Spanish Honeymoon

Getting married means losing freedom for a lot of people, but for me, Graeme was the Golden Ticket to all things wonderful and interesting. Some people in my family were concerned when we got engaged. They assumed I was getting married just to move out of my parents’ house. Everything happened very quickly and I wasn’t eighteen yet, so it was a bit suspicious.

A friend asked if I was pregnant, and my uncle wanted to know when our twins would be born, which was very alarming and oddly specific. They were mistaken, of course, especially about the mystery twins. We got married because Graeme and I fit together perfectly.

And we did it quickly because we agreed not to kiss before the wedding, which sped things up quite effectively. Did I prefer roses or hydrangeas for my bouquet?

YES.

We had interviewed each other thoroughly, and seeing as we agreed on all the important things, we didn’t see a reason to wait. In eight years I have never once wondered if I made the right choice. It’s just obvious that we need to be together.

My suspicious friends and relations were right about one thing, though: I was glad to leave my parents’ house. I didn’t even realize this or think about it until we were running through the airport the morning after our wedding, trying to catch a plane to Madrid.

I had just had a sleepover with a dude and now we were going to Europe! Yes, I was very glad to leave home. I didn’t travel much growing up because my parents were equal parts busy and paranoid. So my best childhood memories include really good books and getting laminated floors in my bedroom. I am very familiar with boredom, but I don’t hold a grudge against my parents. I just remember sometimes.

Graeme and I married in Mexico, where traditionally, things are supposed to go wrong. Our wedding was a mess. It didn’t help that we were smitten and were doing things in a sort of inebriated state. My parents were getting a divorce while we were deciding whether to go with blue centerpieces or just make out and be done with it already. So the wedding was weird.

I got the chicken pox and lost a lot of weight. The piano guy didn’t show up. The main roads in the city were all closed off, and Graeme accidentally saw me in my dress about five times. The honeymoon, however, could not have been better.

We spent the first week in an apartment by the beach in Marbella. I remember watching that Denzel Washington movie where you don’t realize he’s blind until the very end. I also remember hiding in closets and giving Graeme a few good scares. We ate lots of Salt & Vinegar Pringles and went to the indoor pool every day, where we made old Spanish ladies uncomfortable by shamelessly making up for our previous self-restraint.

Being in love and having self-awareness are two things that don’t happen at the same time. The ladies got back at us later, though, when they took their tops off at the beach.

Being an old lady and not giving a damn are two things that do happen at the same time. Something to look forward to.

Our second week in Spain was equally blissful, just slightly more adventurous. We went sightseeing and drove all the way to Barcelona. One of our favorite stops was La Carolina, which is the Spanish equivalent of Kingsburg. That’s right, you’ve never heard of it.

I don’t think the locals had ever seen tourists before. Their Spanish was indecipherable and everyone was wearing fluffy jackets and staring at our shorts.

We stopped there for lunch, and decided to spend the night because the graffiti was minimal. The hotel we stayed at had a slimy green pool, but the food was great. I’m still not sure what we ate because, again, the Spanish was a mystery.

The dining room was entirely made of wood and looked like Gaston had been on Pinterest and then opened a restaurant (he uses antlers in all of his decorating). There was a huge deer head over every table and impressive chandeliers throughout the room, which was big enough for about two hundred people.

It didn’t feel great, being the only ones there, and I hoped their policies weren’t the same as Hotel California’s. We made it out alive the next morning, just a bit tired because the man in the next room should have probably gotten his tonsils removed as a child, but his parents were too scared to put him through the surgery.

We had a good time in Sevilla. I wish I remembered really beautiful places and moments, but my brain seems to be confused as to what it should store. My most vivid memory of Sevilla is a strawberry milkshake and a suspicious-looking woman walking up to us and asking, “que hora teneis?”

Here is a youthful photo of us in old people clothes. I’m not sure why we decided to dress like a retired American couple who finally decided to go check out Europe. My shorts were definitely not from the thrift store.

In Valencia, Graeme took my photo next to a big, fluffy dog, and the shop next to the hotel had Halloween costumes on display, five months prematurely. I spilled orange juice on myself in the car and that made Graeme very happy.

We loved the city, and decided to spend an extra night there. I was only slightly terrified the second night because a crazy lady who had been terrorizing tourists that evening screamed off and on until about two in the morning. We saw lots of cathedrals and a very large man in a very small skirt.

Our trip ended in Barcelona, where we did absolutely nothing. I know there is a very famous church there we should have gone to. It has been under construction for like a hundred years, which means it’s either really majestic, or they keep hiring terrible contractors who own accounting businesses on the side.

I would like to go back and tour Spain again someday, but there are still lots of other places I’ve never been that I’d like to visit first. So I might be an old lady by the time I go back, and if that’s the case, I am definitely going topless.