There Ain’t No Party Like a Spanish Party…

…because a Spanish party don’t stop.

Or at least it goes really, really late.

Mr. Dame in Spain and I had an important milestone this past weekend: We hosted our first party. This is important because we love throwing parties, and because it means we actually know enough people that will come to our party. Which isn’t bad after just three months here. Although, truth be told, I had been putting off having this party because I don’t really have that many friends here yet. Mr. Dame, on the other hand, has made a boatload of friends through work and Ultimate Frisbee. He assured me it wouldn’t be just us at 10pm sitting around and eating a sadly full table of appetizers while our cats looked at us with pity.

So on Saturday evening, we were all ready for our party with a spread of seven different types of appetizers (or “American tapas” as we called them); chocolate fondue ready to go; four different specialty cocktails mixed up in pitchers; and me with makeup and my hair done. (Another important milestone: I actually had sufficient time to get ready for this party. Maybe because of good pre-planning, but more likely because we started late, at 9pm, in true Spanish style.)

The first folks to arrive were the Americans, no surprise here. We are a punctual bunch. Next, my writing group friends arrived (Yay! I have friends!) And way later, the Spaniards arrived. And they stayed for six hours. I am not complaining, though. Mr. Dame and I agreed that it was the most fun party we’ve ever hosted. At 4:30 am, we were dancing salsa in our living room. Spaniards were writing poetry in our guest book. One was passed out in our guest bedroom. The food was picked clean. And each person probably drank an entire pitcher of cocktails.

Sunday afternoon, Mr. Dame and I were having flashbacks from college, pushing through wicked hangovers to clean an apartment that seemed to be entirely coated in a sticky sheen while replaying the highlights of the night. “When should we have our next one?” Mr. Dame asked, while scraping hardened chocolate fondue from our floorboards. I looked up from a meter-high stack of dishes to shoot him a look that said “You must be crazy,” but replied, “Eh, maybe next month.”

To partying like a Spaniard,

The Dame in Spain

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