The Fortunate Ones

We settle on taking a cooking class together every Friday night for a few months. The girls manage to make fancy Spanish cuisine without causing permanent property or bodily damage; this constitutes success in my book. As for me, I manage to catch the attention of the very single, very flirty cooking instructor. He tastes my food and tells me enthusiastically that I’m the best student in the class. There’s an actual chef in the class, so I know he’s flirting, not to mention I burn half of my dishes while trying to keep Olive’s pyrotechnic proclivities at bay. Once, when I turned my back for one second, she piped the flame on her classroom stove as high as it would go. The only casualty was Luciana’s right eyebrow, which I proceeded to recreate with a brow pencil for two months until the hairs regrew. By the end, when Diego and Nicolás are none the wiser, I reflect on how frightening it is that these little girls can keep a secret of that magnitude. God help their future husbands.

On the last day of our class, the instructor asks me out on a date. He says he’s been wanting to ask me for months, but he didn’t want to break the student-teacher code of ethics. I didn’t think there was such a thing in a non-graded community cooking course, but maybe things are different in Spain.

Olive and Luciana make kissing faces in the background as I try to think of the most polite way to turn him down. There’s a lot of “it’s not a good time for me” and “I don’t want to lead you on” before he finally has to cut me off with a tight, awkward smile. He tells me he understands, says he just got out a relationship himself. The entire way home, the girls tease me about what my life could have been like if only I’d said yes.

“You could have been his sous chef!” Olive exclaims, like this is a plausible turn my life could take.

I dismiss her suggestion with a shrug. “Ugh, and wear that dumb chef’s hat all day? No thanks. Luciana, stop touching your face! You’re wiping away your eyebrow.”

…

The cooking instructor isn’t the first man to pursue me in Spain. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t keep a harem, but for a woman who spends most of her time holed up tutoring young girls, I deflect a fair number of suitors. There’s a barista that works at a cafe down the road from where we live. He’s there every morning when I stroll in after dropping the girls at school and knows my usual order, but most of the time he throws in a fluffy croissant or pastry for free. I should probably stop leading him on, but…they happen to be really good pastries.

Diego and Nicolás are perceptive. They ask me about my personal life every now and then, focusing on the details of my love life (or lack thereof). When we first moved to Spain, I told them I wasn’t interested in dating, said I wanted to soak in everything Spain has to offer on my own. They bought that response for a while, but now, they grow more skeptical with each weekend I spend with the girls instead of going out. I’m supposed to have the weekends off. They want me to go out on dates and meet friends, but I’d rather just stay in, eat dates, and watch Friends.

Right around the time our cooking class ends that fall, I nestle into a comfortable realization. I come to the conclusion that there are no mistakes in life, just decisions. I chose to come to Spain and here I am, finding my footing. I had a goal of succeeding as a tutor and exploring the world, and that’s just what I’ve gotten to do. There’s a sense of accomplishment that comes with that, and a reminder that whoever came up with “This too shall pass” really knew what they were talking about. Sometimes things pass like giant, painful kidney stones, but in the end, they pass.

When I first left Austin, the future looked bleak. My heart was broken, my world flipped on its head. Now, looking back, it’s hard to regret my decision. In fact, I conclude that there was never a right or wrong decision at all. I didn’t make a mistake in leaving the States, just like I wouldn’t have been making a mistake in staying behind for James. I still miss him—of course I do. Maybe I always will. Maybe that’s part of the lesson I’ve learned here: some people carve their initials so deeply into your heart, they’ll always be a part of you. James and I had a tumultuous few months, and I felt more for him than I’ve felt about any man I’ve ever met. Even now, his old clothes are still the most comfortable pajamas in my dresser, and I wear them to sleep a few times a month. I sometimes scour the internet for news about him or his company, but only late at night, and only after I’ve had a little bit of wine.