In which we turn fifty

(Married, not old. Well. Both)

DRAFT

Let the record show: the second gin & tonic of last night’s aperitif performed admirably. I slept like a log — a large, gin-soaked, thoroughly unconscious log. The morning-after fee for this was a mild hangover, a sensation so unfamiliar these days that I nearly didn’t recognise it, having been more or less on the wagon for months. But holidays exist precisely so you can fall dramatically off said wagon, preferably face-first into a G&T. The breakfast tea in bed, delivered like a small act of mercy, worked wonders.
But before the hangover, before the tea, before anything else — happy Golden Wedding Anniversary to us. Fifty years ago today, in England, we made it official. Fifty years! Some empires haven’t lasted that long.
Breakfast continued its winning streak, highlighted once again by the “diet” peach juice, a beverage I remain suspicious of but keep drinking anyway. We sat at the exact same table as yesterday, because at this point I am less a guest and more an archaeologist, retracing my own footsteps in the ongoing Case of the Missing AirPod.
Enter a stroke of genius: the Find My app, which announced the left AirPod was nearby but too far to connect — the digital equivalent of a friend waving at you from across a canyon. So began Lap Three of Up-and-Down-the-Floors, interrogating staff members who had done nothing to deserve this. Passing reception for the third time, the concierge flagged me down: a cleaner had found it, and it was being personally delivered to the room. Case closed. Honestly, every single staff member here has been relentlessly kind and helpful, which after three laps of the building, I appreciated more than usual.
By 10am, AirPod reunited with owner, we set off on foot for the beach — a 30-minute walk past the cathedral, under a sun that had clearly decided subtlety was for other days. We collapsed gratefully under a sunshade with a firm plan to do as little as humanly possible, ideally while soundtracked by my newly-recovered earbuds. Mission accomplished on all fronts: 3.5 hours of beach, a pit stop in town for a large, cold, deeply necessary beer, and back at the hotel just after 3.
Then: the wellness routine, now sacred ritual. Lukewarm pool water, a dimly lit room, a bed built for snoozing, and prog rock in my ears. I am going to miss this specific combination of things with an intensity that borders on grief.

Ninety minutes down there, followed by the usual reluctant march back upstairs for a shower and the finishing-off of the hotel’s welcome bubbly, because leaving unfinished champagne in a fridge felt like tempting fate.
For the anniversary dinner, we walked to the old town, past the cathedral again (we know it well by now), pausing halfway for an aperitif — a Mojito of genuinely heroic proportions on my part. We arrived at the restaurant, rooftop, infinity pool, at 8pm sharp, and were greeted with champagne, because apparently the evening hadn’t decided to be sufficiently golden yet. Six courses followed, all excellent, alongside two bottles of white wine that did not stand a chance. As night fell, two enormous cruise ships slid out of the harbour in the distance, which felt like a suitably cinematic backdrop for fifty years of marriage.
Restaurant Urbà: 9 out of 10. I’d go back. I might even bring the same person I married fifty years ago — she’s grown on me.

The walk home took half an hour, and the bed, when it finally arrived, was very warmly welcomed indeed.
A golden anniversary well spent.