoys “working out”. I am tone deaf, can’t add up, and avoid exercise at all costs. Together, we are unreasonably happy, all the time.

Since we met in August, Julius has made it to England from Munich thrice. Only during one visit were we permitted to leave our domain, thanks to the brief relaxation of rules in November. In that time, I took him to my favourite pub in all of Britain; The Withies Inn, a traditional 16th-century freehouse in Surrey with the best Beef Wellington known to man. We went camping off the side of a cliff in Dorset in the driving rain, and swam past Durdle Door at dusk. We procured a giant (early) Christmas tree from a pine farm in Essex. Otherwise – each time he's been here it’s been dicier in terms of restrictions – we stayed put at home with my dog, who has also developed a serious soft spot for Julius.

I’ve been vigorously anti-lockdown since the early days of this pandemic and will rant to anyone who will listen about the absurdity of the continued shuttering of our society. But before meeting Julius, this stance was based entirely on principle, not circumstance. Personally, lockdown has suited me very well, thank you. I’ve been lucky enough to keep my full-time job and I’ve moved to the countryside with my dog, where I’m far happier than I ever was in the city. Long may lockdown continue, I would have said – if I were really that selfish.

That was my situation, before I fell in love with Julius. Now, I not only have a theoretical quibble, but a very real reason to rail against our current situation, given it is currently illegal for us to see each other.

By January, when the new variants were circulating and Germany banned UK arrivals, he managed to take one of the few remaining Lufthansa flights here while he still could. At the end of every week, he moved his return flight back again, until we realised we’d spent 42 days holed up in the house together, with not a single lover’s tiff on the scorecard. For me, this was unprecedented, and a union worth fighting for. Eventually, last month, his job came calling, and Julius had to fly back to Germany. Even if I were permitted by the overlords at the Houses of Parliament to leave the UK, Germany remains closed to travellers from Britain.

It will continue to be illegal for me to escape our isle until at least May 17, the earliest point at which international travel will again be permitted, according to Boris Johnson’s preposterously slow roadmap.

It is dystopian enough that we are still hardly allowed to leave our homes, given how well the UK’s vaccination programme is going, but there should at least be options for ocean-split couples and families who are desperate enough to see each other. I’d gladly pay for my own hazmat suit if it meant I could board a plane to Germany.

In the meantime, we’re just two more of the many Westerners who never thought we’d live in a society in which visiting our beloved would not only be nigh-impossible, but punishable by law.