Although plans to emigrate usually aren’t made overnight, there is always a moment when the tone of the conversation changes. From vague plans, beautiful daydreams and alcohol-influenced talks to the point where someone actually slams their fist on the table and says: “We’re just going to do it. Tomorrow I will book a flight to Spain and we will view some houses.”

If it wouldn’t be frowned upon, I would have probably already started with the tips and obligations discussed with the delegation from Alicante regarding our Casa Rural before the end of their actual inspection visit. Because as a true control freak, I naturally prefer to solve problems before and not after they arise. I therefore had to restrain myself from quickly popping…

With mixed feelings I glance outside. It’s raining. It hasn’t done that for a while. We certainly can use it and I hope it will rain a lot more in the next two months. But today I would have liked to see it differently. Because the delegation from Alicante can arrive at any moment. To check whether our Casa Rural meets all the necessary requirements.

When I walk downstairs my mother has just finished cleaning the fireplace. As she walks into the kitchen to make me a cup of coffee, she notes that is has been exactly three years since we started cleaning and reorganizing the house. A little later my sister Noëlle receives exactly the same message from Facebook. Photos of what the house looked like at the time…

With a questioning look in his eyes he holds up one of the papers. “What is this?” I smile apologetically. It’s something I applied for online a long time ago with the help of my father’s digital certificate. “Does your father work?” he continues. “No, he is retired,” I answer. “In Spain?” He raises an eyebrow. “No, in the Netherlands.” I smile apologetically again.

I’ve just sat down on the couch with a cup of coffee, when our father walks into the living room. He looks around inquisitively. He raises one eyebrow. Almost surprised. “Is Svetlana still sleeping?” he asks, slightly mockingly. I have to restrain myself from spluttering my coffee all over the table. Instead I shake my head. No. Svetlana is not still in bed.

I immediately dismiss his apology. “No problem at all,” I tell him. If he hadn’t said anything, I probably wouldn’t have even noticed. “This is Benialí,” I reassure him. Here, no one will bat an eye if you show up in your pajamas in public. I doubt whether Raul, the baker who supplies all eight villages with fresh bread every day from his van, would even recognize us…

“Who put that yellow monstrosity in front of your door? And that tree?! Do you sell firewood these days?” One of the local residents starts laughing uncontrollably at his own joke. Although I try my best not to burst out laughing too, I decide not to give in that easily. “Keep laughing!”, I answer. “You’re just afraid that you won’t win the competition…

When I hand him our business cards, he looks at them critically. “This font is much too small,” he says sternly. I nod meekly. I know. Pascual, the local pub owner, is just as direct as the average Dutchman. “Our address is not on it either,” I answer. “I forgot.” He shakes his head. Although he is not completely satisfied with the business cards that I may have made…