I was 20 years old when I first came to live in Paris. I arrived as a student in the Spring of 1998, instantly joining the thousands of other Americans who were also coming for a semester abroad. I was eager to use my French, experience new things, explore Paris! But four months was too short and my experience too typical. I knew that I would be back, but I didn’t quite know how.

My senior year in college, I found my golden ticket to return. While my friends were interviewing for high paying corporate positions, I was applying for a job as an English assistant that offered a minimal salary, but compensated with an invaluable work visa.

For some, life is defined by success: the high-paying job, the potential promotions, the nice car. For others, life is defined by a systematic order of doing things: find a spouse, buy a house, start a family. For me, the value of life lies in the relationships that I’ve built along the way.

I have friends that are preserved in my childhood. Friends that I used to play with in my family’s treehouse, that I celebrated my birthdays with by bobbing for apples, and that I starred in plays with bringing the whole mountain community of Idyllwild out to enjoy the performance. I moved away from that small town—so small that it didn’t even have a fast food restaurant

A good thing about having a scooter that's made in China is that it’s such a no-name brand that it’s not even worthy of stealing. In the beginning, David was so overprotective that he would check on it regularly to make sure it hadn’t been stolen. Now, he’s so underprotective that he has actually removed the anti-theft lock for a day to use on our bikes instead. In fact, we’ve gotten so laissez-faire about our scooter that, twice, we’ve forgotten to move it for market days. Something that used to send us into a panic because our scooter would get lost in the crowd and have who knows what happen to it.

One of the best things about living in Spain is the fields and fields of crops. We pass by them when we’re on our way to see David’s family in their small village, or getting lost trying to find the water reserve, or when we’re simply just out and about exploring our surroundings. It’s refreshing to know that fresh produce is being harvested, that nature is being valued and preserved, and that the people here are still able to live off of the land.

We’ve seen everything from peaches and pomegranates to kale and medlar and my chef husband opens my eyes to all of these, for without him, I wouldn’t be able to tell one crop from another. I also certainly wouldn’t have a clue what type of fruit a medlar is. (For those unfamiliar like me, David ate this fruit when he was a kid, check out Wikipedia’s definition.) And the best indicator of what’s in season are the outdoor markets—as the persimmons replace the artichokes and the peaches overflow in an abundance. Even the date and olive trees that occasionally line the streets are bulging with fruits soon to be enjoyed.

Whether we embrace it, fight it, admit it, or deny it, the fact remains that much of life is based on luck. Luck makes sure that we’re in the right place at the right time so that we can experience the thrill of spotting Al Pacino leaving a fancy New York City restaurant just as we’re passing in front. And luck can even determine the outcome of a special day, as was the case on Tuesday, David’s birthday.

I have been in Spain long enough to know that arriving at an intended destination requires a fair amount of luck.

I thought that Spain was supposed to have endless sun, but for the month of September all I’ve seen is rain. I thought that it was dry, that its reservoirs were only half full and that just last year it was suffering from the worst drought in 70 years. But all I feel is wetness as it seeps through my Puma shoes and soaks my socks and drenches me within seconds. I thought that I was going to have a year-round tan—as David’s (my husband) step-mother told me so when I first arrived—but I look up at the sky and only see a layer of clouds so thick that it seems impenetrable from any rays of light.

I fell in love the other day. It was the heart pounding, gushing, can’t-stop-thinking-and-talking-about-it type of love that’s usually reserved for schoolgirls. But here I was at 31 feeling it all in a rush as my breath was stolen away and I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was love at first sight, and I did what came naturally: I told my husband, David, all about it. I said it in English, and I even tried it out in Spanish. And then I repeated it again and again in the nooks of the small, winding streets because it only seemed appropriate to be declaring my love to this little village that had captured my heart in a language that could be understood by all.

Life is made up of choices. It’s made up of monumental intersections and sometimes just small little forks, but each turn in the road is significant in life’s course. But don’t look for a map to show you the way. Life is a river and the map is ever changing and time doesn’t stand still long enough for consultation.

I’ve often thought of life’s forks. How different my life would be if I hadn’t moved to Paris after college to be an English Assistant for a year and if my friend, Mimi, hadn’t encouraged me to stay a bit longer to work at Hard Rock Cafe for the summer.

There’s nothing more horrifying than going to a cemetery to visit a specific tombstone only to find that you can not find the tombstone you came to visit! That’s what happened when Luisa, my mother-in-law, wanted to pay her respects to her father who was buried in the cemetery of Callosa de Segura, the village where she grew up.

It had been three years since she had been and it was one of the highlights of her visit to her village. We had even trekked long and far during the hottest time of day to make our way to this small cemetery hugging the bottom of the mountain. So when we arrived and Luisa couldn’t find the tombstone, I couldn’t believe my ears. And when she was sure that it had been where there are now just vacant, broken tombs I thought she must be hallucinating from the heat. Was she absolutely positive that this is where it was? Yes, she was sure. She had been here countless times. How could she forget the location of her own father’s grave?

When traveling in Spain, it’s not unusual to see crumbling homes. They dot the countryside and leave you wondering who they belong to and how they ended up in such ruins. But don’t assume that they’re abandoned and be weary if you dare to venture into one. We made that very mistake and were startled by what we found.

Riding home from Murcia, a beautiful city an hour south of Torrevieja, we spotted such a house. They’re often way off in the distance, surrounded by empty fields—this one was right by the side of the road, close enough to see a For Sale sign and a number graffitied on the home wall.