Episode 5: Peggy's Last Lover

EPISODE 5: PEGGY’S LAST LOVER

If you walk down the unassuming lane of Tiensestraat in the city of Leuven, Belgium, you may come upon a thin white townhouse. The door might be open. If you step inside, the air is still and thick—warm with summer, close but not sweltering, the kind of warmth that holds onto time. Overhead, a large skylight with faded glass the color of tangerines and lemon tea spills dappled light across the walls, where cream-colored wallpaper, bumpy with age, holds a dense arrangement of relics.

Clocks, their chimes hanging silent. A candle, thick and dark maroon, still stubbornly unlit. Sculptures of cherubs, their plaster mouths open as if whispering secrets into the room. The whole space feels preserved in amber, untouched yet heavy with presence.

Next to the simple bed, a landline phone sits in its cradle. It won’t be ringing.

Beyond the bedroom, past a dresser dusted in fine sunlight, is the living room. Here, amid the antiques, a jewelry drawer waits. You pull it open. Empty.

On the coffee table, tucked beneath the glass top, there’s a photo album. You slide it out, let its weight settle in your hands, and turn to its middle. There she is—a beautiful woman, smiling radiantly, smiling and smiling, caught forever in this sliver of time. She doesn’t know what will happen to her. And she doesn’t seem to care.

This is Peggy. The woman who will teach you how the present becomes the past.

Welcome to Go and Find Out. I’m Jonny Wright.

This is a story of losing yourself in the world.

I left my home, my job, and the USA in order to learn the old-fashioned way: with first-hand experience.

Some people go on a journey to find themselves. I went on a journey to lose myself—and instead find the world.

In these episodes, I ask big questions about life, not from an armchair but from roadsides and mountaintops, from temple halls and dance halls.

Join me as I hitchhike across the world, embrace the unexpected, and let go, one step at a time.

If you’ve ever thought about living a life outside the box, keep listening.

Because this isn’t just my story. It’s about what happens when you start to wonder what your story could be.

You don’t need to hitchhike across the world—there are ways you can choose to live with more courage, more curiosity, and more intention, right here, right now.

Let’s go and find out.

The figure at the abbey wouldn’t leave me.

That impossible third way, walking the fence beside me. Not choosing freedom or structure—but something else entirely.

I’d seen a hint of that kind of life once before. Who was it?

I had to remember.

In any case, the only people who can answer what a good life looks like aren’t my age.

Maybe I needed to hear from someone who had already lived it.

Someone whose story had already run its course.

And so, that morning in Leuven, I stepped outside looking for a baguette.

What I found instead was Peggy.

I was rereading Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast in Gilles’s living room—my host in Leuven. Reading a book like that is bound to make you hungry. It’s a book about travel, and a book about writing, and a book about food, all wrapped up in one. That’s right up my alley.

I couldn’t ignore my stomach any longer. I had to get movable to get my feast. I pulled on my shoes and walked without any destination. I trusted I’d find a bakery before long. One of my favorite pastimes while traveling is to meander without a clue of geography, to literally get lost, and then if need be, untangle myself with Google Maps or a stranger’s help.

I still hadn’t found that elusive baguette when, from a doorway to my right, a voice called out.

"Quelle heure est-il?"

I paused. The French was crisp but carried the slightest waver. I turned to see an elderly woman leaning over a walker in the threshold of a narrow white townhouse. Her white hair, brushed back from her face, framed sharp, intelligent eyes—eyes that, even in their weathered depths, still held onto something bright.

She was dressed in a white nightgown, though it was already two in the afternoon, and something about that—its casual defiance, its softness—made her seem instantly familiar. Like someone’s grandmother. Like someone I might have known if I had grown up in this town.

I hesitated, but my college French class had abandoned me years ago, so I admitted I only spoke English.

She didn’t miss a beat.

"Ah!" she said, switching effortlessly. Her voice carried the clipped but elegant tones of a woman who had been taught, long ago, how to speak well.

And just like that, we weren’t talking about the time anymore.

The moment I responded, she launched into a tirade about the apartment next door—how they kept selling and renting it out, one tenant after another, no regard for the real people who lived there. The way she spoke, it wasn’t just that she was complaining. It was something deeper. A longing for continuity, for a world where neighbors knew each other, where lives weren’t just passing through, exchanging keys every six months.

As she spoke, I realized something else.

