Spanish bureaucracy is notoriously finicky.

If you’ve spent any time applying for a visa, attending TIE appointments, or figuring out how to get your padrón, you know.

It can feel a little like this scene from Friends:

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There’s a lot of debate in move abroad groups and forums about the best way to keep your U.S. phone number active. Our finances are notoriously connected to two-factor authentication (2FA) via our banking institutions, investment firms, and even when paying bills.

If the phone carrier determines you’ve been out of the country too long, they reserve the right to suspend or terminate your service.

It can feel unfair, but the primary purpose of a U.S. line is domestic use, and it can cost the carrier extra money to pay the international partner networks.

So what do you do if you can’t keep service with your current U.S. carrier?

I went down the rabbit hole before our move, scouring Reddit, Facebook groups, and Google. Will and I had service with Xfinity Mobile for several years after trying a few major brands, including AT&T and Verizon. It was a good balance between service and cost. After our move to Raleigh, we switched to Mint Mobile because 1) Xfinity didn’t have a physical presence in Raleigh, and 2) we were saving as much money as we could before we left the U.S.

Mint Mobile is, by U.S. standards, a cheap yet reliable phone network. It’s a mobile virtual network operator (MVNO) that uses T-Mobile’s infrastructure, which has okay coverage in Raleigh. And some expats/immigrants choose to keep Mint Mobile abroad, using its WiFi calling feature to make and receive calls or texts.

If you’ve been with me a while, you know I’m always seeking a better solution. So it probably doesn’t surprise you that I kept researching, sure I was missing an even better solution.

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One of the hottest options in the immigrant community is Google Voice. For a flat fee of $20, you can port your U.S. number to Google Voice. It does have its downsides, and before saying to yourself, “Yay! I can keep my number for just $20 forever!” you need to know where it can fail.

• Not every financial institution will allow multifactor authentication (MFA) through Google Voice, and you probably won’t find out that yours has blocked it until you can’t get that 2FA code you desperately need.

• Google is continually revamping and reevaluating products. If at any point they decide they no longer need Voice available, you still need a solution for that U.S. phone number.

• Technically speaking, Google Voice is meant for U.S. residents, which could leave you vulnerable to cancellation if Google determines you reside outside the U.S.

I’ve mentioned before that I don’t have much family in the U.S. This is the sticking point that makes Google Voice a somewhat unreliable option for Will and me. If it were to fail – and that might be a big “if” – we don’t have someone we can count on to send those authentication codes to us via their own phone numbers.

I needed a better option.

Before beginning my dive into moving abroad, I hadn’t heard of Tello. Like Mint Mobile, it’s an MVNO that relies on T-Mobile’s network. Tello kept popping up as a cost-effective, reliable option nearly everywhere I looked – right alongside Google Voice.

I decided that Mint was more expensive than I wanted, and Tello fell into that sweet spot between low cost and flexibility. Will and I could adjust our plans as needed on any given month. Yes, there would be an ongoing monthly cost, but it was low enough that I didn’t think it mattered too much.

Will and I ported our numbers as one of our last chores before leaving Raleigh with no trouble. We were off to the races.

If Tello sounds like a good fit for you, too, here’s my referral link. It gives you a small credit, and we get one too.

The trick is the WiFi calling. Without becoming too technical, I’ll give you an example.

I have an iPhone with an eSIM, and it supports multiple eSIMs. On my phone, I have two eSIMs: Tello and Vodafone. (Vodafone is the phone company I use here in Spain.) When I need to use the U.S. line (the phone number I’ve had for nearly two decades), I toggle it on and turn it off when I’m finished.

Easy peasy.

Your Cheat Sheet for Keeping a U.S. Phone Number

1. Make sure your phone is unlocked. With U.S. carriers, this usually means the phone has to be paid off before they’ll unlock it if you purchased it through your carrier.

2. Choose the provider. If you go with Google Voice, ensure you have a backup plan for 2FA codes.

3. Port your number. This is a pretty simple process once the phone is unlocked. The carrier you’re porting to will often provide easy-to-follow instructions.

4. Activate the SIM. eSIMs are popular these days, but in Europe, physical SIM cards are still widely used alongside eSIMs. If you plan to use an eSIM, make sure the phone carrier you choose abroad offers eSIMs – or make sure your phone has a physical SIM card slot.

