I am a very lucky girl.
All through my childhood, for as far back as I can remember, my father would take us on a family vacation abroad every single summer for a couple of weeks. Sometimes it was just the five of us, other times we would have another family of friends with us. In either case, it was always the most exhilarating time of year for all of us, one which we looked forward to all year and painstakingly counted down the days to until that all-exciting night before leaving, full of luggage-packing mayhem, overly eager squealing and guaranteed sleeplessness.
The initial plan was that we would go somewhere new each year…and that plan was going fine; we visited so many wonderful and exotic places… until the summer of 1998.
That fateful year, my mother happened to become close friends with a wonderful lady called auntie Salwa, who happened to own a house in a town called Marbella on the gorgeous Mediterranean coast of Spain. She and her family (who somehow happened to be even bigger and louder than ours! Score!) spent all of their summers there, and she managed to convince my mama and papi that we all tag along. So we did…and the rest, as they say, is history. We were hooked….