Lunch No. 1: Six Friends, One Feast

The day has come. I own a house and I get to invite my friends over to host my very first summer lunch at my very own garden.

I’ve spent the last ten years living the nomadic life across Europe, with absolutely no intention of returning to my motherland. None. Zero. Zilch.

I had no idea where I’d end up, why I’d go there, or who I’d be with. Would my career lead the way? Would I ever want to settle down? Would I return home to the Basque Country, land of pintxos and suspiciously short bangs?

Spoiler alert: I did go back.

But not quite.

I returned to the Basque Country… sort of. Instead of San Sebastián—the city where I had my first kiss, my first beer, and probably my first existential crisis—I ended up just across the border, where baguettes are sacred, bureaucracy is eternal, and cigarettes are basically a personality trait.

So yes, I came back. But also, no, I didn’t.

A new country, once again. A new culture. A new language to butcher until (hopefully) I master.

The twist? I’m only a 20-minute drive from my childhood friends and my family. It’s weird. It’s wonderful. It’s kind of the perfect halfway point between foreign adventure and accidental homecoming.

So, ergo, this blog is born: Côte Basque Diary.
No mystery in the name. This is just my space to unload the chaos living inside this messy mind, sitting on top of a body that’s kind of tired of collecting lives.

After ten years of troubadour life under my belt, I feel like I need to do some sorting out. It’s like my body finally stopped, but my thoughts are still jet-lagged. I want to give shape to the stories. Let my brain catch up with all that’s happened.

The truth is, I haven’t really managed to settle into this new life that—for the first time—feels… permanent.

Even writing that word feels strange. Off. On one side, I feel borderline allergic to it. On the other, it might be exactly what I’ve needed for a while.

Anyhow, back to the topic at hand: “Six friends, one feast” …

As the