5. Turn on WiFi calling. This is the key to making and receiving calls from the U.S. with your U.S. number. The phone will use WiFi instead of a cell tower to route the calls/texts.

6. Test your number. The easiest way to test it is to turn on airplane mode (this turns off your cell signal) and leave your WiFi on. Try making a call or sending a text, and see what happens!

7. Toggle your line on and off as needed. Leaving your U.S. line on all the time will drain your battery faster than turning it on and off as needed.

If You Run into Trouble …

• SMS messages can take a minute to come through. If you don’t see it right away, don’t panic.

• If the WiFi signal is weak, you may have trouble with your calls and texts. Ensure you have a strong signal if you’re making an important call.

• Airplane mode is your friend. Sometimes, the signal needs a reset.

I don’t use my U.S. line every day. I turn it on three or four times a week to check for voicemails or texts. And when I visit the U.S., I turn the Tello line back on, and it works like a normal U.S. number. No special settings or changes needed.

But honestly? These days, it’s a line I keep mostly for 2FA and the occasional phone call with a bank or something else important. My Spanish line is how I run my day-to-day life, with WhatsApp covering most of the gaps. And if you use iMessage like I do, you can send and receive iMessages from your associated email address instead of your phone number.

If you need to keep your U.S. phone number – and most people do for at least a while – it doesn’t have to be complicated. Whether it’s Google Voice, Mint Mobile, Tello, or something else, technology has made keeping your number simple.

Keeping a U.S. number abroad doesn’t have to be complicated. With the right setup, it can run quietly in the background and just do its job.

If this saved you a headache or two, you can always buy me a coffee. And if Tello feels like a good fit, here’s my referral link. It gives both of us a small perk.

I write here about building a life abroad—slowly, imperfectly, and with a lot of trial and error.

You can subscribe to receive new posts by email, or support this work with a paid subscription, one-time contribution, or just hit the ❤️ button below to help others find poco a poco.

If you’d like to reach out directly, you can find me at jen@jeninspain.com.

If you enjoyed this bit of practicality of living life abroad, you might enjoy these pieces:

Since early August, I’ve been patiently waiting for notification that our visa renewals have been approved.

I watched as others in multiple Facebook groups gleefully announced their approved renewals.

I panicked every time I saw someone say, “I have 10 days to submit XYZ information, or my visa renewal will be denied!” And then I ran to ChatGPT to find out what the snag they ran into might be.

Mid-October brought a ping to my inbox.

With fingers and toes crossed and a quick prayer that my anxiety would finally end, I opened the DEHú app (the Spanish government’s official notification app) alongside Google Translate.

Nope. Anxiety wasn’t going to end that day. Instead, it was a request for a form that had to be submitted within 10 days – a minor admin error, but still a hiccup in the process.

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Let’s back up.

If you receive a notification via DEHú before your visa renewal is processed, it usually means one of two things.

1. Your visa application is being processed, and you have been officially notified that it is in the system.

2. Something in your application is missing, and the Spanish government needs it in their possession within 10 days, or you risk being denied.

So what happens once you provide the information they’re looking for?

I can tell you what doesn’t happen. You don’t get a notification telling you the government has received whatever remaining evidence you need to submit. Instead, if you check Mercurio, the online application platform, you can usually find whether or not what was missing is now in your submission file.

This process would ruffle the feathers of Gandhi himself.

Waiting, I suppose, is part of the “fun.”

Spain has up to 90 days to respond to a visa renewal like ours, and Valencia has been taking nearly every bit of that time to respond.

Just in case it wasn’t obvious, I’m not terribly patient. There’s an SMS number that foreign residents can text to check the status of their applications. I texted that number at least once a week – often more.

Nada. Crickets. For weeks.

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And then I received the DEHú notification, got my hopes up, and they were just as quickly dashed.

I filled out the form the day we received it, signed it, and returned it the same day. We lost one day in our visa process, and if that was the worst that happened, we could consider ourselves lucky.

Back to waiting, hoping, and wondering.

Last week, all that waiting finally paid off.

Three emails hit my inbox all at once: ping, ping, ping – a cacophony of bureaucracy making its way back into my life.

