A KISS WITHOUT A MUSTACHE IS LIKE AN EGG WITHOUT SALT

Ten years ago my wife and I lived in Andalusia, Spain. We were fortunate enough to rent the upstairs quarters in the house of Marie Carmen, who lived below. Through that first winter I spent night after night listening to Marie Carmen's stories. Her exploits, her loves, and her tribulations. It was remarkable.

Now in her 80s, we saw Marie Carmen on a recent trip to Spain, and I took this photo of a photo of her as a young lady.

One day I'll have to relate a story or two about her. For the moment this one comes to mind:

The day we moved into her upstairs flat was the same day her mother turned 101 years old. The two lived in the house Marie Carmen's father had built, which was situated on the gentle slope of a large orchard near the center of town. The name of the property was Huerta del Jorobado, which loosely translates into "The Hunchback Orchard."

We arrived with a lemon cake and a bottle or two of champagne, which was promptly served, while Marie Carmen, her eyes agleam, told one story after another with great panache and drama, not to mention comic timing. Her mother didn't flinch. She sat next to me in her wheelchair, occasionally stealing a glance my way.

At that time I wore a mustache and goatee/beard, and at one point Marie Carmen's mother slowly leaned forward and looked at me. Marie Carmen stopped in mid-story. A hush fell across the room. With deep intention and wry humor, her mother, still looking at me, said in perfect, crisp English, "A kiss without a mustache is like an egg without salt." I thought she was going to bend me over and kiss me. It was the most simple and profound thing anyone had ever said to me.