If you told me a few years ago that I’d be the kind of person who keeps limes in an old jar of jalapeños, I would’ve laughed, clutched my color-coordinated pantry bins, and told you to get a grip. But here we are. The jalapeño jar? It’s now a proud, citrus-holding champion. And that big, slightly obnoxious cheetah-print bag I once called “too loud”? Well, turns out it fits everything I own, so I carry it everywhere.
Living in Spain has changed me in ways I didn’t expect. Somewhere between slow mornings, grocery stores the size of a closet, and apartments with microwaves held together by duct tape, I’ve stopped obsessing over how things look and started appreciating how they work. If the microwave heats up my leftovers, who cares if it looks like it’s been through battle?
Spain doesn’t have the same obsession with perfection that the U.S. does. Things here are more… lived in. Authentic. Sometimes a little broken, but still doing their job. You don’t replace the table just because it’s wobbly; you stick a napkin under the leg and call it a day.
And honestly? It’s freeing.
For example, that wine bottle I finished during girls’ night now holds all my bracelets. That random stool that was sitting upside down in the laundry room? It’s in my bathroom now, and yes, I sit on it in the shower like some kind of minimalist queen. I’m really making use of my free will over here.
The funny thing about Spanish apartments is that people don’t bother hauling every single belonging to their next place. They just… leave things. Furniture, pots, a random chair that’s probably seen three generations of tenants, it all stays for the next person. And honestly, I kind of love that. In the U.S., everything has to be cleared out, spotless, sanitized, like no one ever lived there. But here? I’m positive the pots in my kitchen have been around since at least 2022. Maybe longer. And they still work just fine.
There’s something comforting about it, actually. It’s like each item has a little history, a story that keeps living on through new hands. My apartment might not be filled with brand-new, matching things, but it’s functional, full of character, and perfectly imperfect. Kind of like me after moving here.
I used to care about matching sets and aesthetic everything. Now, I care about whether my bag can survive a day of errands and if my pan still gets hot enough for a tortilla. There’s something humbling, and kind of beautiful, about accepting things for what they are instead of trying to make everything Pinterest-perfect.
It’s like Spain handed me permission to stop performing and start living. Life’s a lot lighter when you stop judging it by how pretty it looks and start loving it for how well it works.
Love always,
American Girl Meets World
