The wheels on the bus go round and round. We are en route to San Sebastián in a tour bus.
“It says here”-Christopher reads from his travel brochure-“that Basque, also known as Euskara, is one of the most fascinating languages in the world, an isolate.”
“What’s an isolate?” I reply as I look out the bus window. This man has an odd thirst for information; he reads everything.
“Meaning it has no relation to any other language in existence.” He raises his eyebrows, impressed. “And while its origins are unknown, most scientists believe that it’s the last preinvasion language in Europe.” He looks over at me. “Hmm . . . fascinating, isn’t it?”
“Uh-huh.” I look back out the window.
He thinks out loud. “So that means it’s literally spoken prehistory . . .”
I look back over at him.
“What?” he asks.
“You’re odd.”
“You don’t find that interesting?”
“I do.”
“So how am I odd?”
“‘Literally spoken prehistory . . .'” I widen my eyes at him. “What does that even mean?”
He exhales heavily with a subtle shake of his head. “If you don’t know, then I’m not telling you.”
I go back to my dumbass scenery watching. “Can we have french fries for dinner?”
He glances over at me. “And I’m the odd one?”
“I’ve got a hankering.” I picture my delicious meal tonight. “With a hamburger.”
“Yes! Hamburgers,” Basil calls from the seat behind. “I’m down.”
“Did you know that it drops to five degrees Celsius in winter in San Sebastián?” Christopher replies.
More facts.
I cross my arms and snuggle down on his shoulder for a sleep. “I do now.”
There’s a reason people talk about San Sebastián in Spain.
It’s vibrant, colorful, and one of the most beautiful places I have ever been to.
Set on the coast, it has it all. Today we browsed the township, visited the Sacred Heart giant statue of Jesus on Monte Urgull. We went swimming at the beach this afternoon, and now it’s early evening. We are looking for somewhere to have dinner.
“Here?” Kimberly asks. We all peer into the packed pub.
“Looks popular.” Bodie shrugs. “This will do.” They all walk in, and I notice Christopher’s shoulders slump.
“Can we get a table for six, please?” Kimberly asks.
“Sure.” The waitress smiles. “This way.” We follow her through the crowded restaurant and take a seat in the courtyard.
“What’s wrong?” I whisper to Christopher as we walk along behind her.
“Nothing.” He puts his arm around my waist and follows me through.
“You look like something is wrong.”
“I’m just so sick of shit food,” he whispers as we get to the table.
“Oh.” I frown. I thought we’d been eating amazingly for our budget.
He pulls out my chair, and I sit down. We order drinks and look through the menu.
“What are you having?” I ask everyone.
They all discuss the choices and chat away, and I glance over to see Christopher staring at the menu, deflated.
“You don’t like any of this?” I ask.
He forces a smile. “It’s good. Don’t worry.” He taps me on the thigh with his big hand as if to reassure me.
He always goes with the flow. He’s never once picked where we go. “What would you eat if you could eat anything in the world?” I ask him softly so that the others can’t hear.
His eyes stay fixed on the menu. “I would have bluefin tuna sashimi with daikon and ginger for entrée. Beluga caviar with lobster and sage butter sauce.”
I frown.
“Followed by a glass of Macallan scotch and White Truffle Bliss for dessert.”
“Oh . . .” I stare at the menu. I’ve never had any of those meals. “That’s weird food.”
He gives me a sad smile. “Is it?”
“Uh-huh . . .” I keep looking through the menu. “Maybe you should put anchovies on the pizza if you want to feel exotic?”
He gives me a broad, beautiful smile and picks up my hand as it sits on the table and squeezes it in his. “Maybe.” He watches me for a moment. “What kind of food do you eat at home?”
I shrug. “I never really eat out.”
“Why not?”
“I live alone.” I shrug again. “I don’t know. I like cooking, I guess.”
“What kind of things do you cook?” he asks.
“Lots of things.” I smile over at him as he listens intently. “I’m pretty good, actually. When we get home, you’ll have to come and visit me one day, and I’ll cook for you.”
His eyes hold mine. “I’d like that.”
“What will it be, sir?” the waitress asks him.
“I’ll have the sierra pizza with anchovies,” he replies. He glances over and gives me a sexy wink.
“Mr. Exotic,” I mouth.
He chuckles as he speaks to the waitress. “What scotch do you have?” he asks her.
“House scotch.”
He winces. “Okay, I’ll have a glass of red wine.”