During the Covid years I could not travel. Borders and rules and circumstances stood in the way, and the string between me and Sweden felt suddenly and violently cut. At times I wondered if I had made the wrong decision to leave. Regret seeped in. I felt imprisoned by the choices of my past, trapped in a story I had written for myself but could not rewrite.

When I finally went back, it was as though I saw Sweden for the first time. Family close by. Familiar open landscapes and tree lined avenues. The relief of being in the place where I was born. After the long absence I was full of awe and gratitude, and in 2024 I spent the whole summer there. I promised myself I would return again the next year, to repeat that magic.

The absence of midsummer, Christmas and birthdays in Sweden had always left me with a quiet ache. In Spain it was different. Not wrong, not bad, only different. Over the years I began shaping my own rituals. New traditions for me and the children. Sometimes for myself alone. They were meaningful, yet always with a trace of sadness beneath them.

This summer unfolded in another way. The plans I had made dissolved, and I was faced with difficult decisions. It became clear that what we all wanted most was to return to Spain. To go home.

That realisation surprised me. Home was no longer Sweden. Somewhere along the years, Spain had taken that place.

My children were born here. Spanish is their strongest language out of the five they are learning to navigate. They move through this culture with ease. Their roots are here, even if they carry others within them.

And perhaps my roots have sunk in as well.

When we returned I felt it at once. We spent two weeks in Barcelona before coming back to Ibiza, which was wonderful, but the feeling of landing on our island was unmatched. I knew then that this is where we belong.

Ibiza was never part of my plan. I thought it would be temporary. Life chose differently, and showed me that what we do not plan can sometimes hold more truth than what we do.

This evening I walk the dogs beneath the late August sun. The figs are ripening and their sweetness perfumes the air. Dust from the camino decorates my feet. I stop to look at the small purple grapes, the same ones I saw in 2013, in 2015, in 2017. I look at the fields where my children have grown from babies to toddlers to pre-teens. I listen to the roosters, the dogs, the crickets, all speaking the language of the land we have known for so long.

We swim in the sea, the one people dream of all year. The water is clear and sparkling, the salt drying on my skin like a salty gift. My body soaks in the sunlight with pure pleasure.

I speak with the other parents when I drop off or pick up my kids. Parents I have known for nearly a decade now. My community. Some are born here, their families woven into the island for generations. My children speak with them in their language – Catalan – a language I don’t speak, only understand (enough to help them with homework!)
We share stories while the kids run across the football field at night, the sky lit by the perfect half moon, the smoke of the BBQ painting a big cloud over the running kids. Everything alive. Everything vibrant.

This place, the one I once resisted, has claimed me. I have struggled here. I have known hard years here. But no other place offers me this kind of support. I know the pomegranate trees. I photograph the UNESCO World Heritage walls of Dalt Vila with equal amounts of passion every time. I find inspiration in the trunks of the fig trees and the stone walls. Slowly, quietly, Ibiza became part of me.

I built a home here with my own hands, and with my children by my side, holding those hands. The three of us, we did this. We made this happen.

We belong now. Perhaps not fully, perhaps never entirely, but enough. The history of Ibiza is filled with outsiders and arrivals and departures. It has always been this way. Even the Ibicencos we know have somehow made room for us. We might have been invaders, but invaders eventually become part of the history.

So I find myself in a home I never planned. A home without obligations or traditions I did not choose. A home where I am free. Free to decide if I go to Sweden for Christmas or not. Free to accept an invitation or stay alone. Free to shape my own life.

I have my beaches, my restaurant, my people. My rhythms and my habits. I know where to go, what I love, what I seek. I built a business here out of nothing, out of the emptiness that Covid left me with, and it flourishes.

What a gift this is.

I am home.

Love,
Linda

PS. As I’m a wanderer and a traveller and a lover of the world and all its cultures, foods and colours, I reserve the right to change my mind, but not only that, to also love other places, soon, or in the future, or in my dreams. I will forever commit adultery towards any place on this planet, no matter how much I feel at home in it.

