We were driving in the countryside of Spanish Spring, and the warmth in the air felt like a memory of home. I always feel this way when I go down this parallel.
We had chosen to spend our honeymoon in Andalusia because I wanted to see the Alhambra, this place after which my mother had (very modestly) named her own house in Corsica.
The nature, people, the food were talking to me. I had just gotten married, I was feeling gorgeous, witty and accomplished, and at my arm was my very own (very humbly) personal Alhambra, the man I had finally decided to commit to.
We were staying at a hotel too beautiful to post on Instagram, and, every day, I was enjoying the one thing that England can’t provide me with: that gorgeous moment when a sunny terrace, a chilled glass of wine, and a slim, delicious, forbidden cigarette materialise right around you.
This is probably why, after emphatically agreeing for days on end with the wonderful southern lifestyle, we started doing what every middle-age couple d…