The first night I met Rob I asked him to move in with me.
I had been living and working in Buenos Aires for a year and had just signed a two year lease on a large apartment near China Town. A week or so before the day I was set to move in, my friend Jessica invited me to go salsa dancing with her. "We'll be the only Americans there!" she assured me. Jessica knew I'd chosen my new apartment based on its location: closer to the heart of the city where I was more likely to blend in.
As I watched Jessica expertly weave her way into the dancing crowd, I hung back and sipped on my Cuba Libre. I scanned the room. Nope, she was wrong. I had spotted another American standing near the bar. He wore a thin, short-sleeved button down that hung loosely on his shoulders and pants that zip off at the knee: water-resistant and perfect for travel. A backpacker.
I watched him for a moment, wondering if he spoke any Spanish as he nudged his way up to the bartender. I returned my attention to the dancers and contemplated putting myself into the mix.
"I speak English," I responded, but accepted the invitation. We worked our way onto the dance floor but soon thought it better to return to the bar and talk.
Rob had been traveling through Central and South America for a year and a half. He'd been to Costa Rica, Guatemala, Nicaragua, Ecuador, Peru and a few places in between. He'd stayed in too many hostels and volunteer camps to count and was ready to find a place to stay put for awhile. Buenos Aires was cheap and cosmopolitan. But finding an apartment wasn't easy. Most landlords required a two year lease and a local to vouch for your financial standing.
"I'm moving into a big place next week," I told him. "In another week I'm headed home for the summer. Maybe you could sublet my place for cheap... and for keeping my plants alive." I tore a piece of the label off of his beer and wrote my email address on the back.
A little over five years later, on our first wedding anniversary, Rob gave that little piece of beer label back to me. He had framed it with a little note: "I've loved you since the moment we met."
I had been living and working in Buenos Aires for a year and had just signed a two year lease on a large apartment near China Town. A week or so before the day I was set to move in, my friend Jessica invited me to go salsa dancing with her. "We'll be the only Americans there!" she assured me. Jessica knew I'd chosen my new apartment based on its location: closer to the heart of the city where I was more likely to blend in.
As I watched Jessica expertly weave her way into the dancing crowd, I hung back and sipped on my Cuba Libre. I scanned the room. Nope, she was wrong. I had spotted another American standing near the bar. He wore a thin, short-sleeved button down that hung loosely on his shoulders and pants that zip off at the knee: water-resistant and perfect for travel. A backpacker.
I watched him for a moment, wondering if he spoke any Spanish as he nudged his way up to the bartender. I returned my attention to the dancers and contemplated putting myself into the mix.
When I glanced back toward the bar the backpacker was standing in front of me shouting over the loud Cuban salsa band, "KeyAirEss Buy-Lar?" (Spanish translation: ¿Quieres bailar?)
"I speak English," I responded, but accepted the invitation. We worked our way onto the dance floor but soon thought it better to return to the bar and talk.
Rob had been traveling through Central and South America for a year and a half. He'd been to Costa Rica, Guatemala, Nicaragua, Ecuador, Peru and a few places in between. He'd stayed in too many hostels and volunteer camps to count and was ready to find a place to stay put for awhile. Buenos Aires was cheap and cosmopolitan. But finding an apartment wasn't easy. Most landlords required a two year lease and a local to vouch for your financial standing.
"I'm moving into a big place next week," I told him. "In another week I'm headed home for the summer. Maybe you could sublet my place for cheap... and for keeping my plants alive." I tore a piece of the label off of his beer and wrote my email address on the back.
A little over five years later, on our first wedding anniversary, Rob gave that little piece of beer label back to me. He had framed it with a little note: "I've loved you since the moment we met."
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