PPS. Some photos I took in 2012, the year I moved here.

The post The home I never expected: Ibiza appeared first on Aprilstudios.

Linda Karlsson paused her dream of working as a photographer when she met the father of her children, and instead switched to apartment rentals in Ibiza. Now she is separated and has picked up her career again – but lives with the downsides of tourism.
“I could write an entire book about it,” she says.

Linda Karlsson is from Norra Fäladen in Lund and now lives in Ibiza with her two sons.

A first step abroad

After high school, like many young people, Linda was eager to get out into the world. The opportunity appeared in the staff room at the home care service in the late 1990s, when she spotted an ad from a family in Skanör looking for an au pair in Alicante.

“From the staff room, I called and said that I was applying for the job.”

That became the first of many journeys, and the beginning of a life abroad, guided by her heart and sense of adventure.

On her first trip to Asia, here at the northernmost tip of Indonesia (Pulau Weh, Aceh) in 2001

From cleaning hotels to studying philosophy

After Alicante, she worked as a hotel cleaner in Mallorca.

“Then it became more advanced. I started going on long trips in Southeast Asia and Africa. And I kept doing that until I began studying.”

Inspired by her travels, she enrolled in a bachelor’s program in religion and philosophy in London. Her parents back home in Lund doubted the career opportunities.

“Well, you don’t really become anything. But it was truly right for me. It was absolutely fantastic.”

After a long stay in Mexico, a thirty-year crisis set in – which led her to rent an apartment in Möllan, Malmö. Rich in travel and life lessons but unsure of her direction, she decided to give Sweden an honest chance. Yet restlessness soon crept back in.

Choosing photojournalism

“It felt like all doors in Sweden were just closing for me, that everything was impossible and complicated. And I missed life and movement, colors, a bit more chaos in some way.

I thought then that I love taking photos, writing, and traveling. So I could become a photojournalist.”

Linda during her photojournalism studies, here pictured on a mission in Raval

She once again waved goodbye to Sweden. After a one-year master’s degree in photojournalism in Barcelona, she began freelancing for Swedish media. Assignments kept coming, and she was published in several newspapers.

Love and a new life in Ibiza

Then Linda fell in love with the father of her future children.

“And life took a completely different turn.”

Suddenly she found herself in Ibiza, in love and expecting a child. Together they rented a house and sublet it to tourists.

“So I became a mother and a ‘business owner’ in Ibiza. I completely stopped photographing and writing and all the things I love to do.”

The business went well. They hosted groups and arranged yoga retreats. But after a few years, the glamour wore off.

The downside of tourism

She grew tired of catering to demanding tourists, the couple separated, and then the pandemic struck.

Linda found herself a single mother of two, and suddenly on the other side of the rental market.

“I could write an entire book about that.”

She saw the harsh reality faced by locals: homeowners renting only to tourists in summer at outrageous prices. Police officers, nurses, and doctors sleeping in their cars. Many left homeless.

Here Linda stands at the top of Dalt Vila, her favourite place on the island, a UNESCO world heritage site filled with historical magic

“I realized how incredibly difficult it is as a single parent to afford rent, which had already risen a great deal by then. I am ashamed of what we did. But I didn’t know that this was the other side of the coin.”

Rebuilding a career

Today, Linda and her sons live in a one-room apartment in Ibiza between September and June. In July and August, the landlord rents the flat to tourists, and the family stays in Sweden.

“The way we have it now is actually pretty ideal,” she says. They’ve been lucky to have a place to return to, and time with the boys’ grandparents in Sweden. Still, she admits:
“I wouldn’t have chosen Ibiza again, precisely because of the housing problems and the fact that it’s a party island.”

The winters, however, are beautiful and harmonious.

Even though life after the separation has been tough, she has had the chance to return to the career she began in Barcelona nearly fifteen years ago. She now manages social media for hotels, restaurants, and authors – photographing, filming, and helping them spread their message.

“It’s a really fun job, and very creative.”

