I’m at the airport, about to board a flight to London.
Big conference. Big audience. I’ll be speaking about AI-powered business matchmaking, which—if I do it right—could mean a handful of enterprise clients signing on the dotted line. I should be reviewing my slides, fine-tuning my delivery. Instead, I’m scrolling property listings.
Not in Ibiza.
Not even close.
I’m looking at country houses in Spain. The kind with crumbling stone walls, ancient olive groves, and a kitchen that hasn’t been updated since the Franco era. Places where the real estate description says things like “rustic charm” (read: no heating) and “character-filled” (guaranteed to have a roof leak).
This is what my brain does. The moment I should be focused, it latches onto something completely irrelevant and runs with it. The smoking cravings are bad right now, but instead of pacing over to the designated smoker’s area, I’m here. Writing this. Trying to understand why I’m suddenly obsessed with the idea of an old Spanish finca when I literally just bought a brand-new villa.
It’s not regret. Not exactly. I love the idea of the sleek, modern place we designed. Clean lines, massive windows, no surprises.
But maybe that’s the problem.
It’s too… predictable? No history, no rough edges. Just a carefully curated escape pod.
Meanwhile, these fincas for sale in Spain look like they’ve seen things. Survived centuries. They have stories built into their walls—half of which would probably need to be replastered, but still. They represent something I can’t quite put my finger on. A different kind of escape. Less about convenience, more about surrendering to whatever chaos comes with the territory.
Except I’m not sure I’m built for that kind of life. The idea of waking up to a broken well pump or discovering a family of mice nesting in the ceiling doesn’t fill me with excitement. I need stable WiFi. I need cell service. I need a house that doesn’t require me to learn how to operate a generator.
And yet.
I keep scrolling.
Maybe it’s just the way my brain works. I chase a thing, I get the thing, and then I immediately start wondering if I should’ve chased something else. Maybe the dream wasn’t just about moving to Ibiza, but about moving toward something more raw, more untamed. Or maybe this is just the pre-move jitters messing with me.
Either way, my flight is boarding. I’ll go give my speech, I’ll try to land the clients, and in a month, I’ll have the keys to a brand-new villa with floors that don’t creak and walls that won’t crumble.
And yet. I’ll probably still be scrolling. Just in case.