“Maybe you were meant to live in Europe.”

A bitter lesson on a park bench, patio, and the streets of Barcelona.

A beloved friend said this to me on our much-needed phone call after not speaking for a month — a record for us. What can I say, we are busy, and I wasn’t in an appropriate time zone for her demanding work schedule to align. We inevitably made it happen, and there was a lot to catch her up on. Two weeks in Europe is no small adventure to compress into a two-hour phone call. But when there is a will, there is a way.

This declaration was made with an underlying trove of suspicion that I will probably do this one day — maybe surprised I haven’t yet. It was prompted by a long-winded diatribe about how I felt more like myself on this trip than I had in a long time. Mostly in my body, which I am fully convinced is directly connected to mental health. Maybe the therapy is working, or it was just Europe?

I hiked 30 miles with zero knee pain — unheard of for me, downhill has been a real bitch for 10+ years.

I drank alcohol. Not just one drink, but up to three in one evening (I’m wild🤪) — without even a trace of a hangover.

I ate acidic and salty foods, and plenty of them — without erupting into a face full of blisters that have been plaguing me for the past year and a half.

I am not an idle fawn in any of these categories, even if I play that part convincingly sometimes. I have been putting in my due diligence.

I FINALLY went to physical therapy last year to address my knees. I’ve since committed extra effort to leg day (even though it sucks) to get stronger, and I learned how to tape them to mitigate the pain. Could all that work have culminated in a 30-mile hike where, at the end of day two, I was chipper and genuinely not in pain? Maybe a bit overheated and craving a patio with a beverage in hand, but chipper. Did I put in the hard work — or was it just Europe?

I am the epitome of a lightweight. One and done, I would say. Any more than that, and I would pay the price for 1-3 business days. I stopped drinking for a good six months because it was exacerbating a health issue, and I had a carry-on suitcase worth of nerves, pounding on each cobblestone in my skull, when I ordered that first Sangria at lunch in Madrid. Ooooh, I hope this doesn’t derail the whole trip. Spoiler: I was fine. A little sozzled, yes, but fine. Was it the six-month detox that recalibrated my alcohol equilibrium — or was it just Europe?

After that first sangria, I got bolder. Bags of chips. Acidic beverages without a straw — something I had been religiously avoiding for a year and a half. I had even resorted to drinking my coffee with a straw; that is how sensitive my lips had become. I had started to quietly accept that this was just my life now, I am straw girl. Did I calm my nervous system enough to get the blisters under control, take my meds at the exact right moment, or was it just Europe?

Out from under the dark storm cloud that had been hovering for eighteen months, I felt like I could live normally again. Released from all of my current I cant’s. It was liberating.

I returned lighter. In every way. A tightness I had stopped noticing had released. I had worried before leaving that I didn’t want to come back to the same life. That did not happen. I am not the same. And thank god. What a life to live — no knee pain, no pesky viruses, and the comfort of knowing one drink will not be the death of me for 1-3 business days.

My spirit + Europe = the perfect pairing.

I had spent eighteen months building a very careful life around what I couldn’t have. No alcohol. No acid. No chips. No fun, basically. Europe dismantled all of it, one sangria at a time. And apparently, once you’ve decided to say yes to things again, your palate gets ambitious. Because somewhere between the knee tape and the straw-free coffee, I became a person who craves a bitter beverage in the afternoon. Nobody is more surprised than me.

I would not consider myself a bitter lover. I am not the girl who orders a Negroni, and unless partnered with something sweet, I am not raw dogging a grapefruit. I must have a sensitive, bitter palate because I can pick up the profile when others cannot — baking soda is a frequent offender. Too much, or too old, and your baked goods go bitter. This has happened many times: I’ll bake a muffin, taste nothing but bitter, and sentence them to the trash — and someone else eats one and says they taste fine. (Truly one of the great injustices.)

I am not overtly offended by bitter (I drink my coffee black😳), I just prefer it not to be the frontrunner flavor. Until a hot-as-hell afternoon in Spain changed my mind.

We had hoofed it all over the city. My feet were rubbed raw in my new and very cute sandals. Everyone was dying for a plaza to sit in, paired with a beverage, a snack, and some quality people-watching. My bitter-loving friend — she owns a bitters company called Bitters Lab, I cannot make this up — found a Bitter Kas. The bitters and soda of Spain. My body had a deep knowing that I could not predict, and the Bitter Kas selection felt right. My throat was craving something strong, herbaceous, and bubbly. I submitted to the bitter syren song, and off we went to find cups, ice, a salty snack, and a bench to really bring this pairing together.

Every sensation I was craving was satisfied with that pairing. Bitter beverages, it turns out, have very important jobs: aperitivo before lunch to stimulate hunger, digestif after dinner to aid with it. Bitter has been doing serious work for centuries, and I had not given it the respect it deserves. I thought only hipsters and back-of-the-house gremlins were the people who drank Fernet and liked it.

An ice-cold bitter beverage with a salty snack on a bench in Spain with friends.

I haven’t felt that kind of connection from a food and beverage pairing since I first discovered milk and cookies, but Champagne and pizza are probably a more accurate comparison.

And thus, the afternoon bitter beverage became a non-negotiable for the rest of the trip.

The bitterness ebbed and flowed.

An Aperol Spritz or seven on any plaza that had seats for us.

A vermouth on ice before a tapas lunch — yes, of course, outside.

An Il Nostro Chinotto with a jamón pizza, patio ✔️.

The world of bitter beverages is vast, and I got a crash course in why we should love them. When I say we, I mean me. 😉

The biggest question of all, now that I’m home: will I crave a bitter beverage here — or was it just Europe?

Cheers,

Nicole | Butter Cult

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