I was still missing one final email, so I did what I’d gotten so good at over the past few months. I waited a few more hours. Finally, that email arrived, and now I had to figure out the next step.

When you’re living on a temporary visa in a foreign country, there is a sort of uncertainty you learn to live with daily. Nothing is permanent, and you’re essentially living year to year until you finally earn the gold medal: permanent residency.

But getting there isn’t easy, and there’s a whole lot of “in between” to contend with in the meantime.

As the saying goes, you get comfortable with being uncomfortable.

So what comes after the approval?

More appointments. (Shocking, I know.)

Luckily, this time, I’m a little more versed in winding my way through the maze and climbing over the hedgerows to find the exit. Yesterday, thanks to our digital certificates, I was able to snag all four TIE fingerprinting appointments in early January – something I had no idea how to do the first time around.

Spain never rushes or hurries. If there is one thing this country is teaching me, it’s that bureaucracy will always be a pain in my ass. On the flip side, we’re always moving forward – learning something new, navigating another process, and giving myself another pat on the back for figuring it all out.

I write here about building a life abroad—slowly, imperfectly, and with a lot of trial and error.

You can subscribe to receive new posts by email, or support this work with a paid subscription, one-time contribution, or just hit the ❤️ button below to help others find poco a poco.

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After nearly a year in Spain (OMG, where did the time go?!), I’ve learned a few things about Spanish bureaucracy — starting with this: pack your patience.

We have bureaucracy in the U.S., but you might only rarely interact with it. And when you do, you’re mostly familiar with the process — either from watching your parents as a kid or figuring it out as you go. And, of course, it occurs in English. If that’s your native language, that automatically makes it easier.

No one likes bureaucracy. Even employees of bureaucracy don’t usually like it. I worked for the Department of Veterans Affairs as a claims representative right out of college, and the hoops that had to be jumped through to process a claim were … interesting. My coworkers and I were constantly frustrated by the ever-moving goalposts for what had to happen before a veteran could receive their benefits.

In college, I worked for the National Park Service in the visitor center at Mammoth Cave National Park. (It’s an incredible place to visit, by the way, if you’ve never been.) Most visitors were happy to see someone in uniform (yes, I had the hat), so my role there received less abuse. Still, when people were angry about a missed tour or no parking, they are quick to blame the nearest bureaucrat — namely, me.

I’ve written about the process we completed to obtain our digital certificates. But that’s just a taste of the many run-ins you’ll have with Spanish bureaucracy as an immigrant.

• When your boots hit the ground, one of the very first things you have to accomplish is your empadronamiento, or padrón, as most people call it. I made an appointment, and when we arrived, the very sympathetic woman told us — in Spanish — that they didn’t have any room to fit us in that day and offered another solution: go to another office. Luckily, we’d rented a car for a few days and were able to drive all the way across the city to get there.

  And a huge surprise awaited us: The woman who helped us spoke English and was happy to do so for us. One note: Never expect English. They are not required to speak English (you’re in Spain, after all), but if you are humble and use as much Spanish as you know, most people are kind and will help you along with what English they know (if they know any). Otherwise, they’ll tolerate your translation app so that you can accomplish what you need to.

• Once you have your padrón in hand, the next step is booking a TIE appointment. In Valencia, those have become like precious gold. But once you have the appointment, you need to show up with the correct paperwork, or you’ll be turned away to return another day. So double-check that paperwork like it’s Santa’s naughty-or-nice list.

• You successfully completed your TIE appointment. Congratulations! Now, you get to wait to pick up the card. That usually takes about a month. In some cities, you’re going to need another appointment. Depending on the city, this can be easy or difficult.

• The digital certificate will save you a whole lot of time and headaches if you make the time to get one. While I dreaded it like the plague, it was one of the easier procedures we’ve done in Spain. And now I’m using it to submit our visa renewal, saving us all a trip to the ayuntamiento and a whole lot of time.

I’m still learning about Spain, its dreaded bureaucracy, and all the government procedures we have to do to live here. But its people — yes, even the bureaucrats — are some of the kindest, most helpful people I’ve run into anywhere. Approach everything with a sense of humility, use your Spanish, and be willing to admit you were wrong. It can be a tough pill to swallow, and yet I’ve found that it works every single time.