When her children are grown, she dreams of leaving Ibiza behind.

Linda in Naples, June 2025

“Italy is probably the country I’ve fallen in love with the most during all my travels,” Linda Karlsson says.

The post Linda Karlsson: From Lund to Ibiza, with a camera and a story appeared first on Aprilstudios.

This year, I’ve had the pleasure of working with Silvia on three separate shoots for The Muse Experience, her popular women’s retreats. From what I’ve witnessed behind the lens, her participants go through something truly powerful; a journey that’s both intense and deeply moving.

One of the standout moments of Silvia’s retreats is the visit to Las Puertas de Can Soleil, located on the private grounds of Guy Laliberté, the founder of Cirque du Soleil. It’s here that Silvia guides the group through a symbolic passage: walking through a series of sculptural doors to represent shedding old layers and stepping into a renewed self. It’s a visually stunning ritual filled with rose petals, music, and raw emotion.

With hundreds of new photos and video clips, Silvia is now beautifully equipped to promote her upcoming spring and autumn retreats, and share the magic of The Muse Experience with a wider audience.

The post Retreats in Ibiza appeared first on Aprilstudios.

She teases, with a cigarette between her fingers and a slow stretch into the afternoon. She yawns her way into the day long after most capital cities have already rushed through theirs. And somehow, despite my many returns, I never get enough time with her.

Each visit has been short, interrupted, fleeting; and yet each time, she leaves an impression. I’ve wandered her streets in very different lifetimes, always finding myself somewhere between the rhythm of her footsteps and the glow of her impossible light. This is a love letter to those first five visits, puzzle pieces that didn’t seem to fit together at the time, and to the many that have followed. Quicker and quicker, as life has grown fuller.

The first time I met Madrid, I was twenty-one, wide-eyed and curious, with two friends and a cheap hostel in the heart of barrio Santa Ana. It was winter, and the air was crisp with possibility. We stayed up late. Very late. Drinking vodka and chasing the thrum of nightlife, only to fall into dark bars with bad paella and hangovers that stretched into the cold mornings. It was all surface; loud and a little lost, but it was enough to mark the beginning. Madrid as mystery.

The second time, I was twenty-three, stopping overnight en route to Cádiz, where I’d be studying Spanish. Another low-cost room near Puerta del Sol, another late-night beer, another early morning at Atocha. This time, I was more certain of myself, already used to feeling far from home. I didn’t yet know that I was becoming a traveller by soul definition, but that truth was rising inside me, unprompted, like a compass I didn’t have to learn to use.

The third time, the city was quiet. It was the cooling-off of a passion that had once burned red hot in southern Italy. We arrived in silence, knowing we were ending something. He had studied fine art in Madrid, so he showed me the intellectual barrios: Lavapiés, La Latina, El Barrio de las Letras. While he went to work at a gallery, I wandered the museums. I stood in front of Guernica for what felt like hours, frozen. In that hotel room, wrapped in sheets and sadness, we slept more than we spoke. I cried in the grog green bathtub. We both knew it wouldn’t work, but we didn’t want to let go. I left the city with a heart cracked open; Madrid as melancholy.

My fourth time was as a new mother, visiting the Swedish Embassy to get a passport for my eight-week-old son. It was just the two of us, staying in a hotel near Chamartín, trying to figure out how to shower, how to eat, how to breathe between feeds. I breastfed on a bench in El Retiro, ate Thai takeaway I pretended was for a husband who didn’t exist, and tried to map this new Madrid — upscale, sterile, unfamiliar, with a crying baby in my arms. It was overwhelming and beautiful, all at once. I wanted us to be independent, to trust each other from the start. And we did.

The fifth visit was in 2013. I returned with my son and my in-laws, staying near Lavapiés in a bright apartment with a view of white walls and one tiny window dressed in red flowers. Swallows flew across the courtyard with the sound of early summer, and the whole trip felt like the soundtrack of a movie I couldn’t name, but deeply loved. We connected the dots: Chamartín, El Retiro, La Latina — all close, after all. The puzzle pieces from past visits began to form a map. We went to see Guernica again. My son was unimpressed; his grandparents, more so. We ate Peruvian ceviche, we saw flamenco, and I walked my memory lanes with everyone in tow. The city I thought I didn’t understand started to open herself to me. Madrid as realisation.

