Women and the city

Some places change you. Others become part of you.

Spain did both.

The funny thing is… I already knew.

The first time I visited Spain, I was five years old. I obviously wasn’t thinking about careers, mortgages, or where life would eventually take me. But I remember telling everyone the same thing:

“One day, I’ll live here.”

Children have a strange way of saying things they can’t possibly explain.

Years passed.

I visited thirty-two countries.

I stood on beaches that looked like postcards, walked through cities people spend years dreaming about, collected passport stamps, and filled my camera roll with sunsets that were all supposed to become my favorite memories.

And somehow…

when I turned eighteen, I still chose Spain.

Not Paris.

Not London.

Not Rome.

Spain.

Many things have changed me throughout my life.

I had my fair share of adventures before I even turned eighteen, following that typical Balkan mentality:

“Why would I party at twenty? I already did that at sixteen.”

More than once, I genuinely believed I had life figured out. But nothing compares to the person I became in Spain.

Not because of the parties. Not because of the culture.

Not even because of the freedom.

I already told you I left that country for a man, so we can’t exactly say my frontal lobe was fully developed.

But what started as another chapter slowly became the biggest “what if?” of my life.

By now, you probably know I laugh at my own bad decisions.

But when it comes to Spain…

I’ll never joke about it.

Spain will always be nostalgia.

Beautiful memories.

And that strange feeling that my life is somehow still waiting for me there.

Because there are people who keep a piece of your soul.

Books that quietly keep another.

And then there are places that steal your heart…

without ever asking permission.

Whenever I think about Spain, my mind always goes back to that house.

A three-story house right in the middle of the city. A bedroom on the first floor. A balcony that was almost always open. The smell of rain.

I can still hear the streets waking up beneath me. I can still picture my tiny vanity table.

I can still hear the doorbell every time someone came over—which, as you’ll discover in another story, happened a lot.

I was usually too lazy to walk downstairs, so I’d simply throw my balcony keys out of the window while still lying in bed.

Sometimes I’d wake up before everyone else, make myself a coffee, open the balcony door and simply watch the city slowly come to life.

Back then… it felt completely ordinary.

Today… it’s one of the memories I’d give anything to relive.

That’s where I experienced my first sleepless nights that somehow turned into mornings.

Where clubs closed as the sun came up, and my friends and I waited at the bus station at seven in the morning alongside what felt like half the city.

That’s where I learned how to do my makeup.

How to prepare a hookah.

What it felt like to have my own place.

The place where everyone gathered because I was the only one living alone.

And where I made one of the biggest mistakes of my twenties.

I let a genuinely good man walk away.

To this day, part of me still believes every failed relationship afterward was karma for leaving him for my first fiancé.

That was also where I had my first car accident. And discovered that when someone truly loves you, they’ll cross countries overnight just to make sure you’re okay.

He wasn’t loud.

He wasn’t trying to impress anyone.

He simply loved me.

He’d take me on dates just because he knew I’d smile the entire way there.

Sometimes he’d “accidentally” dress in the exact same colors as me so we’d match without admitting that was his plan.

He’d bring me flowers. He always remembered my favorite food.

Some evenings we’d drive for hours without any destination, windows down, music playing, talking about absolutely everything.

Other days we’d decide to visit a town we’d never seen before simply to try a local restaurant.

Sometimes we’d end up in abandoned villages in the middle of nowhere, laughing because we had absolutely no reason to be there.

Looking back…

I wasn’t happy because of the places.

I was happy because of the life I had.

Then one phone call changed everything.

The man I thought I’d never stop loving called me from Romania.

“If you love me, leave everything and come back.”

And I did.

I left the man who loved me the way I had always dreamed of being loved.

Even after I broke his heart… he stayed.

When I got my first job, he’d come late at night to help me close the terrace, folding umbrellas after everyone had gone home.

He never complained. He never asked for anything. He was simply there.

Until he wasn’t anymore.

At some point… those overnight drives between Belgium and Spain stopped.

So did we.

And that’s the part that still hurts the most.

Because I wasn’t leaving a country.

I was leaving a life where I was genuinely loved.

Where I was genuinely happy.

Spain taught me what love is supposed to feel like.

It taught me how I deserve to be loved.

And once you’ve experienced that…

you stop accepting less.

It taught me gratitude.

It taught me slow mornings.

Coffee on the balcony.

Long dinners.

Life without rushing.

It taught me that even though I am complete chaos… somehow I fit perfectly into the quiet rhythm of Spanish life.

I was young.

And I loved drama.

That was my biggest mistake.

For the first—and probably the last—time in my life…

I had everything.

And I didn’t know it.

Maybe that’s why life decided to teach me such a painful lesson.

I only hope I finally learned it.

Because if life ever gives me another chance…

I already know my answer.

I made myself a promise years ago.

This time…

I’ll stay.

For good.

Don’t rush through the chapter you’re living. One day, you’ll miss even the pages you wanted to skip.

Until next time.