In September 2009, Tibi and I went for a week to Barcelona to celebrate my birthday. We started dated 9 months earlier, in January. Then we moved in with each other in July, only six months after our first date. This likely sounds super quick to anyone who lives outside of New York City. Those of you familiar with life in the Big Apple, however, know that there is no greater incentive to move in with the person you’re dating than the allure of a lower rent payment. Moving in with a significant other means getting to transition from paying half the rent on a two-bedroom, two-bathroom apartment with your roommate to paying half the rent on a one-bedroom, one-bathroom apartment with your boyfriend. And so, when my lease came up for renewal, I said goodbye to my Harlem apartment with my amazing roommate, Brittany Felton (of “Yeah, I’d Hang Out With Her” fame) and said hello to my new Upper West Side digs with Tibi.
Whereas the first six months of our relationship had been a dream, the next months were…well, maybe not a nightmare, but they were certainly less than dreamlike. Tibi and I fought constantly. We were two stubborn individuals who suddenly had to learn to share space with another stubborn individual, and it wasn’t at all easy. We fought about everything and nothing, from not leaving bath towels on the floor to the fundamentals of what we thought we owed to each other in our new relationship. Every fight felt monumental and potentially world-ending. More than a few times I threatened to walk out the door. Looking back, I laugh at how dramatic we were, but at the time, I really wasn’t sure we would make it through that period. We were two people who had built solid lives for themselves as individuals, learning what it meant to be half of a whole. It took time to refocus our attention on all the things we gained from being together rather than feeling anger about the independence we were losing.
One of the biggest fights of that period happened during the trip to Barcelona. The first half of the week was splendid. We had rented a beautiful apartment in the quiet, residential neighborhood of Gracia. It had a gorgeous terrace overlooking the Barcelona skyline and with a fantastic view of the sunset each evening. One day, we went to the Boqueria, the fantastic traditional market in Barcelona, where we stocked up on the most amazing, freshest ingredients so I could make some tapas that evening. It was that night when I learned how difficult it is to make one of my favorite Spanish staples, a ham croquette. The amount of time and energy that goes into that tiny little mouthful of deliciousness is astounding. I’ve never attempted it again, though whenever I order them at a restaurant, I eat them with a gigantic side of gratitude.
We sipped Sangria in Parc Güell, the magical park designed by genius Catalan architect Antoni Guadí. Giant mosaic lizards surround colorful, curved walls in what amounts to an adult’s playground—Alice’s Wonderland come to life.
We meandered through the medieval alleys of the Barri Gotic, the oldest part of Barcelona. It was there that we saw the troop of elderly Catalans who gather every Sunday in front of the cathedral to dance the Sardana, a folk dance that had been banned by Franco during his dictatorship, as he tried to destroy all parts of Catalan culture. That dance became the inspiration for the very first academic article I would ever publish.
We marveled at the colorful graffiti that was ubiquitous in the city. It was my first time traveling to a place where graffiti felt not like vandalism, but like true art.
We took the cable car up to the top of Mount Tibidabo, where an amusement park towers over the city of Barcelona below. We rode some rides and took ample photos of Tibi in front of every sign that referenced his name. And, given the name of the mountain, there were many!
It was also in Barcelona that we developed one of our most cherished traditions: the Cava Stop. We were doing a self-guided walking tour through the ritzy neighborhood of Eixample on an incredibly hot day. On top of that, the walking tour in the Frommer’s guidebook had clearly been written by someone who had never been in Barcelona, as the directions were completely off. In a moment of fatigue, heat, and frustration, we decided to stop at a sidewalk restaurant, where we ordered a cold bottle of cava. We sat there for over an hour, sipping our cava, laughing, and watching the people pass by. Now, whenever we travel anywhere in the world and see a nice outdoor table, we’ll say, “Let’s have a Cava Stop.” Even if we aren’t drinking cava, the name has stuck.
But toward the end of our time in Barcelona, one night after dinner, we erupted into an absolutely massive fight that lasted for the final two days of the trip. I can’t even fully recall what the fight was about, though I remember it feeling potentially relationship-ending at the time. We had had such an amazing week together, but it was all lost in that fight. Like a cancer, the fight starting eating away at all the good moments the trip had given us, leaving behind only darkness and rage. Suddenly, the city no longer seemed beautiful to me. I couldn’t find a reason to smile or laugh. The food was now bland. The buildings, unremarkable. I just wanted to leave.
On the last evening of the trip, however, we stumbled into a courtyard surrounded by gorgeous buildings and filled with palm trees. The streetlights were lit, and the moon was shining above the plaza. I vaguely remember some mentally unwell person walking through the plaza, screaming nonsense we couldn’t understand. I looked at the scene, then at Tibi, and suddenly, the beauty of it all returned. I remembered how much I loved Tibi and how very happy we had been throughout the week. And I suppose he had the same sensation. Together, we realized that what we had was simply too special to throw away.
And so, a new tradition was born that evening in Barcelona. Tibi and I went to dinner and decided to forget about the fight, at least for now, and instead focus on all the other fantastic moments of the week. We started with the day of our arrival. I recounted the moment that was, for me, the most memorable of that day—the moment I would carry with me. Then Tibi said his. Then we moved to the next day. Tibi started this time, then I followed, each stating the strongest memory from that day, each making sure not to repeat what the other had said, so as to reinforce the idea that there were always multiple memorable moments to any day we spent together. Each story we recounted from the previous week brought smiles to our faces. The anger that had built up over the previous day or two started to subside. We felt grateful and happy again.
Our “period of adjustment” during those first six months of living together continued. We still fought, to be sure. In fact, these frustratingly ferocious fights continued fairly consistently until the one-year anniversary of our first date, on January 16, 2010, when Tibi took me to a gazebo in Central Park and proposed to me. And I said yes. And then, miraculously, the fighting stopped. Or rather, the quality of the fighting changed substantially. We still argued about little things. We bickered a lot. But never again would one of us threaten to back out of the relationship. Once we made that commitment to get married, everything changed. We knew that we would be together for the long haul. As a result, there always had to be a solution and/or resolution to any disagreement. And so the stakes of every disagreement felt much less dire, because we had already agreed on the ending: that we would be together and be happy.
Ever since that night in Barcelona, we’ve made something of a ritual of this act of memory, which we now simply refer to as “the game.” On the last night of any trip, we book a table at a nice restaurant, wait until our first cocktail or glass of wine is in our hands, and then we go day-by-day through the trip, taking turns remembering our favorite moments. Sometimes the most memorable moment of a day will be sad or enraging, but mostly the most memorable moments are the ones that brought us the most joy. Ask any of our friends and family who have traveled with us, and they will tell you that we make them take part in the game, too. Depending on the length of the trip or the number of people with us, the game can sometimes take a whole meal to complete. Sometimes, when our trips last multiple weeks, the hardest task is remembering which stuff happened on which day. But we somehow always make it through, and it always leaves us with a feeling of peace and joy after reflecting collectively on the beauty of what we’ve experienced.
Inevitably, when we get to the last day of the trip, whoever gets to name their favorite moment first will say, “Right now.” And I love this, because it highlights the fact that the very act of remembering together is, in itself, a joyful practice. It allows you to exist in the present and the past simultaneously. And I find that, for myself, that blissful communion of past and present is a space of pure happiness.
The game always ends with a toast. And as we clink our glasses together, we celebrate all we’ve experienced, just as we look forward to all the memorable moments that await us in the years to come.
Oh my God, yeah well, I'm CRYING. Ugh. Another lovely post. And these baby pictures!!! Love love love