I’ve decided to put some Basha stories here, mostly for me, but occasionally I have referred to them in other posts.
Feel free to skip, these are my memories.
The year is 1999 and we are on our first big trip together. We knew it was a “make-or-break” test for the relationship. We were backpacking for a month in Spain and Portugal during the summer. We began the trip in Madrid, speaking very little Spanish, and not really having an itinerary.
The Plaza Mayor is lined on all four sides with cafés and restaurants, and is great for people watching after the sun goes down and the heat dissipates. Families are out until 10 or 11pm, with kids playing, adults sipping spritzes or sangria and nibbling tapas. Very civilized.
We were enjoying some sangria and some tapas. One pitcher became two – you know how that goes! We spent a long and leisurely evening talking, relaxing in the balmy evening air, and sipping sangria.
The next morning we had to catch a relatively early train to Toledo – our next destination. We got up, got our stuff together, grabbed a coffee and some bocadillos from Museo del Jamon and headed for the station. I was moving a bit slowly, but did my best to suck it up and soldier on. This being a new relationship, I wanted to hold my own.
On the train, the Basha downed his coffee and bocadillo with gusto, while I barely ate or drank anything. The Basha saw that I wasn’t enjoying my bocadillo and asked if he could have some – he was hungrier than he’d thought. I said yes.
We arrived in Toledo and were leaving the (very beautiful) train station when I commented, “Wow, I’m finally feeling almost human again!” To which the Basha asked, “Were you NOT alright?”
I explained to him that I had wakened VERY hungover, and he was surprised. He said, “We only had 2 pitchers of sangria over a couple of hours. I am amazed that gave you a hangover.”
To which I replied, “We had THREE pitchers of sangria!”
Until his death he never (admitted that he) believed me!