When I was 15, my parents sent me to Vienna for two weeks to improve my German. They arrived at the summer house where I spent, well, all of my summers with my grandparents and handed me a flier that said, “Perfect your German in Vienna,” with a detailed program and a price.

First I looked at the price and thought, “This is expensive“ then looked at the program and decided, “Not interested.” Handed back the flier with typical teenager “not interested “.

And they were like, “You are going.” It took them repeating it three times for me to realize they weren't joking. It came out of the blue. Money was tight. My next thought was, what about my older brother? That one got dismissed quickly. We weren’t as close as we once were, but that’s another story.

So I had no idea what to expect. The good news is everything was taken care of, as the summer school was hosted at Theresianum, a private boarding and day school.

I still remember my parents saying, “We will pick you up in two weeks,” and turning around and leaving. I was there by myself. All alone in a new environment, knowing no one. It was a new feeling.

A nice lady from the school showed me around: the mess hall, classrooms, and the room I was staying in. Pretty spacious with four beds, two taken by two Russian dudes. They were there the whole summer. They didn’t speak English, kept to themselves. The only bad thing was that they had a boombox that was always on with awful Russian dance music, so I was never in the room.

School was pretty strict about bedtime, as we would get checked and have a lights-out routine every night. Also, about leaving the school, there was a time window in the afternoon; you had to announce it the day before and get back at curfew. Guess it’s the only way to make sure you don’t lose wealthy kids.

Food was meh, German study was boring and strict, and I made just one friend and spent most of the time with him.

But one episode from those two weeks best explains how oblivious I was, and probably still am, to female attention. It happened when a football match between our school and another school was organized.

One of our teachers gathered us on the pitch one afternoon and asked who wanted to play. I'd been playing football with the kids from school every afternoon, so I knew who'd be up for it, including my Russian bros, who more often than not stank of vodka.

After we had who was up for it, the coach asked who wanted to play which position. Of course, everybody wanted to play forward, and I, thanks to my rugby background, was the only one who wanted to play defense. So he assigned them positions. We did one training session, and the match was on.

The match was the next day at our school. When I arrived at the field, there were some kids there on the sidelines. It was a nice, not too hot, summer day with a light breeze. I was doing my warm-up, and more and more people showed up. Back then, I was nearsighted but didn’t wear glasses or contact lenses, so I didn't see exactly who was there, but most of them looked like girls.

Kickoff was getting closer, so we huddled. I knew the guys from our afternoon playing but had no idea how good the opposition was. So after the coach gave the final speech, I tried to say a few encouraging words but doubt any landed. I was ok with getting beaten both physically and result-wise, thanks to rugby, but I wasn't sure any of my teammates were, given how they looked.

Then we took our positions on the field, waiting for the whistle, and in those ten seconds before the match it happened.

Chanting from the sideline started. First just a few voices and then dozens: Dennis, Dennis, Dennis. Girls whom I had never spoken to, let alone anything else, were shouting my name. I was there for less than 10 days, and they were cheering me on?

I was confused. Who were these girls? How did they know my name? Mind you, no one else’s name was cheered on.

Of course it brought a smile to my face. I waved back, not really seeing who I was waving to, and focused on winning the match.

Don’t remember who won. I think it was us. I do remember respecting the Russians, as they went 110%. Maybe my speech did have some effect. Or maybe it was just not having any vodka before the match.

It still happens in some random moment that I get the sudden realization of “Ahaaaaaa, she was hitting on me.” The chanting was impossible to miss, but who knows how many looks and smiles I've missed before and after it.

I found the right one eventually, but somewhere out there is a woman who tried to catch my eye in Vienna and still tells the story of the idiot who never looked back.