The great bard once wrote,

“The course of true love never did run smooth” – an indisputable fact made only more evident by flipping to our profile on Croatia’s Museum of Broken Relationships and reading the woeful, uplifting, tender and heart-wrenching stories submitted by the public. But while the museum showcases stories of love gone awry, this is a tale about a romance that never quite came to be. It all began in Amsterdam with a show tune and a chocolate bikkie. A bright-eyed backpacker in my early 20s, I had landed in the Dutch capital just the afternoon before – the first stop on a three-month European adventure. (Yes, I know. A post-study Euro trip – groundbreaking.) The canals! The tulips! The hot chips dolloped with creamy mayonnaise! I was well and truly swept up in Amsterdam’s fairytale-like charm, and expressed my joy by prancing along the street, warbling the theme song to Fame and nibbling on an Oreo. Suddenly, I awoke on the pavement. My cheek was throbbing; a fetching face gazed down at me. He was the reason for my rapid tumble – or at least, his right shoulder was, when it met my head as he sped past on a suitably delightful Dutch bicycle. (I was later told I went down like a crash-test dummy.) The collision had been my fault; in my excitement, I’d forgotten that European traffic came from the other way. Not that I was concerned with pointing fingers: dazed, aching and smeared with blood and chocolate cookie crumbs, I’d (quite literally) fallen head over heels for the handsome, bike-riding stranger. If we lived in a rom-com, we’d probably be married by now, following a canal-side ceremony where we each cycled down the aisle. But, alas, this is real life, and all I took away from the interaction was a puffy, bruised lip, a dinner-party anecdote, and a steadfast inclination to look both ways when I cross the road.