Around me, people get engaged, marry, start families, earn advanced degrees, take out mortgages, or even relocate to remote islands off the coast of Ireland to fulfill their dream of becoming lighthouse keepers.
And me? I went to Spain. Everyone follows their own path.
The French couple sitting next to me on the plane called me “brave” for traveling solo. Sure, people face life-and-death situations out there, but I’m thrilled to have earned recognition for my courage in economy class.
I aim to look back at my life and say, “Yeah, I did that.” What began as a solo journey turned into a trip where I encountered three familiar faces, met three new ones, and learned to enjoy my own company in a foreign land.
Embrace the Spanish Experience
For me, traveling means gaining fresh perspectives and soaking up local vibes. Say hello to the person next to you—you might end up sharing dinner (true story). Take your time and savor each day—why rush (embrace the Spanish minute)? Walk all day, rack up 30k steps, and treat yourself to a great drink, a hearty meal, and gelato for dessert (calorie counting be damned).
Among all the memories, one story from Spain will always stand out as my favourite.
Foreign Countries are for Grocery Stores
“So I’ll meet you at Lidl?” Chris texted.
It was another bright, humid day in Valencia. Fortunately, my friend Chris was back in Spain, this time to explore Valencia with me. In retrospect, I wouldn’t have had the chance to try paella with him—since it requires two people, I would have been out of luck if I had shown up solo. Evidently, Chris is the kind of friend who’s always up for anything, lets you be your true self, and still offers a voice of reason. That’s what makes a solid travel companion.
That morning, we decided to take a local bus to a less crowded beach. But first, we needed to stop by Lidl, the local grocery store, to stock up on beach snacks.
Standing in front of the wall of cheese, meats, and fruits, I let the cool air wash over my face. I examined the marbled jamón, trying to decide which one I’d be willing to polish off on my own (since Chris is vegetarian), while Chris focused on the cheeses.
It was early, and I was dressed in full tourist mode: sunhat, red bathing suit peeking out from under my dress, and a backpack filled with gear. I knew I wanted some ginger shots (pressed juice is amazing) and meat, but what else?
As the morning rush of tourists and locals flowed around us, we lingered in the charcutería section. Our eyes scanned the raspberries, blueberries, and then landed on a shelf of vacuum-sealed bags filled with orange chunks.
“What is that?”
“I don’t know,” Chris replied. He leaned in closer to the shelf of vacuum-sealed bags. We were both making good progress with our Spanish on Duolingo, and the package had a word starting with a “C.” The owl hadn’t prepared us for this one.
“Cantaloupe?” he guessed.
“Ohhhhhh,” I exclaimed. “That makes sense”. My brain wasn’t fully awake yet, so I didn’t question it further. Chris quietly added it to our basket.
We roamed the store some more, admiring the chips, variety of nuts, and the miscellaneous aisle (aka beach goods). After a while, I circle back to the melon, it having never left my mind.
“Well, in that case,” I said as I grabbed for the cold vacuum sealed package, “I’m going to get a pack just for me. It’ll go GREAT with the jamón!”
Chris remained silent, and I could tell he was considering it.
“Are you sure that won’t be too much?” he asked.
“Nah, I love this with meat; it’s so good. Plus, it’s hydrating,” I said, suddenly realizing how dehydrated I was. Why is wine more prevalent than water?
We picked up a few more snacks—hummus, nuts, and water—paid, and headed on our way. Our job is beach.
The Beach Quest
By the time we reached our destination, the sun was giving us its best “Sun from that Super Mario level” impersonation.
As the bus pulled away, I looked around at this road that had no sidewalks and not a single soul in sight.
We started trudging down one path in the blazing heat while Chris popped open our beach umbrella and continued his intense game of Pokémon Go. A man of efficiency. Meanwhile, I continued trying to guide us down the route and not have a heat-induced asthma attack.
“Huh, it looks like we’re starting to go parallel to the beach,” Chris said, looking up from his phone.
