From next to the rectangular, polished block of stone on which I am sitting, Boris the terrier—smaller than a soccer ball—dashes across the square in front of me toward the exit of the skyscraper that houses the Dutch embassy in Madrid. Heidi, my wife, who leaves the skyscraper too soon after entering it, laughs when Boris leaps up at her, which relaxes me. Man, compared to the ease with which we renewed our passports in Berlin ten years ago—we lived in Germany back then—rene

R.I.P. Charlie Casually, one of the three mountain bikers I pass tosses the wrapper of the bar he's eating onto the ground. In their brightly colored outfits, the three are sitting on the edge of a stone trough where spring water flows in and out, and where, in the not-too-distant past, farmers herded their goats and cows for a drink. The mountain bikers drink from their water bottles and eat their bars, and whoever thinks I'm a loser for just cycling past is right. But I'm n

The mood in the car is tense as Heidi and I pass through the village of Le Perthus in Catalonia, on the border with France. Moos the German shepherd died a few weeks ago. For twelve years, Moos accompanied us on our travels through Europe. Now, her kennel in the back of our Berlingo is empty, and it feels as if we’re leaving her behind in Catalonia. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Heidi crying, and I fight back my own tears. Time heals all wounds. With that as a guiding pr

Twice before, I followed the steep path to the ruins of the castle of San Salvador in the north of Catalonia. Twice before, the wind around those ruins was so strong that I gladly descended all five hundred meters of elevation back to Palau-saverdera, where all hikes started and where there was no wind to speak of.   Mild wind today and my heart is pounding in my throat as I sit on the weathered stones of a castle wall and take our Stanley thermos from my backpack. I fill t

My heart skips a beat when my phone rings, and I realize I couldn’t have been more engrossed in translating The Ukraine War & the Eurasian World Order, the latest book by Glenn Diesen. Under some notes on my desk, I find my phone, a Spanish number lighting up on the screen, and the thing keeps ringing as I tap and tap a green button on the screen. Anger assails me, and … bogger! I should know by now that when there’s a phone number lighting up on the screen, I’m getting a reg

For a moment, I wonder why nostalgia tries to grab power here, in the Catalan village of Sant Pere Pescador. Then, I surrender to that power grab, and I’m no longer a frustrated dwarf who just left a surf shop, but I’m a nine-year-old standing through the rolled-open roof of a Citroën 2CV—my eyes darting—as it passes through French villages so different from the half-built housing estate in Rotterdam, the Netherlands, where I’m growing up.

The doorbell! It’s the first time it rings since we moved into this house. Heidi, sitting behind the dining table opposite my desk, editing a video on her laptop, is startled out of her work. I’m not startled out of mine. Something warned me that at least two people were sneaking through our garage toward our front door—which is exactly what I’ve been hoping for since yesterday.