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.