It’s around 2 AM.
I’m scrunched up, in the corner of a beautiful closet. A foot away from me, is one of my oldest friends, also named Melissa. Between us, a bottle of dry, cheap red wine from a market down the block.
I’m reciting Sylvia Plath’s fig tree quote from “The Bell Jar”, with the help of my phone. Melissa is listening intently, as she plays a little with the diamond on her finger.
After I read the last line, she comments that she doesn’t think any photos she’s taken of her engagement ring do it justice.
I lean over, position her hand, and take a shot from the side.
“There,” I say, showing her the photo. “It’s perfect”.
It’s just a coincidence that the weekend Melissa and I planned on meeting in Spain fell a week after her boyfriend of two years, Aaron, proposed. I hadn’t seen her in almost three years, since she had moved to London for work. Even when she lived in Chicago and I lived in Philadelphia and Wilmington (plus nomadic, for a spell), communication was sparse. We were living separate, but equally exciting and challenging lives.
It’s been a far cry from the Saturday nights we spent in junior high and high school having sleepovers in her basement. Late nights spent drinking wine (cheap, cheap wine), eating lightly salted popcorn (it’s still my favorite), having Audrey Hepburn and James Bond movie marathons. I admit to her in the closet, sort of drunkenly, that I would have never gone to film school if it weren’t for her.
It’s oddly serendipitous that we’re here in Spain now, at the start of a new year. Barcelona was just a random selection, after agreeing months earlier to meet up while I was in Europe. The closet was just because Erica was sleeping and The Cotton House’s roof was closed.
But we got what we expected in Spain – a magical, vibrant place with gorgeous architecture and inspiring art. A gritty, yet pretty city with cheap tapas, hearty paella, and all the red wine we could drink. What I hadn’t quite anticipated, however, was how much the city would move me, and bring us back together as friends.
The people were enthusiastic and vibrant. The waiters at 24 Tapas teased us when we wanted to take a photo. Another brought me extra wet naps when he saw me manually peeling apart shrimp. And there was the city itself – winding side streets that revealed café after café, bar after bar. Each one seemingly with it’s own story to tell.
We walked through countless graffiti splattered neighborhoods, all the time knowing that we would barely scratch the surface of everything here.
While picking at spicy chorizo (not a huge fan), trying salted green peppers (definitely a fan), and practically inhaling soft, creamy cheeses with Melissa, we just talked. We discussed everything from our previously mentioned sleepovers, to her engagement, wedding, and life in London. Nicknaming my not yet known soul mate, Blah-Blah, and making vague future plans for he and I to meet Melissa and Aaron in San Sebastian someday.
I showed her the art I’ve produced lately, talked about my writing, and and looked at her selection of classically romantic A-line wedding dresses. All within the backdrop of this strange, hauntingly beautiful place. A city with a more detectable pulse than I’ve experienced anywhere else.
The city – a reminder, of how important it is to continuously awaken feelings of romance, adventure and curiosity. Realized while marveling over early sketches of Picasso, smelling the sweet and spicy combination of cooking spices at La Boqueria market.
The friend – the understanding, that other people can be an additional source and reminder of self.
I’ll dream of the paella from 7 Portes, I’ll return for the truffles.