And then came the years of shorter, in-and-out trips. Always too brief. Passport renewals. Quick stopovers. Visits with children that never felt long enough to fully savour anything. Madrid became the background for errands, for logistics, for motherhood in motion. But even in the rush, she kept whispering: stay longer.

Like that time when I went with Pi for 24 hours. He was four, I think. We stayed at the spectacular ME Madrid Reina Victoria, went for the best date at the tiniest Vietnamese restaurant, and bought toys at El Corte Inglés. And another time, just before Christmas, I returned with both kids, and oh wow, the Christmas lights! Is there anything brighter than the centre of Madrid in December? I think they actually go a bit over the top, but then again, Madrid nightlife is Madrid nightlife. We went to Parque Warner, and I think I was the one who had the most fun. I took a wild ride on the Superman, flying with my feet dangling 55 metres in the air at 100 km/h, crying with happiness and freedom, while my kids cried with pure jealousy for being too short to ride.

Most recently, I landed with just enough time to go straight to the Embassy and then straight to Silvia, a dear friend since 2019, who knows exactly where to take me. Her neighbourhood, Ibiza — not the island, but the Madrid barrio right next to El Retiro — is a well-kept secret. Not many tourists venture there, which makes it even more special. It’s home to some of the best bars and restaurants in the city. I now have an insider friend in my Madrid world.

I’d always thought lunch in Madrid starts at 13:30, no exceptions. But I’ve since learned the secrets: the early vermut bars that open their doors for the in-between hours. The places you go for aperitivo before your real lunch. We shared small plates and laughter, and I realised that, like every good love affair, Madrid rewards those who return with more patience and deeper knowledge.

I still don’t know Madrid fully. But that’s the point. She remains a mystery, unfolding slowly, never rushed. She’s not a city for 24-hour hits like New York or London. She’s a place for long nights, slow mornings, hearts that are willing to wait. A city that doesn’t push herself on you, but invites you to look closer, stay longer, return again.

I always do.

Te quiero.
L 🫶

The post Love letter to Madrid appeared first on Aprilstudios.

We had no clear plan—which, to be honest, is something I absolutely love. There’s a special kind of creativity that emerges when you simply go with the flow. Seeking out beauty spontaneously, matching it with my client’s energy… that’s pure magic to me.

We began in La Marina, the charming neighbourhood of Ibiza Town that comes alive in the summer with its vibrant mix of restaurants, bars, and stylish shops. As it’s currently Semana Santa, the area had just reopened for the season, and the barrio was absolutely buzzing with life.

One of our stops was a relatively new spot called Casa Flow—a stunning place with an equally beautiful concept. Their philosophy reads:

“We encourage you to pause your busy schedule and open yourself to the flow of life. Surrender to the gifts that each moment brings, and fully immerse yourself in the beauty, richness, and joy that is here at every passing moment.”

We were invited upstairs to their incredible “Living Room,” a light-filled space with soaring ceilings and a design that felt inspired by South America (with a hint of Tulum vibes). The food smelled divine—I’ll definitely have to go back and try it properly.

From there, we wandered over to Dalt Vila. Entering through Es Portal de ses Taules, the ancient gateway, I was struck by how lively everything felt. The winter had been long, quiet, and beautiful. We’d grown used to the calm… and suddenly, it’s like Ibiza has woken up all at once.

We took some shots right inside the gate—a pocket of history so well preserved—and then made our way up to where the old cannons rest, overlooking the city. The sunset views from there, with the mountains in the distance, are unforgettable. I even caught a glimpse of Sa Penya, that mysterious, forbidden neighbourhood I love so much.

