The morning after the Real Madrid victory, the sun rose over a city that was nursing a collective hangover of joy. But for Siddanth Deva and his entourage, the party wasn't over; it was just changing venues.
Isabella rented Mercedes V-Class van. She looked fresh, wearing a sundress and a wide-brimmed hat, looking every bit the sophisticated local guide.
"Get in, losers," she called out playfully as the boys stumbled out of the lobby.
Arjun, wearing oversized sunglasses to hide the effects of the previous night's champagne, groaned.
"Too bright. The sun is aggressive today."
"We are going to the countryside," Isabella announced as Siddanth took the shotgun seat beside her. "Fresh air. Cheese. And wine. It will cure everything."
They drove south of Madrid, heading towards the La Mancha region. The urban sprawl gave way to rolling hills, dusty olive groves, and endless rows of grapevines stretching to the horizon.
Siddanth rolled down the window, letting the wind mess up his hair. He felt light.
"So," Feroz asked from the back, opening a packet of chips. "What's the plan? We drink until we speak Spanish?"
"We are going to a Bodega," Isabella explained. "A winery. We will learn how it is made, we will taste the reserves, and we will try to look classy."
"I was born classy," Arjun adjusted his collar.
"You're wearing flip-flops with jeans," Sameer pointed out.
"It's fusion fashion, Sameer. You wouldn't understand."
----
They arrived at a stunning, family-owned vineyard. The main building was a rustic stone hacienda covered in ivy. An old man named Manuel, the owner, greeted them. He spoke rapid-fire Spanish, which Siddanth translated effortlessly.
"He says welcome to his home, and he hopes our thirst matches our size," Siddanth translated.
"Tell him my thirst is bigger than his farm," Arjun declared.
Siddanth turned to Manuel. "Dice que tiene muchas ganas de probar su vino." (He says he is very eager to try your wine.)
Always the diplomat.
They toured the cellars, smelling the damp oak and the rich, fermented scent of grapes. Then came the tasting session in the garden. And that was where the chaos began.
They sat around a large wooden barrel serving as a table. Manuel poured a deep red Tempranillo into their glasses.
"Now," Isabella instructed. "You have to swirl the wine to release the aroma. Aerate it."
Arjun, desperate to impress Isabella and prove his sophistication, grabbed his glass by the bowl (the wrong way) and began to swirl it aggressively.
"Like this?" Arjun asked, spinning his wrist like he was whisking eggs for an omelet. "I'm aerating the hell out of it."
"Gently, Arjun," Siddanth warned.
"I got this, Sid." Arjun swirled harder.
The wine climbed the walls of the glass.
In one violent motion, a wave of dark red liquid launched out of Arjun's glass.
It didn't hit the floor.
It hit Feroz, who was sitting directly opposite, wearing a pristine white t-shirt.
Splash.
The table went silent. Feroz looked down at his chest, which now looked like a crime scene. He looked up at Arjun.
"I... I aerated it onto you," Arjun stammered.
"You aerated it onto my soul," Feroz whispered.
"It's... tie-dye?" Arjun suggested. "Very trendy."
Isabella buried her face in her hands to stop from laughing, her shoulders shaking. Siddanth didn't bother hiding it; he laughed until he choked on a piece of cheese.
Manuel poured the second glass. A vintage 1996
Isabella explained the etiquette. "At a tasting, you don't have to drink everything. If you want to remain sober to taste more, you swirl, you taste, and then you spit it into this bucket."
She pointed to a silver bucket in the center of the table.
Sameer looked at the bucket. He looked at the wine bottle. He did a quick mental calculation.
"Isabella," Sameer asked seriously. "How much is this bottle?"
"This one? Maybe 80 Euros."
Sameer's eyes widened. "80 Euros. That's 5,500 Rupees."
He took a sip. He swished it.
Manuel held the bucket out for him.
Sameer shook his head violently. He swallowed. Gulp.
"I cannot," Sameer said solemnly.
"It's okay to spit," Isabella encouraged.
"My middle-class upbringing forbids it," Sameer declared. "That sip was 500 Rupees. I am not spitting 500 Rupees into a bucket. I will carry it in my stomach as an investment."
By the fifth tasting, while everyone else was pacing themselves, Sameer was leaning heavily against the wine barrel, smiling beatifically at a tree.
"That tree," Sameer slurred, pointing a finger. "It understands me."
Manuel asked them what they could taste in the third wine.
"I get cherry," Isabella said elegantly. "Maybe some tobacco."
"I get oak," Siddanth nodded, playing along.
Manuel looked at Arjun. "And you, señor?"
Arjun sniffed the glass deeply. He frowned. He sniffed again.
"I smell..." Arjun paused for dramatic effect.
Everyone waited.
"Bournvita," Arjun announced confidentially.
"Bournvita?" Siddanth asked, incredulous. "The chocolate malt drink?"
"Yes!" Arjun insisted. "And... maybe a little bit of grandmother's closet."
Manuel looked at Siddanth for a translation.
