The best was that one time we went to Italy.
When I kicked you out of the car in Rome for your poor navigation skills and unwillingness to drive. When you walked away from me at the Spanish Steps at 1am. When we were left standing on the crowded three-hour local train to Florence while holding tickets for reserved seats ten cars back. When we got stuck in three hours of traffic on the way to Siena. When we got to Florence and didn’t know what hotel we’d booked. When the car rental place added that extra zero to our rental bill, putting my credit card over-limit. When we thought you’d been pickpocketed on the Metro on the way to the Sistene Chapel. When we were charged $50 for a pizza. When we broke up in the hotel room in Siena. And again at Santa Maria Novella in Florence.
I know it doesn’t really sound like the best of times, but when I can look back on a trip like that and smile, I know I survived the worst of times with the best of friends.
Here we are, one year sharing a surname, and we haven’t killed each other yet. I’d say that’s something to celebrate.