Costa Brava

By: Ridhima Gulati

July 1991.

I sat in my boat, soaking in the shining rays of the hot summer sun. I closed my eyes just as the

warm breeze pulled me in for a hug, calling for the gusts of the morning wind to travel and tangle

through my long golden hair.

As I gazed at the beautiful rising sun with its soft rosy hues painting the sky, I felt my fingers close

around my scallop shell charm, hanging down a dainty chain. The shell, intricately designed, has

sixteen fluted edges - one for each year of my life. It was a gift from my beautiful mother, passed on

to her from my grandmother.

Spain, the home of my ancestors, is a country my family forbids to mention. It is a place full of hurt

and tragedy for my parents - a place where they lost my grandparents in 1939 due to the Spanish

Civil War.

Now, as a young adult navigating her way through life, I find it hard to believe that I will be visiting

the very place my parents once lost those so dear to them. One month till Spain. One month till

Costa Brava, a home I have yet to discover.

August 1991.

On Friday morning, the early rising sun poured through my window, bringing along the dawn

chorus of melodic birdsong. Today is the day I am leaving for Costa Brava.

In the blink of an eye, I was standing in front of Hotel Costa Brava. The hotel’s tall and dome-like

structure gave it a unique architectural look, with the white splashes of paint contrasting the beige

sand and clear blue sky.

At the main entrance to the stunning hotel, I was greeted by an old lady. ‘Bienvenida, welcome to

Costa Brava’, she softly said. The lady’s beautiful brown eyes gleamed with grace, and the warmth of

her hand felt kind and motherly. The lady graciously gave me a hotel tour and directed me to my

hotel room.

Once I sat on my room's soft and supple bed, I found my fingers closing around the scallop shell

charm of my bracelet.

I am here. I finally made it to Costa Brava.

The steps surrounding Hotel Costa Brava, scenically built obliquely on a hillside, led down to a

beautiful beach.

Upon walking down to the beach, I was instantly mesmerised by the pristine and clear water of the

ocean. As blue and turquoise as can be, the ocean’s elegant waves shone with diamonds reflected

from the sun's rays.

I walked down to the shore and dug my toes into the warm, soft sand. As the current slowly pulled

away from the shoreline, an array of scallop shells dotted the wet sand. I walked toward them,

allowing my hand to graze the fluted tops of the shell's surface. A white shell covered with curving

sunset yellow and orange lines caught my attention. Picking it up, I noticed that it looked strikingly

like a painting I had seen before. A painting with the background of soft and supple beige sand

enclosing the off-white shell plated with tinges of yellow and orange, curved as though portraying

flamenco dancers in the night. A painting created by my grandmother.

It felt like home at last.