Siddanth cleared his throat.
"Dice que el vino tiene una complejidad nostálgica," Siddanth translated smoothly. (He says the wine has a nostalgic complexity.)
Manuel nodded, impressed. "Ah, si. Nostalgia."
"What did you tell him?" Arjun whispered.
"I told him you have a refined palate," Siddanth lied.
"I knew it," Arjun preened. "I can smell the nostalgia too."
Towards the end of the evening, Manuel brought out a Porron. It was a traditional glass wine pitcher with a long, tapered spout.
"The challenge," Isabella explained, "is to pour the wine directly into your mouth from a distance, without touching the glass to your lips."
Siddanth went first, he did it perfectly. He lifted the Porron high, the stream of wine arching gracefully into his mouth. He swallowed, lowered it, and wiped his mouth.
"Show off," Feroz muttered.
"My turn," Feroz said. "I have excellent hand-eye coordination. I play FIFA."
Feroz tilted the Porron.
He missed his mouth entirely.
The stream of wine hit him directly in the eye.
"AHH! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!" Feroz screamed, flailing.
In his panic, he didn't stop tilting the pitcher. The stream moved from his eye, to his nose, and then soaked his chin.
"Tilt it back!" Siddanth yelled, laughing.
Then Arjun tried. He managed to get it in his mouth, but he got overconfident. He pulled the Porron too far away. The stream hit his throat, causing him to cough violently, spraying a fine mist of wine over the cheese platter.
"Well," Isabella said, picking up a slice of cheese. "Now the cheese is marinated."
---
The drive back to Madrid was loud.
Sameer, fully invested in his liquid assets, led a rendition of "Chak De! India" from the backseat.
Isabella was driving (having spat out her wine like a professional). Siddanth sat beside her, his hand resting on her knee.
"Your friends are... unique," Isabella giggled as Arjun tried to harmonize with Sameer and failed.
"They're idiots," Siddanth smiled fondly. "But they keep me sane. In their heads, I'm not a star. I'm just one of them."
"I like them," she said. "And I like 'Just Deva'."
They dropped the boys at the Ritz.
"Go sleep," Siddanth ordered them. "We fly tomorrow."
"You're not coming?" Arjun asked, wiggling his eyebrows.
"I have to pack," Siddanth said vaguely.
"Pack. Right." Arjun winked. "Goodnight, Romeo."
Siddanth spent the final night at Isabella's apartment.
It wasn't wild. It was quiet. They sat on the balcony, finishing the bottle of wine they had bought from Manuel, looking at the Plaza Mayor.
They didn't talk much. The looming departure hung in the air, but not in a sad way. It was the satisfied silence of a chapter ending well.
---
The day of departure.
The morning was crisp. Siddanth's bags were packed and waiting by the door.
Isabella stood by the window, wearing a silk robe. She looked beautiful, but her eyes were a little glassy.
Siddanth walked over to her. He didn't say anything, just wrapped his arms around her from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder.
"Time to go?" she asked softly.
"Time to go," he confirmed. "The war awaits."
She turned in his arms. She adjusted his collar, smoothing out an invisible crease.
"Go win your war, Deva. Beat the Australians."
"I will," he promised.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small piece of paper. He had written something on it.
"Here," he handed it to her.
It was his personal email address and a private phone number—not the one filtered by his manager.
"This isn't for fan mail," Siddanth said. "This goes straight to me."
He looked her in the eyes, his expression serious.
"Isabella, you are an architect. You like beautiful buildings. India has the Taj Mahal, the palaces of Rajasthan, the temples of the South... the Charminar in my city."
He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
"If you are ever in India... anytime in the future... you call me. I will make time. I will show you the best places in India. I will be your tour guide."
Isabella took the paper. She folded it carefully and placed it in her pocket.
She looked up at him, a watery smile on her lips.
"You promise?"
"I never break a promise," Siddanth said.
"I will hold you to that word," she whispered. "One day, I will come to collect."
Siddanth leaned down.
He kissed her.
It was a long, slow kiss. A kiss that tried to memorize the taste of her, the feel of her, to store it away for the lonely hotel rooms and the high-pressure nights that awaited him.
When they broke apart, Siddanth picked up his bag.
"Adios, Isabella."
"Adios, Siddanth."
He walked out the door. He didn't look back. The rattle of the elevator gate was the final period on the sentence.
The Flight Home
Siddanth met the boys at the airport. They looked disheveled and hungover, wearing sunglasses indoors.
"You look entirely too fresh," Arjun grumbled as they checked in.
"Clean living," Siddanth grinned.
As the Emirates flight taxied down the runway, Siddanth looked out the window. The Spanish landscape sped by—brown earth, olive trees, memories.
He closed his eyes.
The vacation was over. The "Tourist" was gone.
The plane lifted off, banking towards the East. Towards India.
Siddanth opened his eyes. The softness was gone from them. The blue ice was back.
The Australians will coming for revenge.
Siddanth reclined his seat.
Let them come.