The land of olives and oranges

I went by myself — to southern Spain.

That part doesn't surprise me anymore. What does surprise me is how much I loved it.

This is the season where my kids want to do different things, move in different directions, need me differently. And for the first time, instead of bracing against that shift, I followed a suggestion a friend made almost casually: What if you went alone?

It wasn't even a possibility I had ever considered. Until suddenly, it was.

So I went — on my own — wandering through Córdoba and Granada. I walked the old streets and hills, twenty — sometimes twenty-two thousand steps a day, powered by olive oil, bread, Ibérico jamón, and curiosity. I visited an olive mill and learned how deeply a place can taste like itself. I followed my instincts without negotiating anyone else's hunger, energy, or timing.

I ate what I wanted, when I wanted. Sat alone at tables meant for two or four. Ordered dessert without consulting anyone. Let hunger and curiosity decide instead of clocks and consensus.

That freedom mattered more than I expected.

My favorite part was Alhambra.

Being there felt like stepping into layers of stories. I was walking through a place that has been cared for — and gardens that have been tended — for centuries. The art, craft, and engineering that went into building that space on a hill left me thinking about how deeply care can live in a place, and how you can feel it when you're inside it.

It's hard to describe with the limited words we have. I just knew I wanted to go back again and again — to sit there and let the history, the layers, the stories swirling through that space soak into my soul.

That whole region felt like abundance without urgency.

Even the teenagers weren't lost in their phones. I heard them walking the narrow streets in groups, singing loudly together. People held hands as they walked — especially older couples — not in a romantic way, just naturally, as if that's how they've always moved through the world.

The city was so walkable, and it felt like people had been walking those same streets their entire lives. That kind of connection to a place — to know it with your body, not just your eyes — stayed with me.

It was also the land of olives, oranges, and pomegranates.

Orange trees grew right on the streets, fruit hanging like decoration. Pomegranates grew so abundantly that no one even bothered to pick them. And olives — endless groves stretching from north to south, visible from the train. Row after row, seemingly endless. Some, I was told, are thousands of years old. Who knew olive trees could live that long?

(By the way — did you know we cook all of our food in olive oil?)

Somewhere in all of that, my brain slowed down too. Just enough to notice more. Rush less. Listen better. And journal.

Separately (and far less idyllically), the airline lost my suitcase — laptop and all — which meant I never sent a Christmas or New Year's message. Life went quiet and offline for a bit, whether I planned it that way or not.

Later, my family joined me after my husband's mandatory Christmas shift. I met them differently then — rested, open, more self-aware — and a little proud of the version of myself who had already learned how to be alone and love it.

The food stayed simple. The salads were so fresh and crunchy that they hardly needed anything. Just a little olive oil, a splash of citrus — barely salt. And I remember thinking, this might be the best salad I've ever eaten.

Right there, I decided — this is what I want more of when I get back. More salads. Simple ones. The kind that don't need much help.

(But of course, with some really good olive oil.)

We're back now. Clear-headed. Energized. Ready to step back into the kitchen.

Warmly,
Punita