Yesterday, I delivered all the content to Taya—about 150 photos and 25 videos. She’ll be passing everything on to her social media manager, who’ll weave it all into content for her Instagram and LinkedIn.

The post First Dalt Vila content shoot of the season appeared first on Aprilstudios.

I’ve gotten used to always checking what country someone is from when they say, “Let’s talk/meet/connect at lunchtime” — because lunch is not the same in Spain as it is in many other places.

In Spain, lunch is more of a process than an event. It’s not like in other parts of Europe, where you might take a quick 30-minute break to grab something to eat before getting back to your desk.

I grew up in Sweden, where lunch is usually between 12:00 and 13:00 — often less. In other Northern and Western European countries, it’s similar. Italy pushes it a little later, typically around 13:00. But in Spain, lunch starts at 14:00 and often stretches until around 17:00.

Also, “lunch” in Spanish isn’t “lunch” — it’s la comida, or the verb comer. People often say la hora de comer (literally “the hour of eating”) to refer to this mid-afternoon window from around 14:00 to 17:00. That slot used to be called la siesta, but as Spanish society has modernised — and many regions neither take siestas nor experience the kind of heat that once required them — the term doesn’t always apply anymore.

Now, it’s not that Spanish people literally eat for three hours straight. No. Around 14:00, you pick up your kids or leave the office. You go home and start cooking. While the food’s on, you might hang the laundry, do some other housework, have the TV on in the background. Then you eat together. After the meal, there’s usually dessert. And then maybe a moment to relax on the sofa, do the dishes, have a coffee or tea, and ease into la tarde — the “afternoon” that begins around 17:00 and runs until 20:00 or 21:00.

If you work in an office or more corporate environment, lunch might mean heading to a restaurant with colleagues for a menú del día — a three-course meal with drinks (often including a beer or a glass of wine). And yes, followed by coffee. This kind of lunch break usually lasts around two hours.

When my kids first started infantil (preschool) in the public school system, they finished at 14:00. I was almost hysterical. How could they go that many hours without food? It felt torturous — for them and for me. I always carried cooked food to immediately stick into their mouths the moment they stepped out of the school gates. I even asked to meet with the teacher to express my concern. Her response?

“It’s not late. It’s normal lunch time.”

And that kind of set it straight for me. What’s normal for her, isn’t normal for me. What’s normal for me, isn’t normal for her. I’m the immigrant. I have to adjust. My kids were born here. So — deal with it.

It took me another three or four years to really, deeply accept this rhythm. But once my kids started growing up, going to after-school activities, and hanging out with their friends, I gradually synced with the Spanish lunchtime. They still finish school at 14:00, and we drive home. I only start cooking around 14:30. We usually eat at 15:00, then have something sweet, and I make a green tea around 16:00. Sometimes I even squeeze in a 15-minute nap while the kids get ready for judo or football, often with Doraemon on in the background.

These days, I often practise intermittent fasting, so my first meal is at 15:00, and dinner is around 21:00. This rhythm feels completely normal to me now. I look back at those early years — being a foreign mother trying to integrate into Spanish culture — with real fondness. There was no way I could have not adapted. If you choose to stay outside of the culture you live in, how will you ever truly understand it?

I used to think the long mid-day gap was annoying — it felt like it interrupted my productivity and my ability to fully relax. But now, I don’t find it frustrating. I just accept it as part of my current life. And if one day I live in another culture, I’ll gladly adjust again, just to experience that rhythm too. What I love most about life is learning new ways of doing things — and even more so, the process of un-learning what I thought I knew.

In my work and daily life, I meet people from all over the world. So when a client says, “Let’s check in at lunch time” — I always pause and ask myself: “Whose lunchtime?” And then, once I’ve figured that out — yes. Perfect. Let’s check in at lunchtime.

The post Lunch is not lunch in Spain. It’s much, much more appeared first on Aprilstudios.

