“You owe me a flight to Madrid.” London cheekily sent me that message the day after we met at a beloved, lively bar in Shreveport, Louisiana. Nudged toward one another by two mutual friends, we quickly hit our stride and wound up shaking hands over a silly bet. I lost. The stakes? A transatlantic adventure, of course. I suppose I had the sort of bravado that only comes after Superior margaritas and before a Big Move to the other side of the world. London was in physical therapy school, and I — jobless and captivated — did my best to distract her over the next few weeks. We went duck hunting together, kayaked at Caddo Lake, saw a favorite band play one of “our songs” at Municipal Auditorium, ate sushi, and watched bad movies. A couple months after a teary goodbye, London and I planned our next date: An epic romp across Mallorca, Paris, and beyond. C’mon, can you really *not* fall in love here? We can’t wait to share that love with y’all next September. I’d like to think I won that bet.