Love this kind of real-talk? The paid tier helps keep it coming — no translation app required.

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I write here about building a life abroad—slowly, imperfectly, and with a lot of trial and error.

You can subscribe to receive new posts by email, or support this work with a paid subscription, one-time contribution, or just hit the ❤️ button below to help others find poco a poco.

If you’d like to reach out directly, you can find me at jen@jeninspain.com.

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There are a lot of things to love about Spain. The bureaucracy is not one of them, but as an immigrant, it’s something you learn to navigate and figure out along with everything else.

A couple of weeks ago, Will and I decided it was time to get our digital certificates.

What the heck is a digital certificate? you might be thinking.

We don’t have a true equivalent of the certificado digital in the United States. The closest thing I can think of is, if you’ve ever signed up to see your Social Security benefits online, you probably signed up for something called ID.me. The IRS also uses this system. They use video identification and some physical forms of ID to determine who you are, and then you can access personal information online on government websites.

The digital certificate does this, but it takes it one step further. Need to renew your empadronamiento (padron)? Use your digital certificate. Visa renewals? Digital certificate. Sign up for your municipality’s local sports centers? You can do that with your digital certificate. It takes many of the things you would have to do in person and allows you to do them online, without ever setting foot inside a government office.

There are some exceptions to this, of course. You can renew your visa online, for instance, but you still have to go to a police station and get your fingerprints taken in person. But it takes what can be complicated, frustrating, sometimes messy, and often time-consuming government procedures and simplifies them into a website form. You still have to complete the forms correctly (this is Spain, after all), but it takes the bureaucracy levels down several notches.

I had put this process off for months. After I spent 18 months of my life prepping to make the big move to Valencia – including getting our pet passport, TIE cards, and padron squared away once we arrived – the last thing I wanted to do was figure out another government procedure. Our upcoming visa renewal pushed me to finally take care of it. We’ve been here for seven months, which means our renewal is just around the corner. I thought I’d hit the lottery when I discovered you could get your digital certificate online by paying about €3 and using your phone’s camera. Alas, it wasn’t meant to be. I went down that rabbit hole just a little too far and discovered holders of NIEs (foreign residents) can’t use the virtual verification method.

I put my sad face aside because now I had to finish this.

Eventually, using a combination of YouTube, Google, and ChatGPT, I figured out how to make appointments for Will and me. Within a week, we were at the Agencia Tributaria waiting for our numbers to be called and get this over with.

The process itself is fairly simple. For the appointment, you need:

• TIE card

• Passport

• Código de Solicitud (a code generated when you apply for your digital certificate online)

Here’s where the tricky part comes in. You can only use your last name when you generate the code for your digital certificate appointment. The code is invalid if you add any other part of your name. Not knowing this, I filled out our complete names for each application.

Luckily, the man who helped me was an empathetic soul. He explained that my code was incorrect, then left me for a few moments to grab a coworker who spoke fluent English with a slight British accent. He knew the Spanish would be a bit complicated for me, so he went out of his way to find someone to help. She was wonderful, quickly explained how to fix it, watched while I did it, and verified everything. They helped me install the certificate on my phone and sent me on my way.

Will was not so lucky.

The man who helped Will only explained that the code wouldn’t work and that he needed a new one. I wandered over to try to translate some and help, but he wasn’t having it. He shrugged and told us to come back another day.

This is the infamous Spanish bureaucracy at work. Your experience will depend entirely upon the person who calls your name.

Frustrated, we went home and – using the steps the woman who helped me had used – I generated another code and set up another appointment for 10 days later.

Will and I laughed when we realized he was going to the same guy who had refused to allow him to generate another code at the last appointment. And he seemed to remember us as well! We thought we were going to run into another snag, but thankfully, it became a non-issue. Will received his verification, and we are done with digital certificates for four years.

Life in another country is never easy. You (likely) don’t know the language. The processes are unfamiliar. Every small thing feels like something huge. The feeling of overwhelm can paralyze you into not taking action when the action is absolutely needed.

I probably don’t have to tell you that I cheered when I found out we don’t have to repeat this process for four whole years.

I write here about building a life abroad—slowly, imperfectly, and with a lot of trial and error.

You can subscribe to receive new posts by email, or support this work with a paid subscription, one-time contribution, or just hit the ❤️ button below to help others find poco a poco.

