Nangan: A Place of Memories

 I remember asking my grandmother once why we had to repaint the grills of the windows in our old rest house every summer. She told me, as if it were the simplest thing in the world, “Because we live in front of the ocean. The salt in the air makes them rust.”

And every summer, we painted them again.

The house was already old then. Almost a maybe a hundred years old, perhaps even older. It belonged to my grandparents, a Spanish-style house with big rooms, high ceilings, and big, wide windows that seemed to invite the entire outside world in. There was nothing modern about it. Nothing polished or luxurious. But in my memories, it was beautiful.

The house stood surrounded by trees, mostly coconut trees that swayed whenever the wind came in from the sea. And at night, we kept the windows open, letting the cool ocean breeze drift quietly through the house. I remember lying there and feeling the cold breeze enter through those enormous windows, the same windows whose grills we repainted every summer. Outside, I could hear the endless sounds of insects filling the night. Sometimes, there were so many fireflies that they seemed like tiny stars floating among the trees.

And above them were the real stars, so many stars.The kind of sky you don't really notice as a child because you assume it will always be there.

Life in Nangan was simple.

Our days were spent by the ocean. We would swim for hours, and when the tide went out, we wandered among the exposed corals looking for tiny fish and collecting shells. Sometimes we rode a little pump boat with the local fishermen, the water stretching endlessly around us. Other days, we simply walked into the backyard and picked whatever fruit was ready from the trees. There was fresh water from the pump. Vegetables from the garden. Fruit from the backyard. Seafood caught from the ocean in front of us.

And somehow, I never understood how rich we were.

I remember dreading the evenings when the cows would gather in front of the house. As a little girl, I was terrified of them. They seemed enormous to me, these dark figures appearing as the daylight disappeared. I would keep my distance, convinced they might suddenly chase me.

They never did. They were gentle creatures.

It makes me smile now, remembering how frightened I was of something so peaceful.

That was what my childhood summers looked like.

Going to my grandparents' farm. Running around an old house. Swimming in the sea. Picking fruit. Watching fireflies. Being afraid of cows. Falling asleep to the sounds of insects and the ocean. It wasn't extravagant.

There were no flights across continents, no beautiful hotels, no carefully planned itineraries. I have travelled far since then. I have seen places I once could only imagine existed.

And yet, sometimes, my heart travels backward. Back to Nangan.

I would be lying if I said I didn't take those summers for granted. I did. I was a child. I didn't know that one day I would grow up and understand that some of the greatest luxuries in life are the things that cost almost nothing.

A quiet afternoon beside the ocean. Cold water drawn from a pump. A mango or coconut picked from a tree. Fresh fish from the sea. A house full of family. Windows left open to the night. Fireflies dancing outside. Stars bright enough to make you stop and stare.

I didn't know then that this was the good life. Perhaps that's the strange thing about childhood: while you're living it, everything feels ordinary. You don't realize you are standing inside a memory you will spend the rest of your life trying to return to.

One day, the people will grow older. The children will leave. Houses will change. Trees will fall and new ones will grow. The grills will rust again and again from the salt carried by the ocean breeze.

And eventually, there may be no one left repainting them every summer.

But somewhere inside me, that house remains exactly as it was...The windows are still open. The coconut trees are still moving with the wind. The insects are singing outside. The fireflies are still glowing among the trees. My grandma is still there, happy and healthy, surrounded by my cousins, aunts, and uncles. And somehow, in my memories, I am still that little girl who doesn’t yet know just how lucky she is.

Oh, how I miss those days. And how grateful I am that I had them at all.

My life today may look very different from the life I knew in Nangan. I have gone farther than that little girl could have imagined. But perhaps everything I have become began in places like that old house, in the love of the people who raised me, in the simplicity they gave me, and especially in the life my mother made possible for me.

My life now is an extension of my mother's love.

And no matter how far I travel, there will always be a part of me sitting quietly by that ocean, beneath the coconut trees, listening to the night come alive.

There will always be a part of me in Nangan.

A place I once thought was simply home.

A place I now understand was a gift.

A place of memories.

Written with love and longing,

Lesley Nademi née Echevarria Yrasuegui

Nangan, A Place of Memories

August 14, 2026