A Day Borrowed from Another World

What happened felt perfectly natural, perfectly safe — and just a little bit marvelous. It began, as many fine adventures do, in the bar of the Barcelona Ritz.

The bar was dressed in white marble and fancily framed mirrors. Across from us sat three Spanish gentlemen of a certain age, courteous, impeccably dressed, with an amiable air about them. They struck up a conversation, and somewhere between pleasantries and cocktails, one of them asked, quite casually, whether we had ever seen a bullfight. We had not, which apparently made us irresistible.

The conversation continued for an hour or so, flowing easily with fascinating stories about bullfighting. They ordered round after round and patiently answered our questions. Then, with the same easy grace, they paid our checks, wished us a pleasant evening and disappeared into the night.

After they left, we went up to our room, pleasantly buzzed. About half an hour later, there was a knock on the door. It was a bellboy holding three books on bullfighting, each marked with a single long-stemmed, red rose, and three seats for the next day’s Corrida de Toros. As he left, we looked at each other, giggled, and said, “Well—why the hell not?”

Our seats were in the prime minister’s private box, shaded and sheltered from the heat. The bullfight was spectacular! We couldn’t help but admire the matadors — their grace, style, and fearless dance of bravery. Each pass was a careful balance of showmanship and danger, illusion and risk.

Though our hearts ached for the bull, the costumes, the music and the pageantry — the sheer drama of it all—swept us along. We were thoroughly caught up in the excitement when a matador was awarded both ears and the tail, the highest honor possible. We rose to applaud him, and in that moment, the three gentlemen appeared as if on cue. They asked whether we might like to join them for dinner. We didn’t hesitate. It seemed like the sensible thing to do.

Dinner turned out to be at a glorious restaurant perched high in the hills above Barcelona. The city spread out below us, sparkling, and expansive. A balcony encircled the entire building, and as we strolled around, we were delighted to discover a breathtaking panorama of the Mediterranean Sea. Aperitifs were served as we gazed at the view and relived the excitement of the bullfight. 

Soft tinkling bells summoned us to a table bathed in candlelight, and the head waiter brought light wraps to place over our shoulders against the cool evening breeze. Menus appeared, and the gentlemen asked if they may order for us. We gladly agreed. Never had I experienced such pampering and elegance, nor had I realized until that moment how much pleasure there was in simply being attended to.

A waiter placed a bowl of soup in front of each of us, followed by small dishes of assorted garnishes. I lifted my silver spoon, expecting a hot, delicious broth. To my utter surprise, it was ice-cold! I promptly spat it back into my bowl, feeling shocked and completely horrified by my rude reaction. I looked up sheepishly, deeply embarrassed.

“Gazpacho”, they told me — a word I had never heard before and would never forget. Everyone found this hysterically funny — everyone except me!

We left the restaurant still laughing, my ill-fated encounter with the ice-cold soup following us into the night air. A driver was waiting to take all of us back into the city. As we drove through the streets, the gentlemen pointed out buildings and places we should remember: bold, unexpected shapes; stones that seemed to ripple and bend; churches rising suddenly between narrow streets.

We thanked them profusely and said goodbye, genuinely grateful for their kindness. If there was a lesson in it, it was this: moments still exist when instinct guides us well and strangers meet one another with openness and trust. There was a quiet grace in the way everyone moved through that day, an ease that allowed connection to unfold naturally. These were elegant, educated men who welcomed us into their world simply to share their culture, nothing more. That generosity of spirit has stayed with me ever since, a reminder of how deeply human encounters can nourish us long after they end.