If you’d like to reach out directly, you can find me at jen@jeninspain.com.

More on navigating systems in Spain:

One of the most confusing parts of moving overseas was the financial piece. How does one use U.S. dollars in the European Union?

As it turns out, some tools are available to make this process easier.

After taking James Blick’s Move to Spain Masterclass, I learned a couple of ways to convert dollars to euros. However, I tucked that away for later and forgot about what I’d learned. (I know, I know, but we were drowning in information.)

When our kids were accepted to their private school, we were notified that our fees were due for the upcoming school year. Okay, great. Using our American bank account, I wired the funds – and that’s when I began to realize there had to be a better way.

The funds were held for review several times, and panic began to set in. Some of the things we needed to pay for had a timeline. At one point, I spent almost 30 minutes on the phone with a bank customer service rep, who subtly told me how her family sent money to her sister-in-law in Belgium.

Aha! I thought. I completely forgot about that.

This is how I remembered to use the Wise account I had set up months ago in anticipation of our move.

Frequent international travelers are often aware of Wise because the fees to transfer money are reasonable, transfers are rapid, and it is incredibly simple to use. You can even get a physical or virtual debit card, which limits your personal bank account’s exposure in an international travel situation where you might want to use a debit card.

(Full disclosure: The link above is a referral link. It offers a bonus to you and me.)

Wise was the solution I needed rather than using the clunky wire feature offered by our American bank account with its fee-heavy structure and frequent fraud reviews.

Okay, that problem was solved. One more to go.

When we arrived in Spain, one of the things I knew we needed to do almost immediately was open a Spanish bank account. Spanish bank accounts are like a golden ticket to so many parts of life in Spain. For one, our kids’ school would only accept direct debits from a Spanish account. While Wise works for many things, it wouldn’t work for this. (Essentially, Wise offers an IBAN, which we needed, but it’s based in a country outside of Spain in the EU.)

There were a couple of ways we could go about this. One was to walk into a Spanish bank branch with our NIEs and passports. Because my Spanish was still pretty poor, I didn’t particularly like that option. I’m pretty tech-savvy, so I wondered, "Can I get an online bank account?"

Yes, I could.

The two options for a Spanish online bank account I see recommended repeatedly are N26 and Revolut.

(Full disclosure: The link above is a referral link. It offers a bonus to you and me.)

Revolut is another service like Wise, but in this case, it could act like a more traditional bank account for my purposes. They offer a Spanish IBAN, implement Bizum (it’s like Venmo), and transfer U.S. dollars directly into the account if you wish.

We went with Revolut, and it’s been smooth sailing ever since. We’ve converted our prepaid phones to a contract, set up direct debits with utilities, and had zero payment issues with our school. We even pay rent with our Revolut account (which we can do with Wise).

Using just these three financial components – Wise, Revolut, and our American bank account – has been enough to fund our basics in Spain. We use U.S. credit cards to pay for nearly everything, earning points and miles for future travel purchases.

I have all of this down to a science now, but in the beginning, I felt confused, lost, and unsure of exactly what I was doing. As I’m learning about everything else living abroad, it takes a while to become comfortable and understand the ins and outs of nearly everything.

It’s Adulting 101 for fortysomethings.

I write here about building a life abroad—slowly, imperfectly, and with a lot of trial and error.

You can subscribe to receive new posts by email, or support this work with a paid subscription, one-time contribution, or just hit the ❤️ button below to help others find poco a poco.

If you’d like to reach out directly, you can find me at jen@jeninspain.com.

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Visas in hand, we had one last big item to check off: our nine-year-old goldendoodle’s paperwork.

When we first began discussing a move to Spain, we considered leaving Leo with my brother at his farm in Kentucky. But Leo is as much a part of the family as our kids, and he basically acts as my third child, so we quickly scratched that off the list and decided he was going.

With Elaine from PRI as a resource in my back pocket, I located a veterinarian in Raleigh who can do the required USDA certifications for pets traveling to the European Union and, specifically, Spain. I settled on Hidden Valley Animal Hospital, and their office has someone on staff dedicated to completing these certificates. Not every vet’s office is certified to do this paperwork, and depending on what area of the U.S. you’re in, it can be challenging to find one. Luckily for us, Raleigh had several options.

