Spain – a thread that’s always been there

Some choices seem sudden. But when you look back, you realise the path had already started much earlier.

It’s the same with Spain.

I now live in Pineda de Mar. By the coast. In the light. And it feels like the place I was meant to be. But only recently did I see how Spain had always been woven into my life like a quiet thread.

I was born in France, and grew up in the Pyrenees. Not far from the Spanish border. You’d hear Spanish and Catalan in the streets. And at the market — where I went with my mother — churros vendors called out. We bought roasted chestnuts in autumn. Little habits I now recognise here in Catalonia.
Back then, it didn’t feel Spanish — but it did feel familiar.

Later, in secondary school in the Netherlands, my best friend was Spanish. They spoke Spanish at home, and I often had lunch there. Café con leche and a sandwich with chorizo. As if that thread kept weaving itself forward.

I remember how, at 17 or 18, I travelled to Spain by car with my Spanish friend and her family. First to relatives in Barcelona, then on to Almería. Lots of family, long lunches, small villages in the mountains. And going out in the evening — with cousins as chaperones, because going alone wasn’t allowed.

Around 19, I was an au pair in England, and there I became close with two Spanish girls. Since I wanted to work in tourism, I decided to learn Spanish. Private lessons — because it wasn’t taught in school yet.

A few years later, I spent a month with relatives in Barcelona. A house full of young Spanish women. So much energy. We went everywhere, even to small museums. One of my favourites was the museum of sculptor Frederic Marès — inspired by Rodin, whom I admire.

Then I worked two summer seasons as a tour guide in Spain. Especially in the second year, I truly felt at home. The owners of the family-run hotel invited me to eat with them — their warmth was like a blanket. My mother had just passed away — their care meant a lot. I spoke Spanish, not perfectly, but enough to connect. Bus drivers chatted with me in the early morning. One even stopped in a field to pick cactus fruit for me with his machete. Those are the moments
I remember most vividly.

After that… nothing.

I returned to the Netherlands. A different life began. Maybe just a hint of Spain during faraway travels: Cuba, Venezuela. But Spain faded into the background.

Until the past few years. Slowly at first.

A holiday in Mallorca. Driving around. Stirring up memories.
Palma still felt warm and familiar. But the coastal towns I once knew? Completely changed.

During the pandemic, I brought a family member to Spain. First a stop in Pineda, then further south. I was supposed to stay one week — but ended up staying for months. And somewhere along the way, I felt it again:
I had missed this.
The sun. The light. The air. Spain.

On the way back — again Pineda.
And after that, every year. A month here. Two months. And each time, that same feeling:
I don’t want to leave.

And then I saw it clearly.
That thread had always been there.
It just needed to be unwound — until it became my place.