I'm known as the quiet one. The one with a mask of indifference on my face. A man unbothered. Or so I thought until today.

While I struggle with the zip of my suitcase swearing impatiently I can hear the aggravated voice of my mother somewhere in the house. It's directed at my dad, it seems he forgot to pick something up from the dry cleaner's. Not a minute passes and my sister enters my room, hurriedly typing on her phone as the steam practically comes out of her ears.

"Uber will be here in five minutes. Those two are driving me insane and you're not even dressed, Jordan. Why are you guys doing this to me!?"

I stop what I'm doing and remain silent while I stare at her, hopeful that our sibling telepathy finally works so I don't have to say what I actually think about changing. Then I examine my comfy joggers and an oversized t-shirt.

"I'm dressed," I deadpan.

"You're not wearing that to meet the Silva!" Her exasperated tone became so familiar to me in the past few weeks so I roll my eyes at her, trying to ignore as she goes on and on about the importance of leaving the best possible impression on her fiance Marc Silva and his family.

There's nothing bad I can say about my future brother-in-law. In all honesty, I think highly of the guy that achieved so much, so young. His position as general manager in one of the big corporate firms in London is something admirable, but more than that, just the manner in which he treats my older sister is why I respect him more.

Their relationship is possibly one of the most cliché stories—Sonya was the secretary in his firm, Marc was her boss, an attractive bachelor with a Spanish accent and a suit that costs more than her monthly wages. None of it mattered—different social status, different nationality, different backgrounds or the gossip circulating around them - they were crazy about each other and after a year of dating, he proposed to her. And that's how I ended up in all this drama of packing a suitcase and worrying if my socks matched.

From as early as I could remember Sonya and I were inseparable. Even though she's six years older than me, I always felt that she was my best friend more than a sister. We always supported each other and I couldn't be happier for her but the fact that her boyfriend is Spanish and they chose to get married in his country is driving me insane. The furthest I ever traveled in my eighteen years was Belfast in Northern Ireland which doesn't really count if you live in England. I've never been on a plane. I hate big weddings. I don't speak Spanish. The only place I'm comfortable in is the neighbourhood I grew up in London. Wet pavement, red brick buildings, a small group of people with skin colour similar to mine, and my everyday training at the local football club. It's fair to say that I don't particularly enjoy getting out of my comfort zone so this little weekend trip to the coast of Spain is not something I am looking forward to.

I have no choice but to go.

The Silva's are a large family apparently, one of those loud and lively, with blatantly nosy but good-natured relatives that never leave. And they are going all out with this wedding, Marc being the oldest of the children and first to get married.

"At least wear some jeans, love, please, we're not going on one of your football games."

"You should be happy I'm wearing a suit to your wedding, don't push it. I'm comfortable in my sweats. "

She smacks my shoulder, smiling reluctantly as I stick my tongue at her but I oblige and go to my wardrobe to change into some jeans. She blows me a kiss and turns around marching out of the room as a car horn can be heard from the front of our humble home that sits in a row of similar houses. The Uber is here to pick us up and take us to the Heathrow airport.

The fact that my mum is Jamaican and grew up on that lovely, warm island should maybe be an indication that I would genetically inherit love of summers or beaches or hot weather. But dark grey storm clouds that hang low, often unleashing rain, stubborn and broody as my mood is what I prefer and England is perfect for that. So when the hot, humid air of Valencia hits me as I exit through the sliding door of the airport building I instantly hate it. The temperature according to my weather app is lower than it actually feels and it feels like someone is aiming a blow dryer at my face.

I sigh in relief when the cool air-conditioned air hits me as I enter Marc's car. As we drive through this city that I didn't even bother to look up on Google I see streets bustling with people, tall palm trees and vast green parks, old, historical buildings mixed with newly constructed extravagant architecture. I'm actually impressed. I was never much into traveling but something about this city piques my interest, even observing through a moving car.

Marc's house is actually something that I should rather call a villa. Or a mansion. It even has its own private beach. And a pool. There are multiple cars in the driveway, and the two-storey house is surrounded by tall trees and beautiful green hedges and flower bushes that smell like nothing I ever smelt in my dirty, wet, concrete London neighbourhood before. A breeze whistles through the palm trees, drawing me in with the promise of something mysterious, like there's a secret yet to be discovered.

As my family and I walk through the door I welcome the cooler air, but the interior is still leaving me breathless. It's spacious and wide, with tall ceilings and bright colours on the walls. Furniture looks comfortable and inviting, vases with stunning flowers on tables and framed pictures of smiling faces are on every counter and even though it all definitely looks expensive there's warmth and I feel welcomed. I stand in the middle of the room and stare in awe as I wipe the sweat off my upper lip. I'm proud of where I come from, always have been but for the first time in my life, I wish I had something nice and pretty like this.

"Hey, Jordan, come through, I'll get your bag later and take it to your room," Marc urges me through the long corridor into the large sitting area and my parents follow. Wearing big, wide smiles, Marc's parents welcome us to their home and with their poor English and our poor Spanish we manage to understand each other.

There's something special about this house—the energy I feel as I observe and listen, the vibe of people that are constantly buzzing around, walking in and out of the rooms, speaking loudly like they're arguing but actually that's just how they talk. There is always someone running around to offer me a refreshing, cold lemonade or tasty small bites of food they call tapas. I meet a bunch of young cousins that run around stopping to show me their toys and uncles that ask me about my football career because Spain has some of the best football clubs in the world. Aunts shamelessly pinch my cheeks and call me guapo which I don't know what means but I just smile and nod anyway.

And then a beautiful girl passes by—she's talking on her phone, air pods in her ears, long, chocolate brown hair falling down her shoulders in waves. She looks at me across the room and smiles, her eyes are stunning, golden brown and wild but she doesn't introduce herself just disappears somewhere into the house, in her barely-there tennis skirt and crop top. I wonder if it's one of Marc's sisters. Apparently, there are five of them as Marc said earlier and we should meet them all at a big family dinner this afternoon.

All of a sudden I can't wait.