She was talking to me as if we already knew each other. Not like we had met once before, but like I had just returned from an errand, and she was picking up our last conversation where we left off. There was no small talk, no introductions, just an easy slide into familiarity.

She wasn’t waiting for me to leave. She was waiting for me to step in.

And despite my stomach growling for that baguette, despite the tiny, logical voice in my head reminding me that I didn’t even know her name yet—I found myself curious.

Because in that moment, in the warmth of her directness, in the way she filled the empty space between us so effortlessly, I had the distinct feeling that she had something to say. Something real.

And that maybe, just maybe, I was supposed to hear it.

I paused, half-turning back toward the street. But something about her presence in the doorway, the weight of her waiting, made it impossible to walk away.

The house behind her wasn’t just open—it was expectant. Inside, shadows flickered in the sunlit dust. A slow-ticking clock somewhere. A space preserved, waiting to be entered.

She led the charge pushing the walker / and I followed. I was soon seated on an old tan leather couch in a cream-colored living room, surrounded by delicate antique clocks and paintings, with no idea what was expected of me.

I put on my detective cap: She’s elderly, looks like she’s alone. Maybe she just wants some company? That would make me nothing more than a body to talk at, which doesn’t feel very good, but I left the possibility open. Or maybe she was looking for something else. I needed more info. Name, please? Peggy. I asked about her life. How long had she lived here? Well, it didn’t take much to get her talking. I was sitting in her childhood home. Her seven decades had been spent under this roof.

She pulls a heavy album from the shelf and lays it across her lap, its plastic cover slightly yellowed with age. The corners are soft, worn from decades of handling. Her fingers move over them lightly, as if reading the texture of the years.

The first page flips open to faded black and white, and there she is. A young girl in a white dress, standing beside a tall man in a trim suit.

“That’s my father,” she says, tapping the photo. “Handsome, wasn’t he?”

I nod. He has the polished, effortless charm of old European money. Not just wealthy—comfortable in it. He’s standing in front of a gleaming car, the first automobile in Leuven, Peggy tells me, with a touch of pride. She, a child in polished shoes, clings to his hand.

The same girl bracing herself in a cold ocean wave, foam spraying up around her face, eyes scrunched up in surprise.

She’s older now, maybe twenty. A coastline washed in golden light. Peggy leans against a boulder, tanned and radiant, hair swirling around her head.

A smoky club. Men in blue suits and women in furs, laughter curling with the cigarette smoke. A snapshot of a bygone world. Peggy, in the center of the frame, an arm draped over the back of a chair, chin tilted, smiling like she owns the night.

It looked like a film still from Goodfellas or Scarface, plush and full of secrets, everyone flashing smiles at the camera between glasses of champagne.

Another man. Slicked-back hair, expensive watch, a little too much confidence. Peggy curled into his side, painted lips, a gaze that meets the camera head-on.

“An Italian,” she says, amused. “A bit of a gangster.”

I glance up at her, but she’s already turning the page.

Peggy hadn’t picked a track.

She danced at the edge.

A girl made of flashbulbs and first glances, who lived like the golden days would always stretch on.

And for a while—they did.

In those days her life was Ferraris and Bugattis, beaches and gold. Weekends in Sète. Mornings in Nice.

A perfume of leather seats and sea air.

The music played. The dresses fit. She never had to wait in line.

Nights of awakening passion, days of flagging passion on flights back home. She liked to party, and she liked men.

She wasn’t looking for men with wealth—she already had that.

It was style. Magnetism. The emanations they sent out.

She wanted to be met at the level she lived on: incandescent.

With a knowing smile she said, ‘You either can make love or you can't’. I sat awkwardly on the couch, wondering if I was one who could or couldn’t. She continued: ‘It's not something that can be mimicked, or learnt.’ Apparently she was one of those who could make it.

Then, the last image she lingers on. Peggy alone. Not posed, not laughing, just looking off to the side, hair loose around her shoulders, a drink balanced in her hand. Something about it is quieter. Not sad, not tired—just still. A flicker of something beyond the frame.

She closes the album with a soft thud, smoothing her nightgown over her knees. The conversation shifts, and the weight of the images lingers between us.

And just like that, the glamorous world inside the photo album vanishes, replaced by the stillness of this room, the dim light from the skylight, the hush of a house where time has slowed to a crawl.

