*Written 4/4/25
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God forbid: If I died right now, in the middle of this essay (or sentence, for that matter), I’d be happy. Not that I want to die, of course, but what I mean is that I’d be dying doing something I love, in the midst of a passionate life; I’d be living my dream and I’d feel, if only for the moment, fulfilled.
This is because we finally did it: We actually left the United States and moved to Spain. Madrid.
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It was a mad rush of insanity the day we left for Spain. Only 6.5 months prior we’d left everything behind in Lompoc, north of Santa Barbara, to move to Portland, Oregon, where we’d bought a multi-unit after selling my house in the Bay Area. All of this—selling the house, purchasing the multi-unit—had been done in the service of moving to Spain. We needed the savings which the sale would provide us, and we needed the extra rental apartment and the lower property taxes that the place in Portland would offer. All of it so that we could live abroad and survive.
Britney—ever the worker bee—had been slowly selling and giving away all our possessions in the weeks leading up to the move. It has felt as if I am constantly on the move, basically, since 2019. That year I moved from the Bay Area, where I’d lived for a decade, to New York City. Due to my father’s terminal illness, I ended up leaving Manhattan after only 2.3 years in June, 2021. (Read my memoir about this here.) After New York, I was, for the first time in 20 years, briefly living with my parents again, at 39 years of age, caretaking for my dad alongside my mom in their home in Santa Barbara. Before Dad died I’d met and fallen in love with Britney. In January of that year I moved in with her at her home in Lompoc, an hour north of Santa Barbara.
Then we together, after 1.8 years in Lompoc, sold my Bay Area house (which had been rented out) and bought the multi-unit in Portland. We soon moved into the bottom unit. Britney was leaving her whole childhood and family behind. For probably a year-and-a-half we’d been discussing moving to Spain. First we’d decided on Chicago. (Rising crime stopped us.) After we got married and traveled to Morocco we considered living in Tangier. We both wanted to live abroad. We both had spent time in Spain and loved it, and Spain fit the bill as far as safety, weather, access to Europe and Africa, and cost of living. So that became the goal. After Portland, that is.
But at that point it was very theoretical. We had no idea what the process would actually be like. Let no one ever tell you that being a “white American” makes moving abroad easy. It does not. (Read about the process here.)
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The morning we woke up to leave “for Spain” (3/31/25) was actually to be a two-day drive with the cats and all our luggage plus extra stuff to be stored in my mom’s garage before spending the night in SB (me) and Lompoc (Britney). We’d meet 4/2 at my mom’s house and the three of us—me, Britney and my step-son—would drive the two-ish hours south to LAX and fly there because it was a non-stop 11 hour flight straight to Madrid. (With three cats we didn’t want to have to get off a plane and then get onto another. It was already going to be hard enough.)
That morning we worked from around 7am to 1pm. I moved our bed’s mattress and frame outside onto the porch for someone to come pickup. I drove three full SUV loads of stuff to Goodwill. Britney cleared more stuff out, handled the cats and organized our packs and put everything in separate piles: Stuff going to SB, stuff to get rid of, stuff going to Spain.
By 1pm we had the SUV fully loaded, the cats in the back (each in his own crate), and the apartment was completely empty. We were exhausted. We hit the road, Interstate 5.
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That night we stayed in the rough midpoint between Portland and SB/Lompoc: Redding. The Americana downtown. We stayed there on the drive up to Portland for the first time 6.5 months ago as well. Because of the small space and three cats—not to mention the excitement and anxiety—we slept very badly.
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I dropped Britney off at her mom and stepdad’s in Lompoc. I spent about an hour with them, then I headed down the familiar-yet-unfamiliar Highway 101 and 1 to Santa Barbara, the one hour drive (beautiful) I’d done for two years until we left for Portland.
~
The next morning Britney’s mom dropped off Britney and my step-son at my mom’s house. Chaos and chatter ensued, along with photos and the obligatory hugs and tears, and soon Britney, her son and I were on our way in our silver SUV rental to good ole LAX. The drive, surprising us, was not bad. Traffic was light. We first drove straight to the car rental place. Cleared the luggage out of the car, and the cats—literally everything we own in the world, minus a few thousand books in my mom’s musty stone-walled garage—snagged three metal airport carts, and carted the cats and our gear to the bus. We took the bus to Tom Bradley for international flights. Walked up to the counter for Iberia. (Almost no wait!) The lady who helped us spoke great English in a thick Spanish accent. She was very friendly. She made the process infinitely easier. She was very human with the whole process, especially the cats.
The cats and luggage (mostly the cats) took us probably 45 minutes or an hour at the counter. We had to show them our USDA-approved documents. We had to fill out sticker-forms for the cats with our info which would go on their crates. (They were going in the hold, fortunately and unfortunately. We’d done a lot of research and discovered that it was now generally very safe to do this. Animals were placed in a temperature-controlled area, etc.) The cats seemed really terrified. Of course they did. Britney and I felt anxious about them. Poor babies. Next we checked as many bags as we could and kept a few small carry-ons.
After this, we were led by a TSA agent to a different area, with the cats, and they did a more official check of the cats, testing for bomb dust and anything questionable. That took maybe half an hour. They were also very friendly. A very large Black man wearing blue latex gloves handled the crates so gently I almost kissed him.
They took the cats away—Britney sincerely asked the late twenties tattooed Latin guy to “baby talk” them and he promised he would—and then we waited briefly before getting on the plane. Our takeoff time was about 6pm and we’d arrived at 1:45 but by the time we returned the car and did everything we needed to do it was nearly time to board. (The moral of the story here is: Go early when moving abroad with animals.)
