Once upon a time I was in Spain. Seven years ago. Seven years can be a long time, certainly feels like it sometimes. While I was ‘across the pond’ a rather funny event happened, one I still have not lived down and is still remembered seven years later. How do I know it’s still remembered? A friend of mine, F, in Spain snapped a picture of another pig and tagged me in it with the caption that said it was for me. And this particular friend wasn’t even present at the time. I’m a legend. With a pig. …Okay, that’s a stretch but it mildly amuses me.

Before I tell you of how I became oh so infamous, a bit of back story. I was in Spain for a three week vacation to stay with the family of M, who was at the time a very close friend and previous boyfriend. I had never been to Spain or Europe for that matter. F, who would tag me in a pig picture, was in the States visiting family and I was in Madrid with M and his father who I will refer to as Papa M for clarity because there are a lot of M’s in this.

The Alcazar

On August 7th, and I only know the exact date from looking at the data on my pictures, M and Papa M along with Tío S and Abuela M took a ride up to Segovia. Beautiful city! Absolutely love it! Most people will recognize Segovia as being home of the Alcazar. The city is also home to some Roman aqueducts as well. But for me and apparently for F and her family, Segovia is also home of The Pig Story.

On that day M and I toured the Alcazar, including going up to the Tower whose staircase will make you dizzy and make you unsure if you’re vertical or horizontal. After taking a look at the aqueducts we met up with Papa M, Tío S and Abuelo M for lunch at the El Bernardino. This is a restaurante that M and his family frequent when in Segovia. Despite the lamb on the sign, they always order a suckling pig. And this visit was no different. Now, I have had pig before–I’m from the Midwest; we do bar bq ribs and whatnot. But I have never had pig that still resembled a pig. I was excited for something new but at the same time on the wary side having never had suckling pig before.

El Bernardino

Here’s the thing with Spanish lunch for those who are unfamiliar with how it works: it’s the big meal of the day. The meal usually starts out with a salad or a soup or the like. Then comes the entree and then dessert. Wine is generally served in some from, either right from the bottle or mixed with, I believe, seltzer water to make Tinto de Verano. At least there seemed to be wine at most meals when I was there. To clue you in I was twenty years old then and one of those strange moderately well-behaved girls. Read: I had never really had alcohol.

At this particular meal we were having wine direct from the bottle, which is one of my favorite things seven years later. To get the full humor you must understand the seating that day: Papa M was at the head of the table; I was on his left with M on my left; Abuelo M was across from me and on Papa M’s right with Tío S on her right. Need a picture? Check the one provided courtesy of my not so stellar drawing skills. Now that you know the seating we can continue. Once I understood that a pig was being brought to the table as a pig, I asked M if they were bringing the whole pig to the table. He then pointed out a side table and said it would likely be cut up over there. He was almost right. A whole pig wasn’t brought to the table. It was half a pig. Cut down the middle. And it was facing me. …I could count its eyelashes if I had been so inclined.

Dig the smiley face!

This was a very new food experience to me. The closest I had ever been to this was eating chicken off the bone and seeing a cooked turkey carved at a Thanksgiving table. But those inadequately prepare one for a half a suckling pig ‘staring’ at you, daring you to eat it. Upon seeing The Pig I just stared at it. Completely new. Didn’t know what to make of it. How was I supposed to eat it? How does one eat from a pig that’s not already cut up? Oh dear Lord, it’s a half a pig! It would be at this point that Abuela M, who could only communicate with me through gestures and facial expressions owing to my dismal Spanish, gestured that I should dig in. The moment had come. It was time to eat The Pig. Somehow a portion of the ribs appeared on my plate. Ribs are good. I know what ribs are. This is familiar. At the same time this was nothing like ribs at a family cookout in the Midwest.

The Pig…well F’s picture of Another Pig she tagged me in.

To sum it up I ate my portion of The Pig very carefully, cutting around the rib bones and trying hard not to eat the skin–an unusual eating practice for one who normally is quite pleased with the carnivore side of her diet. Don’t get me wrong, The Pig was delicious–on the tender side and with flavor. But it was just seeing The Pig staring at me! Oh what a silly American I was!

Needless to say much of the aforementioned wine was consumed by me. Today a bottle of wine would hardly phase me, maybe only bring on a bit of a buzz with happy, loose feelings. Seven years ago a bottle of wine could pretty much put me at the point of ‘drunk.’  This is where the story gets fuzzy to me. I’d love to hear what anyone present could tell me about the rest of that meal as I’m sure it’s funny when you consider that seven years later it warrants a picture taken and tagged by a woman I haven’t seen in seven years; sadly F was not present for The Pig story but it was relayed to her.

What I do remember after I started oh so carefully eating my portion of The Pig and consuming wine was that I had one of the best desserts of my entire trip at the end of the meal, although I can’t remember what it were called–this was way before I took up the slightly odd habit of photographing my food. I do remember that it was chocolate of some kind and it was thoroughly delicious.

I also remember I got lost in the bathroom, something only I got to see thankfully. At the end of the meal I needed to use the restroom. It was a lot of wine after all. The restrooms were under the restaurant. In Spain, like in most big cities in the States, things are built up. However, this was somewhat novel to me because the part of Florida that I grew up in was not a big city and everything was built out instead of up. Anyway, I managed to make it across the restaurant and down the stairs with its turns and landings to the restrooms. These restrooms were not like the ones in the States. These were nicer. I remember lots of wood with stall walls that went floor to ceiling, again unlike in the States. Considering my rather mildly drunken state this meant that I couldn’t really determine where the door out of the stall into the bathroom proper was. It took spinning around a few times before I finally found my way out to the sink. Again, wooden walls; so there was more spinning until I found the door to the stairs. I successfully made it back upstairs and to my seat only to be told we were leaving. Marvelous. Fantastic.

On our way back to the car M had to generally keep an arm around me to keep me from walking sideways and into other people. Okay, and probably to keep me from tripping and falling over my own feet. And while he was doing this I was blissfully taking pictures of things and most likely talking up a storm. At least I’m not a sad drinker. We took the car down below the Alcazar for more pictures–actually my best pictures of the Alcazar I took when drunk–and for pictures of the Iglesia de la Vera Cruz. And on the car ride back to Madrid I do recall falling asleep head back, mouth open wide.

Yes, I’m a stellar American. At least I’m entertaining in some fashion. The Pig story is apparently memorable. Or so I gather from F for the picture. They remember me for The Pig episode, except for the getting lost in the bathroom portion which I don’t think they knew. I swear, come the day I make it back to Spain, I will confront another Pig with more grace. Much more grace. For now I suppose I’m just that crazy American girl who got drank too much when staring down half a suckling pig.