The past few minutes, I’ve been seeing Peggy as she was—the woman in the photographs, the belle de jour, the woman who never had to question whether the world was hers to enjoy.

But I still don’t understand how that turned into this.

She shrugs when I ask if she ever hears from the Italian. ‘Men disappear,’ she says. And she doesn’t just mean lovers.

It struck me how much Peggy’s life, dazzling as it was, had been structured around men—their charm, their approval, their gaze. Once, that was the only story a woman could live. It’s not anymore. But for Peggy, it still was.

Last time, I stood at the edge of other people’s tracks—Robbie, Brian. Lives that were chosen, settled. But Peggy’s life? It didn’t settle. It shimmered. Until it vanished. A third kind of path: burn bright, then disappear.

Slowly—but without warning—the lights began to dim.

One invitation went unanswered. Then two.

A call she didn’t return. Then one that didn’t come back.

The dresses still fit, but they stayed on the hanger.

No final curtain. No big goodbye.

Just a slow thinning out. A tapering.

The laughter in the smoky clubs gave way to quiet nights.

Longer stretches between knocks at the door.

Then no knocks at all.

She never married. Didn’t want to.

She wasn’t the type to settle for the expected.

She’d always said, “It’s better to be remembered than kept.”

And then one day she found herself at home with the phone beside her, silent.

It wasn't ringing like it used to. And she sat, also silent.

On one day, a day perhaps not unlike this one, there was the sound of the door closing

after the last lover with his coat.

And after that was the next day, and the next.

And the door stayed shut.

She points to the drawer. “It used to be filled with gold.”

“What happened” I asked.

She shrugs.

“I had to sell them,” she says. “One by one.”

I frown, not understanding.

She holds my gaze a moment, then lets it drop. Her fingers drift back to the edge of the photo album.

She doesn’t look up when she says it.

“I went to the bank to make a withdrawal. Just like always.”

Her voice is even.

“The clerk frowned, checked the screen, then checked it again.”

She lifts her hand, midair, as if still holding the receipt.

“‘Your account is at zero.’ That’s what he said.”

“Had you spent it all?” I asked, almost shocked.

“No,” she laughs, “I couldn’t have spent it all if I’d tried.”

I can picture her standing there. Elegant, composed. Holding her handbag, maybe with one of those silk scarves tied neatly at the neck.

Peggy, expecting a deposit slip. Getting a void.

“I told him to check again. He did. Twice more. No mistake.”

Her hand lowers. Settles in her lap.

Everything gone, to the very last penny. And she found out, so was her accountant: gone.

“He’d handled everything. For years. And then… he took it.”

She doesn’t say it angrily. Doesn’t raise her voice.

“But he couldn’t have gotten away with it?” I pressed.

“I didn’t try to find him. What would I say?”

Her fingers graze the photo album again.

“That life… was over.”

The room held still.

No chime. No phone. Just the weight of it.

I open my mouth, then close it again.

What could I say? That she still matters? That she still has time? That the woman in the photos is not gone?

She puts down the album, smoothing the fabric of her nightgown over her knees. Her eyes are distant. Somewhere else.

This is not just a story—it’s somebody’s life.

At the same time, it’s the kind of life that people might turn into a movie.

But here’s our protagonist, decades after the movie would’ve ended.

Still spirited, but no longer lit by that bodily spirit of youth.

As Peggy told her stories, I watched her closely.

She had a way of talking about the past that was full-bodied—vivacious, sensual.

But when she spoke of the present, her tone flattened. Like she was narrating someone else's life.

It was subtle, but unmistakable.

She wasn’t just remembering. She was living there.

And maybe that’s what scared me most.

Not that the story faded.

But that it didn’t.

That it stayed frozen while she kept aging.

What happens when you can’t let go of your story?

Even now, sparks leapt from her eyes when she remembered. But they never stayed. The woman she saw in the mirror didn’t match the one in the photos—and that broke something in her.

The landline rings, and Peggy disappears into the bedroom to take the call. I stay seated on the couch, fingertips still resting on the edge of my glass. The room is quiet, except for the murmur of her voice behind me.

I look around.

A round tilting mirror with a gold frame sits on a desk. Frilly pink lampshades in the drab daylight.

On the armchair across from me: a silk scarf, folded once and left in place, like someone planned to come back for it

Peggy has stepped off the stage.

The spotlight’s gone. The audience too.

