remember.

I believe the night of the Corte Ingles incident was the same night that Bonne and I discovered our new favorite place in Spain, besides Granada and Chiqui's third drawer of snacks. It was a bar, and its name was Remember. It had red walls, dim lighting, vintage posters and music from the sixties, and a George Harrison look-a-like behind the bar. The bartender's name was Sergio and the wine was three Euros. We were hooked. 

I initially pursued Sergio with the same zeal that the three of us had pursued Edgar. I was thrilled when he invited me to a club for the post-bar part of the night. Bonne ran off to find David while I lingered behind, waiting as Sergio closed up and introduced me to one of his friends, a hip, fast-talking lesbian. The three of us headed to an underground dance floor further down the street; it was full of flashing lights and trendy young bohemians, stomping their boots and twirling their long coats to the rhythm. The club, along with Remember, would soon become part of our weekend ritual. 

At one point, while Sergio was in the bathroom, I made the mistake of tipsily revealing my affections for him. The lesbian laughed outright. 

"Sergio? He likes men!" 

I glowered. How very unjust! And so I retracted any signals I had been sending, only to find later that he in fact swung to both ends of the spectrum. I suspect the "lesbian" had secretly had some sort of possessive crush on him as well. 

At any rate, the beginnings of a beautiful friendship were still established in our dancing and gallavanting about, and Sergio became one of our Spanish comrades. Our default meeting place was always Remember, and if one of us didn't have a cell phone or was early or late, Sergio could be depended upon to relay messages from the other two, and direct us all accordingly so that we eventually convened.