“Wait, what?” I stopped dead in my tracks. The sun was scorching, we were in the middle of a conservation park, and doubling back was the last thing I needed. I zoomed in further on Google Maps and discovered an entrance just a few meters from where we’d veered off the roadside.
I really hate being wrong. It’s downright embarrassing. Especially when the sun is trying to kill you. Even worse when it’s Google Maps you trusted.
“Ah, shoot. Okay, my bad. Let’s head back.”
“Hmmm, well Pokémon Go says there’s a path there,” Chris pointed out, gesturing at the tall grass, which gave me flashbacks to Blair Witch Project. There was no sign of a paved path like the one we were on.
“Uh, let’s go back.” Because getting lost in the literal wilderness was not on my bucket list.
After retracing our steps and entering from another path off the road, we were met with a massive security house, a gate, and a sign that read “Golf Course.” I strolled forward as the security guard gave us the kind of look usually reserved for speeding golf carts. A meter away from the gate, he waved us over.
In our best broken Spanish, we asked if this was the way to the beach. He shook his head and pointed us back. Back to where we’d just come from.
“I’m sorry I even suggested this,” Chris apologized as we both had deja-vu. We were now sweating buckets, I was heaving like a steam engine, and hope was starting to wane.
“It says there’s a path here, like a real path,” Chris repeated. If there’s one thing about Pokemon Go players, they know how to create a route for themselves through any terrain.
“On Pokémon Go?” I asked, half disbelieving, half hopeful.
“Yes, over here,” he said, leading us towards the tall grass. There was indeed a faint foot trail. Well, then.
Our job, is Beach
We waded through the tall grass and into an opening of sand dunes, which had been soaking up the sun’s rays.
Meanwhile, people were strolling effortlessly on the golf course, while we were hissing and hopping as molten sand flowed in and out of our sandals.
Another reason to dislike golf.
As I cranked up the Dune soundtrack, we finally stumbled upon a glorious stretch of beach—one with just a couple of other families, making it feel like our own private paradise.
We quickly set up our shade and snacks, basking in our newfound seclusion. The cold water lapping at my feet was like the holy grail of our journey.
We dove into our snacks, which had gotten a bit warm from the sun trying to kill us. I unwrapped my jamón and eagerly dug into the melon. Wrapping a piece of meat around the melon, I noticed it was unusually firm and took a big bite. What I got was a crunchy, bitter surprise.
“This…is not ripe,” I declared, chewing slowly. Chris plopped down next to me. “This tastes like pumpkin?” I said, trying to disguise my disappointment and confusion but failing miserably.
“Really?” Chris asked, puzzled.
“Yeah…oh well, we’ve got two packets,” I said, determined to eat my way through this fiasco. Waste not, want not.
Chris took a piece, grimaced, and said, “Wait, that does taste like pumpkin.” He checked the package. “Calabaza,” it read.
“What IS Calabaza?” Chris asked, pulling out his phone for a quick Google Translate. I kept munching, partly because I wasn’t about to waste food, and partly because I was getting weirdly accustomed to it.
“Calabaza…is butternut squash,” Chris announced, trying not to laugh.
“WHAT?” I exclaimed, mouthful of it. Chris’s laughter was now in full swing.
“I can’t believe you made me buy two packets of this.”
“What do you mean?!”
“I know, I know…I’m just disappointed.” I said as I took another bite, surrendering to the defeat.
“Stop eating it!” Chris urged.
“I will not waste food!!”
“No, Abbi, stop eating it. That’s deranged behavior.”
Never has Chris, usually so soft-spoken, called me deranged. I burst out laughing, trying not to choke on the butternut squash. Alright, fine, maybe he was right.
So, as we enjoyed the beach to ourselves, we left the butternut squash in our garbage bag. In the heat. For hours. By the time we left, it was practically cooked, so we decided to run around the beach, tossing it to the gulls and the ocean. Land caviar for the fish.
Even the gulls turned their beaks up at it.
I guess what I’m saying is, there is a joy in exploring foreign grocery stores. And if you’re ever in doubt, just Google Translate it.
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