Chapter One

It was one of those days where I had no idea what I was feeling. Part of me was sad, knowing I would be leaving my home, but another part was happy because I was going to another.

When I was younger, my parents divorced several years after the birth of my brother and I. There had been quite the battle about where the children went, but eventually my dad got my brother so he could attend La Masia, and I went with my mom back to her home in Brazil, in the city of São Paulo. Every summer I would go and visit them back in Barcelona for several months before returning home. Of course, summer in Brazil was winter there, so I really only got to spend time with them over Christmas break.

I was at the airport, waiting for my flight to board. With me were my mom and one of my best friends, Neymar. Not many people would think that someone like me would like the rather arrogant footballer, but he was one of the first people I met upon moving, and we were friends ever since, despite me being several years his senior.

He wore a hat, trying to disguise his identity, and so far it had worked.

“Are you sure you have to go?” he asked, pouting slightly. “Very mature,” I replied with a sad smile, “but yeah.” “You don’t have to be a model. You can just live with me,” he pushed.

I laughed, “I’m sure your girlfriend would love that.” He shrugged dismissively.

“I swear Laia, don’t fall in love with a Spanish boy, because then I bet you’ll never come home. Oh, and say hi to your brother and Dani for me,” he added. I shook my head, “Of course, Neymar. Besides, I’m going for my career, not a boyfriend.”

“Flight 1332 now boarding,” the feminine electronic voice called from the speakers. “That’s me,” I said, grabbing the handle of my carryon bag. “Come back soon,” my mom said, pulling me into a tight hug. “Yeah,” Neymar echoed, hugging me as well. “You know I can’t stay away,” I smiled, trying not to cry. And with that, I boarded the plane, trying my hardest not to cry. I had to remember that this was a new start.




I knew that my parents didn’t understand why I was going, why I was all but tossing aside my college degree, and going to a foreign country. But they also didn’t understand my passion.

I only had television to blame.

I had tried so hard to talk myself out of culinary arts, and had almost succeeded by graduating college with bachelor’s in business, but it had been too hard to just let go. I had always dreamed of Paris, cooking in the romantic French city at Le Cordon Bleu. I also imagined cooking in a rustic kitchen in Sicily, the Mediterranean breeze blowing in the open window.

But I had fallen in love with Catalunya, and my destination was none other than Barcelona. Why? Well, blame a combination of House Hunters International and No Reservations.

It wasn’t my first time abroad. During college I studied abroad in Rio de Janeiro to get in touch with my roots. I was born in the Brazilian city, but was put up for adoption as a baby. I never knew my birth parents, but never went looking for them either. My parents, Abel and Amélie, were my parents in heart and soul, if not blood.

We had already said our farewells, and I was sitting on the plane, thousands of feet in the air. I relaxed to the upbeat yet soothing music of Juanes, trying to forget my fear of flying.

I was excited to get to the airport in Barcelona, and then to the small apartment I would be renting with several other students from the culinary school, Coquus Escuela de Cocina. There would be three of us in the decent apartment right by the street called La Rambla, on which the school was located.

I sighed, and closed my eyes, eventually dozing off.



The Barcelona airport was bustling as normal, many people there solely for the purpose of spotting celebrities, or in the case of Catalonian capital in particular, the spotting of Barça players.

With her luggage in tow, she headed toward the greeting area, looking amongst the crowd, trying to find her dad. At last she spotted him, standing in the rear of the crowd, and managed to weave her way through the crowd. Lingering behind her was her younger brother, who was trying his hardest to remain inconspicuous.

“Laia,” her dad exclaimed, pulling her into a tight hug, “You’ve grown up so beautifully!”

I blushed slightly, “Gràcies, papa.”

Her father, Ignasi Roberto, was an unsuccessful footballer turned businessman, working in a high position in a company that did merchandising for the greater Catalunya area, such as commercials and print ads. He was in his forties, and had dark hair, the typical brown Spaniard eyes, and a tan complexion. He stood rather tall for most of the nationality at 5’11”.

My brother stood an inch shorter, and had a mop of curly brown hair. We shared the same green-grey eyes and fair complexion. And unlike our dad, he was a successful footballer playing for Barça B.

We left the airport, heading back home. Dad owned two properties, one in the center of Barcelona, the other up on Montjuic. He left the one in town to Sergi and I most of the time, preferring the peace of the city’s outer limits. Once I was settled in, we all went out to dinner in town. I was excited to hear how my brother was doing at football, and both he and dad were all too proud to tell me.



After a hectic time trying to find my way around the airport, and trying to tell a cab driver who only spoke Catalan where to go, I finally reached the apartment that I would call home for the next few years, provided everything worked out.

It was a three bedroom, one bath place on the second floor of a split level house that had been converted into apartments. I hauled my heavy suitcase up the narrow, steep steps, and was relieved when someone opened the door for me. A girl, around my age, smiled brightly at me. “You must be Luciana,” she said, holding out her hand. I briefly let go of my suitcase to shake hands with her. “I’m Aisha,” the Arab girl introduced happily.

The third roommate was in the living room, already putting up some personal touches. “Luciana, it’s nice to meet you!” she said, practically flying across the room, “I’m Vera!” Instead of a handshake, she pulled me into a vice-like hug, spinning me around several times for good measure.

Once I was back on the ground, we all recommenced unpacking, and making the place our own.

We were all different people, from different places, but we were brought together my several fundamental things. First was that we all spoke English. Aisha also spoke Arabic and Farsi, I spoke French and Spanish, and Vera spoke Portuguese and Chinese. English, however, tied us all together. Another commonality was our passion for food, whether it was traditional culinary arts or baking, we all shared a love and appreciation.

Not even religious differences seemed to matter. We were all different – Islamic for Aisha, agnostic for Vera, and I had been raised Roman Catholic.

Within several hours the previously bare apartment was decorated with pictures from home, posters of our interests, and anything else that we were fond of. I had a feeling the next few years were going to be good. I was excited to go to class, and start preparing for my future.