I Ain’t Missing You

A Love Letter with a Side of Snark

Escape room with cheese,
No breakdown, just bored of “more.”
Spain said: “Here. Sit. Breathe.”

Watching the epic Game Three World Series marathon between the Blue Jays and Dodgers the other night—at 4:44AM!—gave me a full glimpse of all the glory I’ve been missing these last eighteen months.

Fox Sports gave me an eyeful—like I didn’t already know about the half-dozen new pharmaceuticals I should probably ask my doctor about. (Opioid-induced constipation, anyone?) And damn, if I don’t feel better knowing I can order overnight a one-month food survivalist package after watching a doom prepper ad on national TV. Cool.

Here’s the thing: we didn’t move to Spain because we were chasing some romantic Eat-Pray-Olives fantasy. (Though let’s be real—siestas do wonders for the mood.) No, leaving Southern California didn’t feel bold or cinematic. Spain felt less like a grand adventure and more like an escape room—with better cheese and fewer apocalyptic vibes.

No breakdown. No eviction notice. No spiritual call from the orange groves of the Med. We just…left. Because staying in consumerland felt like too much work for too little joy. So, we moved to Spain, where happiness is slower, spicier, and frequently served with free olives.

And let me be clear: I’m fine. We’re fine. We’re not homesick. I’m not biking aimlessly along the Mediterranean, muttering about the lack of soy-latte French roast at the local café, and I’m not writing this from the fetal position clutching a bottle of Ribeira. We are, as the influencers say, practicing gratitude for getting the hell out of Dodge.

I don’t miss the vulgar, nouveau riche, dictator-chic design trend taking over America. They tried that here in Spain—it didn’t wear well.

But Spain has most of the usual conveniences of home, err, the States. And yet my wife—who just returned from a quick trip to the States to check in with friends and our malnourished son in college—came back with a suitcase full of surprises. Apparently, we needed Goldfish! And new Allbirds, a few bottles of California cab, Triscuits, and Blue Diamond almonds. Need or not, we have them now.

So for the sake of this piece, let’s not pretend we didn’t leave some love behind.

Because there are some things that tug. Not enough to book a one-way ticket to the land of car chases and drive-thrus, but enough to occasionally sigh dramatically and think: Damn, I miss [insert beloved, totally unnecessary American thing here]. And we occasionally do.

I’ve said before I miss valet parking. There’s a strange comfort in handing your keys to a stranger in a vest and pretending the $20 convenience fee is normal. In Spain, parking is like bullfighting. And you haven’t truly lived until you’ve wedged your car into a spot built for a Vespa and later backed out using only your side mirrors, the divine intervention of a local saint, and three Catalans shouting conflicting advice. And no, I still don’t habla. I get by with wild gesturing, a wry smile, and a Google Translate tab open at all times.

I miss car washes—and not the DIY spray-it-down kind. I mean the kind where four guys materialize from nowhere and, for twenty-five bucks, turn your dusty SUV into a showroom miracle smelling of lemongrass. Trunk, sunroof, cupholders—every inch reborn while you sip bad coffee scrolling your phone pretending to be someone who owns a yacht, and feeling briefly, absurdly, important.

I miss independent movie theaters with questionable upholstery—the kind where you could watch a Romanian crime-family matinee and cry into your artisanal popcorn. Spain’s theaters are beautiful—velvet-draped, operatic—but sticky-floored SoCal cinemas where nobody leaves until they’ve spotted a friend’s name in the credits? Gone. And what’s with all the Javier Bardem-like Spanish dubbing?

Yes, I miss hummingbirds. Turns out they’re strictly New World. For six months I kept looking for those angry, fidgety little blurs of wings. Nothing. Spanish birds are lovely, but they lack that jittery, caffeine-addled energy I once mistook for serenity. And don’t even mention the oysters. I used to live within slurping distance of perfect Pacific brine. (Ah, those sweet Kusshi, Kumamoto, and Fanny Bays.) Here, it’s more Poseidon’s footbath than delicacy. Salt-forward indeed.

Fun fact: Do you know what time my LA sports teams tip off/puck drop is here? 3:43AM. You try watching another Ohtani record, Dončić pass or Doughty’s toothless grin while your neighbors are asleep and the only things moving are insomniac wild boars. (Yes, we have them!) I feel like I’m hosting a watch party for ghosts while texting friends in another dimension.

