They don’t tell you about the costs that don’t come on paper. The real ones. The ones you can’t wire transfer or shove onto a spreadsheet. When we bought the villa here in Ibiza, I thought I was prepared. Budgeted for the purchase tax, factored in notary fees, legal bills, even allowed some wiggle room for a dodgy roof tile or three. That was cute.
What I didn’t see coming was the electrician ghosting for three weeks after installing one socket. Or the fee for connecting the mains water, which apparently doesn’t include actually turning it on. Then there was the moment we realised that our so-called architect was billing for “site presence” when the only time he’d been near the villa was to ask if he could park there during lunch.
But fine. It’s Ibiza. You build that in. What’s harder to account for is the time. Everything takes longer. Approvals. Deliveries. Decisions. You start to live in this weird half-life where the villa is yours, but not quite livable. Every day you’re there, you’re nearly home. And that “nearly” eats at you.
The real toll is emotional. Sara and I have had more sideways conversations about money in the last two months than in the last ten years. Not fights. Just that low-level tension that creeps in when one of you says, “What if we waited on the garden landscaping?” and the other says, “Waited until when?” It’s not about the money, not exactly. It’s about the feeling that maybe you’re building something beautiful but losing each other brick by brick.
Even Leo picked up on it. He asked if we were poor now. I laughed, but then I thought about it. Because it doesn’t feel rich. It feels stretched. Not broke, not drowning—just tight. That uncomfortable tight where the idea of one more surprise bill gives you that stomach drop like when you miss a step in the dark.
I started keeping a spreadsheet of unexpected villa costs in Ibiza. Not to stay on top of it—just to stop it haunting me. There’s a column called “Unbudgeted but necessary.” It’s the biggest one. It includes things like fire escape signage (yes, in a private home), fixing the tiles the builder cracked installing the new boiler, and replacing the door handles because the originals came from a French factory that no longer exists.
There are also the invisible costs. Not being there when the twins made pancakes with Sara. Missing a client call because the internet dropped mid-sentence. Saying no to a last-minute flight to Madrid because, honestly, the villa needed that money more than I needed that meeting.
And then there’s the cost of still not smoking, which sounds like a win—and it is—but quitting strips away a layer of your nerves and leaves everything raw. In Frankfurt, I could take a cigarette break and pretend to process things. Here, I just pace the hallway or sit in the half-finished utility room and try not to scream.
Would I do it again? Yeah, probably. But I’d do it differently. I’d ask better questions. I’d triple the contingency. I’d keep a second life raft ready, emotionally speaking. Because the cost of a villa in Ibiza isn’t just in euros. It’s in time, pressure, and the patience of the people you love.
The villa will get finished. The bills will get paid. But what I’ve learned is that building a house—anywhere—isn’t about the structure. It’s about surviving the process with your sanity and your relationships intact. And that part? No one includes it in the quote.