And when the drama stops—what remains?

For Peggy, being wanted was the story.

Without that… what’s the plot?

I listen to her fumble through the call, and something inside me begins to turn.

What if she didn’t just want a body to talk at.

What if she wanted to feel alive again. To be seen. To be chosen, even now.

I think about saying something. But would she believe me? Would I?

Peggy reenters, moving a little slower.

She settles into her chair, smooths her nightgown, and lets out a breath that sounds like it’s been held all afternoon.

I catch her eyes for a moment. There’s a flicker there. Familiar. Still lit.

I open my mouth, then close it.

Instead, I shift in my seat. And nod. Just enough for her to keep going.

After a few more stories and a glass of cranberry juice, it was time for me to go.

I set my glass on the table.

Peggy told me I was young and handsome and bright, and I laughed,

but it made me remember:

I won’t always be.

She followed me to the door with her walker, we hugged goodbye, and I step out, letting it close softly behind me—

like the last lover of Peggy’s life.

I hope I’m not Peggy’s last visitor.

But if I am, I’m telling her story to you—ensuring this won’t be the last anyone hears it.

A small legacy for the lonely girl who once had everything.

And maybe still has something left.

I walk back through Leuven in the honey-thick air of evening.

The street is quiet. The rooftops glow.

I picture Peggy—not as I saw her last, but radiant.

A red silk dress. Hair caught in the breeze. She’s stepping from a cab into the shimmer of a summer night, the hem of her dress brushing the stone steps of some seaside villa. Laughter curls behind her. Music spills from an open door. Someone’s waiting just out of frame.

It’s all so vivid. So alive.

And then—gone.

The color drains. A bird cries overhead. The light shifts.

And suddenly, I’m flipping through a photo album of my own—

one that hasn’t been printed yet.

Here I am: flushed in a German van, laughing on a rooftop,

sprawled in the grass next to a friend, listening to the bird calls.

A thousand flickers of life—already shimmering like memory.

For a second, I think: This is it. This is the golden hour.

But then another thought slips in.

What if this is it?

What if this is the story I’ll always return to?

What if I’m already sealing it—polishing it for nostalgia—turning it into the cage I’ll someday live inside?

The chill that moves through me isn’t fear of dying.

It’s fear of remembering too well.

Of never touching something that vivid again.

The sky is still warm. But it feels farther away.

Do we all get trapped in our stories eventually?

Not all.

I’d met someone once. Someone light.

Like he’d stopped carrying a story altogether.

That night, sleep came slow.

And somewhere in the blur between dusk and dreaming, a question took shape:

Is it possible to live without a plot?

Is it possible to live without a plot?

Wasn’t there someone who already had?

And what was it about strawberries?

That’s it for this episode of Go and Find Out. Thanks for spending this time with me—seriously. It means a lot that you’re here, listening to this story.

This show is created by me, Jonny Wright, with music by me, except for that cool jazz. Big thanks this week to Michael Erb for his feedback on drafts of this episode, and also a big thanks to Jaspreet Singh, in Mohali, Punjab, for his generosity in letting me use his studio to record demos of this podcast while I was there in India. We may hearing more about that later…

If you’re enjoying the ride, hit subscribe so new episodes come straight to you every Thursday. And hey—if you’ve got a second, leaving a quick review or rating really helps spread the word.

Here’s a bit of mail I got this week from Joe. He writes:

“You may hear this from time to time, but I resonate with your story completely, at least the first episode. I also threw caution to the wind and went to Europe with nothing but a backpack. That desire to get lost also led me to desiring to learn more about the world. I ended up teaching English in Japan, and continuing to travel for many years.

I live in St. Louis, Missouri, but I listened to your podcast as I’m driving through the hills of Northern Georgia, speaking at schools, hopefully inspiring students to pursue their dreams, or at least try things that seem impossible. It’s weird, but I got a little emotional listening to this first episode. It’s like I’m listening to my own voice tell my own story. Looking forward to Thursdays!”

Thank you Joe!

I’d love to hear from you—thoughts, stories, weird travel tips, whatever’s on your mind. Drop me a line at goandfindoutpod@gmail.com, and I’ll do my best to write you back.

And more than anything, I hope this episode sparked something—however small.

A question, a dream, a reminder that your life is still unfolding.

Alright, that’s all I got. See you next time.

Until then...