“We’re moving to Spain,” Michael would tell people.

But me? I couldn’t say those words. “We’re going to Spain for a year,” I’d say. “Maybe we’ll stay longer.”

And honestly? Every time I heard Michael say, “We’re moving to Spain,” my heart raced a little. In an anxious, nervous moving-is-a-big-word kind of way.

Besides, was it really “moving” if we didn’t bring all of our belongings with us?

We arrived with two checked bags and two carry-ons each. I brought mostly clothes. A few favorite books. The super-absorbent hair towel Santa gave me years ago. A handful of pictures from our wedding that I hoped, three years after the fact, I’d finally get framed.

Our first “home” in Valencia was lovely. Exposed bricks and beams. A huge terrace. But it felt more like “the place we lived” as opposed to “home.” The paintings on the walls belonged to our landlords. As did much of the furniture and dish ware. There wasn’t much that would identify it as our home as opposed to anyone else’s.

So when we decided to bring more of our belongings over to Spain last September, I found myself packing up objects that spelled h-o-m-e to me.

• I brought three (yes, three!) homemade blankets.
• Everything Camino-related was gathered and packed–photo memory books, watercolors made and gifted to me by my friend Jane Snyder, all the Camino passports from my (at that time) eight Caminos.
• The lap desk Santa gave me years ago.
• And more books. A lot more books.

As I was sorting through my belongings, packed up a year-and-a-half earlier, I found the painted wooden owls my sister Meg gave me as a housewarming gift. I sent her a picture saying, “They made the cut! They’re coming to Spain!”

As I sit here tonight, the quilt Pat made us for our wedding covers my lap, a blanket I crocheted sits on the other end of my couch, Meg’s owls stare out at me, and nearly every Camino memento I own is on display.

I’ve made this place home, at last.