PART II
INTERMEDIATE CUISINE
“If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast.”
—Ernest Hemingway
CLASS BREAK : SPAIN
During the break between semesters, Mike’s planned a trip to Barcelona, with a side trip to Valencia in southern Spain for Las Fallas. Meaning “the fires” in the local dialect, it’s an unusual annual tribute to St. Joseph, the patron saint of carpenters. Locals erect more than three hundred massive paper-and-wood statues, most lampooning local politicians and celebrities, in key intersections. While the statues may appear comical, the residents of each neighborhood agonize over what to build, then spend months physically erecting their statue.
“Then in one night, they burn them all down,” says Mike. He’s taking me to Fallas for a reason, to see beyond the pyrotechnic fantasy to the core message of it all. “They build something beautiful, only to destroy it. And they celebrate, because the joy of the statues isn’t in keeping them but in creating them.”
We check into our hotel and set off to find a café on the Plaça de Cataluña. We’re to meet Maria, a classmate of Mike’s. I’ve never met her, but Mike says she’s insisted on showing us around Barcelona, her hometown.
As I see her walk toward us, shouting to Mike and waving wildly, I mentally note that he forgot to mention that she’s a beautiful green-eyed Catalan. Worse, Maria turns out to be interesting: she just left her career as a lawyer, with vague plans to travel in search of what she calls “her life’s true passion.”
She grabs his arm and says, “I can’t wait to show you my city.” As she guides him—er, us—around Barcelona’s Old Town, just off La Rambla, she gazes at him fondly. Struggling at times to keep up, I feel like a third wheel.
A day later, the trip feels as if it might fall apart. We check out of our hotel and drag our luggage a half mile to the train station. But damn, we left our driver’s licenses back in Paris, so we can’t pick up our rental car. Trains to Valencia are sold out; the only seats available depart late the next day.
Ever-optimistic Mike says, “Well, this just means we get to spend another day in beautiful Barcelona.” With Maria, I think, as we drag our luggage back to our hotel. It’s fully booked, and so are most of the city’s hotels, thanks to a major football match, the manager informs us.
Mike and I exchange exhausted looks. The manager catches this.
“Well, I might have something,” he says. A bit later, he motions to the door adjacent to the front desk. We assume he’s set up cots in a broom closet. At this point, we’d be thrilled with such an option.
We could not be more surprised.
It turns out to be the hotel’s premier suite, a split-level with two bedrooms, a sitting room with leather furniture, a fireplace, two wet bars, and a vast marble bathtub. The manager’s pleased with our reaction. “We keep this set aside for . . .”—he searches for the word—“. . . special guests.”
Mike stretches out on one of the couches while I take a long bubble bath before dinner. Afterward, I put on my best lingerie (purchased on my mother’s advice) and a splash of perfume. I slip on one of the hotel robes and pull it down alluringly around my shoulders. I descend the spiral staircase holding two glasses and a bottle of Cava, the Spanish version of champagne. Mike looks up to see me as I reach the base of the stairs. I feel like Jean Harlow making an entrance in a 1930s movie.
“You look gorgeous,” he says. “Just what are you up to?”
We snuggle in front of the fire and toast each other with Cava. Mike kisses my neck and murmurs, “You know, I’ve been trying to find the right place to ask you something.” My hearts pounds. “I almost asked you on a bridge one night in Paris and thought about asking in our lovely loft, too. But I want it be something special and someplace unforgettable, like you.” He takes my hands and kisses my fingertips.
“I hope you forgive me for quoting a line from a movie,” he says. “But when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start right away . . . .” he stops. “No, wait, let me do this right.”
He gets down on one knee and takes my hand. “Is it wrong to propose without a ring?
I cradle his face with my hands. “Are you kidding? I would marry you if you gave me a rubber band in the frozen-foods section of a Monoprix. Yes, yes, yes . . . .”
For the second time in a week, I begin to cry. This time, I welcome the tears.