Life in Review 2: My own love story

Time magazine's issue of August 20th this year, features an interesting article on the vanishing Hollywood love stories. How did it happen that moviegoers lost interest in love stories such as the famous "Casablanca", "Gone with the Wind", "Titanic" and other classic love films. These days, it is more about violence, wars, science fictions and comedies, and even magic. Unpopular films mean low revenue because ticket sales stink.

What has happened to the old fashion "boy meets girl, love at first sight hits like thunderbolt, courtship begins and many years later comes a wedding". No, apparently this has gone out of style. These days, girl seeks boy in some night spots, have a drink or two, goes to " mine or your place" and have sex. Just a one night stand, just sex, nothing more, they would rationalise the following day. Oh yeah! twas just part of a drunken night.

I think we should each have a love story to remember, no matter how old fashioned. A love story that truly warms the heart on winter days, one that survives either parties beyond the grave. Because when nothing remains but memories captured in pictures and video films, it is one's true love story that lives on. It is the afterlife beneath a tombstone.

My greatest love story goes like this. I was a foreign correspondent in Manila invited one evening to a presidential cruise to honour the visiting Iraqi vice-president. Majority of the guests were chiefs of foreign diplomatic missions and government ministers. I was sitted with the Philippine ministers of agriculture and cultural minorities, a Geneva-based Jamaican ambassador, the Danish charge' d affaire and the Swedish ambassador. It was a lively conversation in our table. The Jamaican ambassador was flirting openly and the agriculture minister encouraged it. Even the Danish charge´de affaires followed suit. Only the Swedish ambassador remained quiet.

It was great to be the only female in a table of men energised by scotch. No one paid any attention to what the Iraqi vice-president and the Philippine prime minister were telling the guests. Was it the promise of oil? Who cares. Then the Jamaican ambassador passed on his calling card. When the boat returned to Manila bay, we said our customary "Good-byes" and "Do you have a ride home?" kind of gesture. " Yes, I have, thank you!"
Then I discovered underneath my plate the Swedish ambassador's calling card. It read: " Tomorrow he, the Jamaican will be gone, but I will still be around." This was January 13th, 1982.

All was forgotten. I went to Southern Philippines for a 2-week long coverage of a paramilitary group terrorising the local inhabitants. Remember, this was Marcos authoritarian rule and the military lorded over the countrysides.
Upon my return to Manila, my secretary handed me several call slips, all from the Swedish embassy. I played coy and ignored it. The calls went on and sometime in March, I agreed to a dinner date with the persistent Swedish ambassador. He was Bo Kälfors, ruggedly good-looking, very sun-tanned ( from golfing ) deeply penetrating eyes and long gigolo-like hair.

The dinner was very romantic, the conversation was sexy and the questions were frank and honest. No. it was not red wine influenced. He asked, if I would like to be his "sambo" (live-in) in his next diplomatic assignment. He was nearing his end of tour in Manila. I didn't answer. Thought it was the wine talking. Then came the lunch date, and more dates. I allowed the courtship to flow its natural course, like a river. We became engaged in May ( my birthday) and had a big party with media friends and politicians. It was mesmerising how fluid the events took us. I made no attempts to hinder it. Around May, he was asking his cousin in Sweden to start looking for a romantic little church where we would marry.

The wedding took a detour. I was previously married but separated. My former husband, also a journalist, joined the underground movement against Marcos- was eventually captured, sat in jail for seven or so years, freed and ala-Mandela went into politics. Anyway, it was only in Dominican republic where I could get a divorce because the Swedish authorities said I had no residence and had not lived with the Swede about to marry me.
So, it took a long way to Drottningholm's chapel ( official residence of the Swedish royalty) as we crossed the Pacific ocean to get to the Caribbean's Dominican republic.

The end of this love story was, we married in the mid-summer day of June 26th, 1982 amidst family and diplomatic friends. This love story has kept us together for 25 years - through wars and conflicts ( in his places of assignment from Africa to Bosnia) , the ups and downs of life in Sweden. Until one day, his weak heart gave in and on May 16th this year, he passed into eternity. I don't feel any emptiness because we have a love story that lives forever.