I always had three anti-reasons for vacationing in Spain:
- It is much too hot
- The place is full of Dutchmen
- I do not like paella
In my experience, the boulevards were full of eateries with hackneyed names like "Patatje van Adje" and "Ed Kroket." The Spanish alternative was paella but yes, I don't like fish. Maybe in a jacket of breadcrumbs but not in its full glory with eyes and skin. Besides, I really can't stand the heat, 25 degrees is more than enough. A balmy breeze and possibly a refreshing shower late at night.
Until that camping vacation on the French west coast with my girls, then aged 2 and 4. Our spot at the edge of a large field counted only one meager tree that gave a lousy bit of shade. That summer the temperature stayed above 35 degrees for days on end. The girls took their afternoon nap on the grass under that puny tree to which we tied a cloth as an improvised sunshade. In the meantime, Mom and Dad took turns diving into the pool. Our youngest daughter had a hole in her head on the day we arrived and on doctor's advice she had to avoid the pool. When she was awake, we all showed our solidarity of course. It was hard work. My baptism of fire for later.
And then, in another life, because of my birthday, I was treated to a long weekend in Mallorca. My new Love had already had a taste of Spanish life thanks to a collaboration with Spanish architects at the Rijksmuseum and surf sessions in the Spanish waves. The Spanish heat turned out not to be too bad: it's not always 30+. And then again, it's not nearly as bad as that French summer. I immediately loved the Spanish heat on my skin, the dry smell of pines, citrus and wild herbs. I was pleasantly surprised by the vastness and green mountains, the quiet and relaxed driving, the hospitable friendly Spaniards.
I was over.