Although I’ve spent most of my life in the north, where the wind howls and the temperature can drop to 40 below, the only scarf that ever really meant something to me was the most lightweight, thin piece of patterned grey fabric that you could imagine.  I bought this scarf at some type of Spanish market for the equivalent of about one U.S. dollar.  It was a light grey with a sort of faded paisley blue pattern and silver threads woven through.  It was so soft you could hard feel it when it was draped over your skin.  The edges were fringe of fine, grey threads that sometimes got knotted or tangled and needed to be ripped out, like a snarl in the fine baby hair of my youngest son.

I picked up this scarf on a trip to Spain during my university days.  My on-again, off-again long-term partner, Tim, was headed back to adventure and reconnect with the country he had fallen in love with during his study abroad trip.  I met him there and we spent the days exploring the northern Basque country, Bilbao and Figueres.  It was the summer of 2000 before you had a super computer and navigation device in your pocket.  We carried travel books and looked up maps to find the train station.  We followed posted signs and knocked on doors to see if there was a hostel for a price we could afford with a spare room.

Things with Tim were messy and confusing at times, but somehow I knew our lives would be forever intertwined.  When he booked this trip for the summer following his university graduation, he was actually dating another girl.  Ironically, my mom was the one who essentially invited me to join him (and he seemed on board).  We had treated each other well (and not so well) for many years and were on sort of a neutral ground at this precise moment.  And so I snagged the flight offer from my parents and joined Tim for part of his summer adventure.

Even though I wanted to be easy breezy, it turns out I wasn’t as comfortable just flowing with the uncertainty of not having a typical relationship label or a clear vision for where things were going.  I knew that I liked it when Tim looked at me.  I liked walking through cobblestone streets with linked arms, nursing a sunburn and the perfect sangria buzz.  I liked that he felt familiar and still unknown.  That he wrote poetry and made music mixes to try and express his emotions.

But the labels and need to define things still got the best of me.  At one point early in our travels, I informed Tim that he was going to need to decide if he was in – if we were doing “this” and if he wanted to commit to a relationship with me… or if he was out.  And if that were the decision, we shouldn’t be traveling like this – sharing cigarettes and making love in the afternoon sun pouring through the open hostel window.

Tim is not someone who responds well to ultimatums.  And he chose to not respond to this one.  He called my bluff and I decided it wasn’t going to be a very fun summer adventure in Spain if I was going to dig my heels in and demand some type of fabricated long-term commitment.  So, I dropped it.  I decided Spain was a neutral ground.  And in Spain, we could just be – no labels or commitments or relationship definitions.

We continued to try the sangria and tapas, share Fortuna Light cigarettes and make love with open windows and curtains flapping in the summer breeze all across Spain that summer of 2000.  And I didn’t regret a damn minute of it.  And I still have that thin, grey scarf with the metallic silver threads and the faded paisley pattern tucked away in my drawer as a reminder.