When her friend Africa was studying at the university in Sevilla, she was absolutely crazy about the fragrance of the Azahar (the orange blossom) that enveloped the city—well known for being lined with orange trees in the middle of the city and all around it.
She was so in love with it that, for her friends, she became the signature of the Azahar exploding—so much so that now, every year, many years later, her friend calls her, emails her, or sends her messages (whatever is pertinent to the times) and lets her know:
“El Azahar ha explotado.”

It was on Wednesday this week that I took my children to have lunch at El Oli, a really buzzing, family-friendly, open and friendly place in Puig d’en Valls with views of Dalt Vila. It has indoor seating, a covered terrace, a sunny terrace, and a great laid-back menu that includes many gluten-free options, as this is their specialty. This means I can indulge in a proper burger WITH BREAD, as well as a SANDWICH with bread and even CHEESECAKE. It’s not often I have that option here in Spain, which is still not so adjusted to those who can’t have gluten.

When we had ordered, we sat and spoke, and suddenly the scent hit me. I stopped mid-sentence and stood up to follow the trail of intoxication. It led me outside to their back patio, where, in the corner, stood a proudly blossoming orange tree, oozing with fragrance, and I landed in a kind of heaven.

As I know Silvia loves smells, I made her a video. Since she knows Africa loves the Azahar, she re-sent the video to her. And then she told me the story of the yearly messages saying “El Azahar ha explotado.” And now, that story makes me smile.

It’s a show-stopping smell—it literally stops you in your tracks and makes you inhale, slowly. How beautiful is that?

The photos are from a quick shoot for my client Celia yesterday. We needed some fresh shots for her soon-to-launch social media (and business launch, too! So exciting—we’ve worked really hard since December on bringing her vision to life).

Spring has really exploded here in Spain. The colours are almost blinding, and it’s so, so beautiful.

The post The Azahar has exploded appeared first on Aprilstudios.

The Spanish nights are something else. Whether you’ve lived here or only passed through, you’ve surely felt their pulse; the way they stretch time, bend reality, and wrap you in their sultry embrace.

Spain doesn’t settle with the sun. As the heat lingers long after dusk, life stirs again, growing wilder as the night deepens. The later it is, the more alive the streets become. In the height of summer, time loses its grip entirely.

I was 20 when I first moved to Spain. My initiation into its nocturnal heartbeat happened in Alicante, in the labyrinthine alleys of El Barrio. Back then, The Barrio was something of a legend, and in my memory, it remains just that… mythical, untamed, intoxicating. Nights began at one in the morning, drifting through laughter-filled bars and whispered secrets in darkened corners. They ended long after sunrise, first at the port, then dissolving into the waves of the town beach.

The nights, though… let me stay with them a little longer.

Mysterious, balmy, humming with cicadas and music. The scent of damp stone, jasmine, and something musky in the air. Cockroaches darting underfoot, the hum of a hundred conversations blending into a singular rhythm. Under the glow of old lanterns, bodies move — sweaty, alive, timeless. Vodka trickles like fire through the veins. The ancient church walls stand witness to a thousand whispered confessions, fleeting kisses, and laughter rising into the night sky.

Years have passed, and the nights have shifted for me. Now, here in Ibiza, they are something else entirely. As a mother of two, my nights rarely stretch past nine, surrendering instead to the quiet magic of dawn. But the love affair is still there, hidden in the folds of the summer air.

Ibiza’s nights are fragrant and thick, a warm embrace, a lullaby sung in the hush of waves and the flicker of candlelit dinners. And when I do step into the night, it is in Dalt Vila, the ancient, fortified heart of the island. She perches above the town like a queen of stone, whispering centuries of secrets to those who wander her narrow alleys. I adore her, am utterly spellbound by her.

Beneath her towering arches and weathered walls, stories unfold in the amber glow of street lamps. Dinners stretch long past midnight, where wine flows, laughter spills, and time melts between tables and passing strangers. The night carries these moments, weaving them into the fabric of history, to be whispered back to those who will listen.

Spanish nights; alive, breathing, waiting.
And if you let them, they will fold you into their spell, never quite letting you go.

   . 

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