~
The flight was good. Well, mostly. The Iberia staff were quite friendly. There was a LOT of turbulence, really on and off throughout the whole flight. But I am more adjusted now in my life to flying. I used to hate it. I used to think we would crash for sure. Death always surged through my veins. When would it happen? But I was better now. We had three seats: Me, my step-son, and Britney. Perfect. And in the very very back. The seat in front of me was even empty. (Probably the only one.)
My OCD, however, due to general anxiety and fatigue, was horrific. Really, really bad. Non-stop. Incessant, looping, recursive thoughts that never end. Painful. I couldn’t focus. I couldn’t read. I was exhausted from the last 48 hours, but I couldn’t sleep, either. I took two sleeping pills. On and off, for little sniffs and snaffs of 15 minutes here, 35 minutes there, I spent the next 10 hours in a semi sleep, semi-awake daze-state. Britney and her son slept on and off, constantly awakened by the nagging push-pull turbulence. I often do not sleep on planes, even international flights. I didn’t sleep a wink when I flew from NYC to Berlin in 2017. (But I did when we flew to Morocco and Thailand in 2023/2024.)
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When we landed in Madrid it was around 1pm their time and raining. We waited for what felt like forever, sitting, as I said, in the way, way back seats by the terminus of the plane. Finally we left and walked a long time, going through customs easily (the lady was laughing and talking to someone on her cell phone, seemingly barely unaware of our existence, casually stamping our passports and handing them back), and then walked to baggage claim. (We had to take a short train ride.)
My step-son and I handled the luggage (we ended up leaving behind one bag on accident), and Britney walked over to the pet receiving area and waited for the cats. By the time she walked back half an hour or forty minutes later with the cats on a metal cart we’d gotten what we thought was all the luggage. The cats looked terrified and in complete shock. They appeared exhausted. We felt terrible. We got them water and reached our hands in and petted them. Then we went 100 feet away to the pet customs area. A woman asked again for our pet documents and asked some questions. We used a meter to check for their microchips.
Finally—after all of the madness over 72 hours—we walked out of the airport. It was cool but not cold, gray and rainy. People omnipresent. The first thing we saw was a thick, football field long line for taxis. We walked with our three new carts for a very long time to the end of the line, feeling like we’d never actually get to the damn Air BnB. The only thing that kept us awake was adrenaline.
After maybe 35, 40 minutes in line, creeping forward bit by bit, we made it to the end and got a taxi from an old man with terrible teeth who was kind of awful. He was angry that we had cats and so much luggage. Before I could protest, he’d thrown the crates (with cats!) rudely and roughly into the back of his van taxi as if it were just more general luggage. I was close to starting a scene but I was too damn tired. At least they were safe inside the crates. But what an asshole.
Then we were in the taxi and I was in front, my step-son and Britney in back. The driver wanted to talk in Spanish, so I did my best. We spoke on and off about the States, Spain, Madrid, the cats, California, Oregon, etc, for the half hour drive to the Air BnB. The driver was not careful on the road: He texted, checked the map, called people, looked at me for too long, and laughed wildly. He was a little like our Hunter S. Thompson driver in Thailand.
The man stopped in front of our temporary Air BnB. (Until we find an apartment.) It’s in the Embajadores neighborhood (more exactly, Lavapies). A floor and a half up some old stairs. Low lighting. A big door with the handle in the center. (Common in Europe.) The driver once again got angry with me because I didn’t know what “tarjeta” meant (card, as in credit card). So we had a moment. I got the bill paid and jumped out. It felt like before my feet hit the street he was already driving off.
We entered the place and took two trips carrying the cats and our luggage up to the tiny one-bedroom apartment. My step-son is staying for one week. We all wanted to sleep…but first food. My step-son stayed and Britney and I walked nearby and got food. Then we searched for a pet store. Then we got some groceries. Then we walked back to the place. I showered and then laid down in the room. There was a foldout orange couch in the living room. A narrow hallway leading to a small kitchen. Good enough for now. Two of the cats (Britney’s) were adjusting ok but mine, Lucius, was terrified, trying to burrow behind the couch and then under the toilet. (As of this morning he’s back to normal.)
I tried to stay awake and read in bed but soon I fell asleep.
~
I woke up this morning at 10am, later than I have slept in years. They were still passed out together on the foldout.
I smiled.
I fed the cats, brought Lucius out with me, made hot English Breakfast tea, sat in semi darkness and put on Bob Dylan’s first 1962 album. Then I read Didion. (Play It As It Lays.) I drank cup after cup of hot tea. I listened to the noises of the busy apartment. Finally, around 11:30am, they woke up.
We went out for Argentinian food. We ate, steak and fries and grilled veggies. More tea. Wine for Britney. It was delicious. Britney is a “foodie” so she needed a certain amount of five-star reviews and sophistication. The place was a 15-minute walk in the light rain. Narrow, twisting cobblestone streets which reminded me of Paris, Greenwich Village and Morrocco.
I can’t believe we’re FINALLY here, in Spain, after a year-and-a-half of planning, 4-5 months of hardcore Kafkian immigration work, an exhausting immigration interview in San Francisco, a million back and forth emails with our immigration lawyer, dealing with my past young dumb self’s “criminal background,” and much more.
We were existential warriors following our chosen path. We’d chosen consciously to change our lives. Some people had thought us crazy or irrational or too unconventional or unrealistic or else immature, childish and irresponsible for moving out of America. Many were jealous.
None of that mattered, of course. It wasn’t about anyone else. It was our dream, no one else’s. Our life.
We were, no doubt, living it.