Late-Night Kebab

and half-naked joy

For most people, it's the Louvre. Maybe the Eiffel Tower. Some get misty-eyed over Notre Dame or the Luxembourg Gardens. Others? They're here for the shopping, or the life-changing croissants (honestly, fair). And let’s be real, just hearing "Madrid" or "Barcelona" is enough to make your passport twitch with excitement. Spain’s nightlife and tapas? A food-fueled fever dream. The architecture? Like walking through a very dramatic, very old Instagram filter.

Our trip? Oh, it had all the highlights. We gawked at world-famous sights, ate food that made our taste buds do the Macarena, and strolled over cobblestones so historic, they probably have their own Wikipedia pages.

But here’s the thing, my favourite memory? Not a famous landmark. Not even the five-star meals, flaky pastries, or credit card-melting shopping sprees.

Picture this: it’s 11 p.m. in Paris. The streets are empty. Everyone’s at the bars, being effortlessly cool with cigarettes in their hand. And there we are, walking hand in hand like we just stepped out of a rom-com written by a hopelessly caffeinated screenwriter.

We pass a Gothic church. Did we break in? Of course not. (We thought about it, though. Kidding! Sort of.)

Instead, we frolic. Yes, frolic, because at that point, walking seemed too boring. He's tickling me, kissing my face like a golden retriever in love, and I’m laughing so hard I nearly trip on 400-year-old cobblestones.

Then, like a beacon from the heavens: a late-night kebab shop. Packed with locals. Glorious. On vacation, there's no such thing as a "wrong time to eat." Honestly, in my life, there never has been. I eat when I want and what I want.

Everyone around us is speaking French, and while we don’t understand a word, we do understand laughter, and luckily, that’s a universal language. Like, belly-laughing-at-an-inside-joke-you’ll-never-get kind of laughter. We smile and nod like undercover agents whose cover is definitely blown.

In a blind act of faith (and hunger), we order the mysterious “#1” on the menu. All we know is that it looks vaguely donair-ish. Is it beef? Chicken? Lamb? Unicorn? Nobody knows. But the line of enthusiastic locals told us everything we really needed to know: this was food approved by the Flavor Gods themselves.

We carry our blessed parcel of mystery meat back to the Airbnb like it’s the Holy Grail. Reverently. Hungrily. Suspiciously sniffing the bag every 30 seconds.

Once inside, we leap onto the bed like sugar-high toddlers. I’m in my classic Winnie the Pooh pajama shirt (nothing underneath, in true Pooh Bear fashion), and my boyfriend has somehow ended up shirtless and pantsless, looking like he just lost a wrestling match with laundry. We’re classy like that.

As we tear into the bag, an aroma wafts out that could probably bring about world peace if bottled. I take one bite… and time stops. My taste buds throw a party. My soul leaves my body. Somewhere, a choir of angels harmonizes.

I freeze mid-bite. “BABE. OH. MY. GOD. BABE. GET OVER HERE RIGHT NOW OR I SWEAR I’LL EAT THE WHOLE THING.”

He moonwalks across the room, dives onto the bed like a majestic fool, and face-plants into the kebab like a tiger raised on cartoons. He takes a bite, moans like he’s in a soap opera, and crosses his eyes like he’s trying to see the flavor in 4D.

I laugh so hard I nearly choke on a tomato. In that ridiculous, delicious moment, surrounded by shredded lettuce and half-naked joy, I realize: I have never loved anyone more.

I filmed him absolutely demolishing that kebab like a man on a spiritual quest—face first, eyes crossed, making noises that probably summoned a few ancient deities. Naturally, I wanted to post it immediately for the world to see.

He loudly informed me, “No, you can't” with a cheeky grin. I knew what he was referring to.

I told him, “Fine. The day you die, I no longer need your permission, and that video is going straight to the top of my feed.”

He paused. Nodded. Maybe. Hard to say, he had mystical sauce in his ear at the time.

Out of our seventeen days wandering through Paris and Spain, with all the iconic monuments, postcard views, and majestic history...

My favorite memory?

It’s not the Eiffel Tower. Not the Louvre. Not the ocean nor Spanish tapas. It’s him. It’s us, half-naked, delirious with joy, collapsing in giggles over a kebab in a random Airbnb. Just two lovestruck weirdos, baptized in mystical sauce. ❤️