Seven years ago, I was falling in love with a boy. I thought he was falling in love with me too, but then he abruptly called things off. Naturally, I was devastated. So when an opportunity for escape came up, I snatched it.
Two weeks in Spain didn’t heal my broken heart, but it sure helped. It gave my lost and drifting love someplace to anchor, to breathe. My feet kissed the cobbled streets of Granada, my arms embraced the scorching air of Sevilla. I drank in the art and history of Madrid. I floated in the shining blue waters off Barcelona.
No surprise: I left a part of myself there.
Seven years later, I returned to Spain, with the very boy who had once broken my heart. In a way I was introducing one lover to another. I think it went all right.