There was a moment, not long after I moved to Spain, when I stood on my terrace, glass of wine in hand, and thought: I have arrived.
The sun was setting, cicadas were screaming, and in the distance, I could see a vineyard rolling across the hills. It wasn’t my vineyard, obviously. But I had a good view of it, and that counted for something.
Then the dog showed up.
The House I Chose (For Reasons I No Longer Understand)
Buying a house in Spain is an emotional process. You fall in love with a place before you realize it comes with a shower that only works when the moon is in the right phase and neighbors who assume you want 20 kilos of zucchini on your doorstep every other Thursday.
I picked mine because it had “character.” I now know that “character” is just real estate speak for “everything is slightly broken but in a charming way.” The wiring is eccentric. The water pressure has moods. The previous owner, a man named Paco, left behind a collection of furniture so heavy I can only assume he assembled it around the house rather than moving it in through the doors.
But still—there’s a terrace, a view, and an old wine rack built into the wall that I have completely filled. Priorities.
The Vineyard That Isn’t Mine (But Might As Well Be)
I do not own a vineyard. I am not a winemaker. And yet, because I live next to one, people assume I know everything about viticulture. “Ah,” they say, nodding toward the rows of Tempranillo vines beyond my house, “so you make wine?”
I have given up correcting them. I just say sí and move on. It’s easier that way.
The vineyard belongs to a man named Ramón, who wears the same dusty hat every day and has opinions about just about everything. “The grapes are too fat this year,” he tells me ominously, as if this is a problem. He occasionally lets me help with the harvest, though “help” is a strong word. Mostly, I stand around pretending I know what I’m doing while Ramón’s relatives laugh at me.
The Dog That Thinks It Lives Here
One evening, as I sat outside with a glass of something red and fantastic, a dog appeared.
Scruffy, unimpressed, like a tax inspector who’s seen it all. He sat down and stared at me. I stared back. I had no dog food, so I offered him some manchego. He accepted. And just like that, he decided he lived here now.
I don’t know where he came from. I have asked the neighbors. Nobody claims him. He has no collar, no name, and an attitude that suggests he is deeply disappointed in me at all times.
I have tried to set boundaries. I do not feed him regularly. I do not let him inside. But every evening, like clockwork, he returns, settles by my chair, and sighs loudly as if my conversation is not up to his standards. If I don’t pour myself a drink quickly enough, he gives me a look. I am being peer-pressured into aperitifs by a stray.
The Final Sip
This is my life now. A house full of quirks, a vineyard I don’t own but pretend to, and a judgmental dog who has adopted me against my will.
I came here expecting adventure. Instead, I have zucchini deliveries, unsolicited wine advice, and a four-legged critic who seems determined to outlive me.
And honestly? I wouldn’t have it any other way.