As a whole, they are well-dressed, courteous, attentive, and affectionate. They are loyal to family, love children, and have a natural swagger.
On more than one occasion, I’ve blushed, or stammered, or simply stared in awe at Manolo, Antonio, Jose, Pedro, or Julio. (And I’m not talking about somebody specific—they’re almost all named Manolo, Antonio, Jose, Pedro, or Julio).
This is a very strange way to introduce a blog post in honor of my fourteenth wedding anniversary, but in a way, it fits.
My husband is obviously not Spanish. Blue-eyed and rubio, he comes from a land of lutefisk and fjords. He loves a brisk breeze, pickled herring, and the musical stylings of Bon Iver. He is quiet and steady, and unwinds with a relaxing thirteen mile run. He doesn’t dance, sing, or do social media of any form.
He eats a salad for lunch every single day. At noon.
Aside from his impressive language skills and his celebration of all things tinto and Cruzcampo, he’s about as espanole as I am Kim Kardashian.
And when I watch him kiss the heads of our children, or listen to him talk to his dad on Skype, I know that he–our life—is what endures. I can have my silly crushes on the Enriques of the world, but they are mere bubbles in the sky, transparent and fleeting.
I love him. I love his intelligence, his humor, his patience and kindness. He has nothing to prove, and an endless amount to give.
We talk about music, and books, and the boys, and I can feel the history of us, amongst us, between us.
Fourteen years tomorrow. We married under bougainvillea, the sunshine on our skin. And now, we walk the streets of Espana, an ocean and a lifetime away. And the sun still shines, and I am still so very much in love.