Category: Lladó Life

There are moments in life when you realise you’ve lost touch with your home country.One of them is when you mistake a bidet for a sink — in front of a man who once saw you throw up behind a kebab van in Wolverhampton and still sends you birthday cards. Let me explain. Robert —…

There’s a particular type of danger that comes from thinking you’re funnier in a foreign language than you actually are. It starts small — a joke, a pun, a little idiomatic wink. But somewhere between your brain and your mouth, it transforms into something that lands either as confusing, vaguely offensive, or weirdly romantic. Or,…

It was meant to be a cultural night. That’s what Marta called it when she posted the flyer in the bakery: “Cinéma, vino y conversación”. A trilingual promise of enlightenment. We were going to watch a French classic, sip something locally fermented, and have what she described as “a reflective group discussion.” I should have…

It started with a ham raffle. As most stories do in this village. There was a fiesta in Lladó. I didn’t fully understand what it was celebrating—maybe a saint, maybe the olive harvest, maybe just the town surviving another month without municipal collapse—but there was music, churros, cava, and a large cured pig’s leg hanging…

There’s a particular smell in the air around 8:47 AM in Lladó. It’s part lavender, part sweat, part Is that an almond tree or is my brain lying again? But mostly… it’s bees. Honeybees. And pollen. And longing. Which brings me to Miquel. I should not be in love with a man who wears cargo shorts in…

You’d think I’d start with something Spanish. Manchego. Cabrales. That weird pink triangle cheese Miquel tried to hand me at the market that looked like it had been soaked in sangria and shame. But no. We’re starting with Brie. Because Brie understands me. Brie is the friend who shows up slightly late but brings good wine.…