And sure, there are little comforts I miss too. My gritty Arm & Hammer toothpaste. My key lime martini juice. My wife’s impossibly specific cocoa mix. All now require a black-market import hustle or a terrifyingly expensive Amazon cart order. Want Goldfish? Better luck spotting a unicorn in a tapas bar.

And then there’s the food. Spain has food—spectacular food!—yet I’m haunted by ghosts of hot dogs past and bagels betrayed. I miss a proper turkey avocado sandwich. I miss a pastrami on rye that didn’t just finish a spa treatment. I miss real bagels. Let me repeat: I. Miss. Real. Bagels. The ones here are...fine, if you’re into round bread with low self-esteem.

Of course, there are the occasional snack crises. These aren’t cravings, they’re cultural echoes—ghosts of comfort, ritual, and mildly toxic nostalgia. But still…No Twizzlers. No graham crackers for my wife’s pies. No dark, oily, wildly inappropriate French roast beans that taste like regret and inspiration.

Brussels sprouts exist, but they’re boiled like a Victorian punishment. I haven’t seen a LifeSaver mint in over a year. (Maybe that’s why they are under lock and key in all US drugstores?) And don’t even get me started on Rose’s Lime Juice—I’d trade my EU health card for one bottle to make my key lime martinis.

But let’s flip the tortilla.

While I miss a few things, what I don’t miss could fill an eight-lane freeway. Which, incidentally, I also don’t miss. I don’t miss the low-grade panic, of being tailgated by someone who might be armed—just because I dared to merge. I don’t miss tip screens that guilt-trip you into subsidizing someone’s late-stage capitalism business model or their precarious employees retirement scheme. I don’t miss the insurance roulette, the blizzards of redundant paperwork, the performative patriotism, or the relentless hustle to keep up with the algorithm.

So, no, I don’t miss my social feed informing me that another friend’s launched a new GoFundMe to cover their latest crisis. It’s made me realize that, in the land that privatized compassion, the only difference between panhandling and GoFundMe is that one has better PR. Sad.

I don’t miss living in a place where “self-care” means buying something, and “community” means ratting out your neighbors on Nextdoor for their lawn height. And I don’t miss simply asking someone how they are and getting their full medical chart in reply.

So here I am, in a country where the word for “tomorrow” (mañana) also kind of means “maybe never,” where the bureaucracy is an Inquisition-era fever dream. Life here isn’t perfect. It’s quirky and slow and occasionally baffling. The stores close at the weirdest hours—sometimes at 1:30, sometimes at 3, sometimes whenever María feels like it. But there’s air here. And stillness. And the gentle, miraculous absence of anyone asking for a tip while I’m buying shampoo. Sure, the stores are closed on Sundays. Yet somehow, I miraculously survive.

I’ve learned to eat dinner at 9PM and not perish. I’ve learned to stop panic-buying condiments and just commit to the BBQ sauce I love. I’ve learned that double-kissing is a greeting, not a flirt. Sometimes. I’ve learned to never assume a shop will be open just because Google says so.

By the way: Try hugging someone here and you’ll see the fear in their eyes. It’s beautiful.

And okay, maybe I do miss a few people. Real ones though. Not the social media avatars, but ones I could count on for spontaneous lunches, going to the game, and helping me make gloriously bad decisions. The ones who knew how I liked my martinis and didn’t question the lime juice. (Hmmm, third mention—somebody’s trying to tell YOU something if you’re near a UPS store!)

So, no, I don’t have the Expat Blues—though I do know the tune. I’ve got the random cravings—the ghosts of bagels past, the phantom hum of a hummingbird, and an occasional desire to see my cardiologist—but I also have everything I need: Time. Stillness. A softer landing. And no, I ain’t missing you.

Because when I really need to feel close to home, I lie in my hammock under swaying palm trees, close my eyes, and imagine a Costco parking lot on a Sunday afternoon with someone flipping me off in a Ford F-150. And just like that—I’m home again.

Thanks for the privilege of your time, it is the most precious thing we have, and I appreciate it. Be well.

William D. Chalmers © 2025 All Rights Reserved.