A Whole New World

I wake up with a headache and my eyes can’t seem to open. I wait to hear the usual sound of loud birds that woke me up every morning in my old house. But everything is quiet except for a gentle drone of voices coming from the living room. I’m completely disoriented and desperately want to go back to sleep, but the bright mid morning sunlight glares at me through the YKPFQYHQTEKPIOGVQſPCNN[QRGPO[G[GU

In the living room, Mum’s looking through our stuff while Matias lies on the leather couch drinking a yogurt, all the while asking a torrent of questions about our journey and whether or not this is going to be our new home. His little seven year old mind seems to struggle with the situation he’s trying to make sense of. I wonder if he realizes this isn’t a trip. We’re not going back. The thought makes me feel a bit sick.

A sizzling sound is a welcome distraction coming from the kitchen. Dad’s making breakfast. I’m told to set the table, and I begin to hunt VJTQWIJVJGMKVEJGPVT[KPIVQſPFVJGRNCVGU+Vfeels odd, knowing that this is my house, but I have no idea where the plates are. I don’t even know what they look like.

We eat our scrambled eggs on the crystal plates through which I can see the tropical design of the tablecloth. The plastic sticks to my forearms so much that I have to put a napkin under my skin. The cutlery feels big and clunky in my JCPFUCPFVJGƀCXQTQHVJGQTCPIGLWKEGKUDKVter and commercial. I suddenly remember how only a week ago, I woke up at my grandparents’ house to a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. I wonder if the shops in this place will UGNNDKIQTCPIGUVJGMKPFVJCVFQP VſVKP[QWThands and that are bright orange and green; the kind that get sticky with sugary juice when you squeeze them; the kind that are so sweet, my mother would give it to me cut in quarters and chilled on a hot day.

It’s a hot morning and I realize that the pretty, ƀQY[NQPIUNGGXGFUJKTV+IQVHQTO[DKTVJFC[was the wrong choice for today. The synthetic material rubs against my skin, and sitting by the minuscule balcony on the faux leather sofa, I wonder if this is what living in Europe is like. Is it all minuscule apartments and unbearably hot days? Perhaps it's expensive ham wrapped in paper packages and bitter commercial orange juice?

Someone rings the doorbell and I’m startled out of my reverie.

A blond woman with tightly coiled hair is standing in the doorway. I shyly say hello, and tell her my family’s still getting ready. Her accent is sharp, and it reminds me of the movies I’ve watched set in Spain. In fact, this is what I thought everyone would sound like, but no one had that accent when they spoke to us yesterday. Once again, I feel disoriented. She introduces herself, and tells me her name. It’s Soledad, loneliness in Spanish, but she wants me to call her Sole. I tell her my name, and then sit back down on the couch, not knowing what else to say. She smiles an easy smile, not at all

bothered by the awkward silence, and waits patiently for my parents.

Sole’s car is white and small, and as we zoom down the highway, I feel like I’m on holiday. The sun is shining on the hilly landscape, and I IGVO[ſTUVNQQMCVVJGKUNCPF6JGXGIGVCVKQPKUshort and brown, and like everything else, it is withering, longing for some rain. The sea glitters in the distance and I can see a few ships moving around in the horizon. We go through CVWPPGNCPFCNN+ECPUGGCTGVJGCTVKſEKCNNKIJVUthat guide us through it. Sole is talking to my parents, telling them that she came to the island last year from the mainland and that she’s en

LQ[KPIKVCNQV(QTVJGſTUVVKOGKPVYQFC[U+ŏOfeeling happy. Or at least hopeful.

5QNGVCMGUWUKPVQVJGEKV[ſNNGFYKVJDKIDWKNFings and small streets, shops and cars. People walk up and down the seafront; others ride their bikes or exercise with a determined look on their faces. I’m surprised to see so many people cycling around the city, and I remember that only two weeks ago I was waking up early just to be able to cycle all day with my best friend up and down the steep dirt tracks that surround my house. Or maybe it isn’t my house anymore.

We’re joined by a friend of Sole’s, who tells us her name is Sara and whose voice is raspy from too much smoking. They take us to a seafood restaurant to try some local food. The sun glitters off the marble-white walls and VJGƀQQTVQEGKNKPIYKPFQYUTGƀGEVVJGDTKIJVDNWGUGC6JGYKPFthreatens to push me off the walkway, as I stared with curiosity at the people dining on the other side of the glass windows, I feel like I might lose my balance and fall. We’re taken to a huge balcony that overlooks the sea, and given a table close to the rail. From time to time, the waves crash against the rocks DGNQYCPFCſPGURTC[QHUGCYCVGTKUECTried to us in the strong wind, and coats our arms and hair. The smell of salt is unusual to me, having grown up inland, while the coming and going of the sea reminds me of the few holidays we had in the summer when we went to the coast where the sun was violent and my skin scabbed for days afterward. The memory gives me a warm, comfortable feeling, and the knot in the pit of my stomach starts ebbing away.

The sun heats up my scalp, and I start to get distracted with the colourful boats that line the docks. A waiter comes over without food, and I’m treated to strange delicacies I’ve never seen before: fried cheese with jam, squid rings, octopus (which I don’t try) and sardines. A little bit of the known tastes and a bit of the unknown. With a full stomach, I stare out at the ever moving sea, imagining that it's me, constantly shifting and changing, but still UQOGJQYHCOKNKCTCPFſPCNN[+ŏOEQPVGPV