Moving a pet overseas requires completing, submitting, and returning paperwork within a very tight timeframe. It’s a 10-day turnaround, and yes, weekends count.

Leo’s appointment was set, and we got through all the hoops without any stumbles. We just had to wait for the USDA to return the certificate in time for us to leave for Valencia.

And that’s where our problems began.

We were leaving for Valencia on a Monday, and so was Leo. He was scheduled to be picked up at 5:30 a.m. for a ride to the airport in Washington, D.C., while we would be leaving directly from Raleigh. (There was an embargo on transporting pets from Raleigh then.) We needed that certificate in our hands no later than Sunday evening.

The vet’s office called me on Friday to let me know I should have the certificate in my hands on Monday, which was too late. A series of phone calls between Elaine, me, and the vet’s office began, and the vet’s office worked to get the certificate rushed. Unfortunately, on Saturday morning, it showed it was still being delivered on Monday.

In a panic and knowing one of us would have to remain behind with Leo if we didn’t get our hands on the certificate, we drove to the local FedEx office, where the package was being held until delivery.

At first, it looked like it was going to be futile. The person behind the counter tried to find the package in the back, despite the growing line of customers, but she couldn’t locate it. She offered to check with her manager, and we gratefully accepted.

The manager came out to meet us, and Will and I explained what we needed and why it was so important. He was empathetic to our situation and offered to look again. Five minutes later, with a smile and an envelope in his hand, he handed over the paperwork that would allow us all to leave Raleigh on Monday. We thanked him profusely, let Elaine and the vet’s office know, and then went home to continue packing our belongings.

Promptly at 5:30 a.m. on Monday, August 26th, the pet transporter arrived to pick Leo up. Once he was loaded up and on his way, I cried. My anxiety was high, and I’d heard all the horror stories about pets traveling in cargo, but we had no choice. It was the only way we had to get him to Spain. But I also felt tremendous relief because it was one less responsibility on my shoulders for at least a few days.

Everything else went off without a hitch. Our flight took off on time, we enjoyed flying business class for the first time, and we made our tight connection in Paris with time to spare. Leo landed in Amsterdam before we made it to Paris. He spent a couple of days there resting and adjusting, then flew to Madrid, where he boarded for a few days until we could get into our apartment in Valencia. Will, myself, and the kids stayed in a hotel and relaxed, adjusting to our new reality.

We’d done it. We’d made this move after 18 months of planning, researching, and dreaming.

Sometimes, when I look at the views from our balcony, I still can’t believe we’re here. I’ve had so many “pinch me” moments. After arriving, Will and I kept looking at one another, asking, “Is this real?” We even caught the kids going to the balcony to look at the mountains and city surrounding us. When people ask if we have any regrets, my answer is simple. As expensive and complicated as it was, I don’t have a single regret if I have to leave tomorrow. Not one.

This is one of the best things I’ve ever done, and we will all remember it for the rest of our lives. It’s been the adventure of a lifetime, and I hope we’re just getting started.

I write here about building a life abroad—slowly, imperfectly, and with a lot of trial and error.

You can subscribe to receive new posts by email, or support this work with a paid subscription, one-time contribution, or just hit the ❤️ button below to help others find poco a poco.

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July 24, 2024

I sat on the porch outside our Raleigh rental, swatting away mosquitoes and suffocating in the oppressive Southern heat.

I was waiting for the UPS driver to make his way to our house, and I watched as the driver passed through our neighborhood to another street. He couldn’t get there fast enough.

Just one day earlier, I’d received a notification from the visa application center that our passports had been dispatched back to us. That could only mean one thing: A decision had been made about our visas.

If you call BLS, the company that processed our visas for the Spanish consulate, they will tell you they can’t give you the decision over the phone and that you must wait for your passport to receive your decision. This is a nerve-wracking answer when the trajectory of your life is–quite literally–in someone else’s hands.

The answer arrived just 25 days after our appointment in Washington, D.C.

I told myself it would be fine; we had a Plan B for whatever was inside those four passports if it wasn’t the response we’d planned and hoped for.

At about 5:00 p.m., the UPS driver finally pulled up in front of our house. I stood and greeted him. He handed over that precious envelope, and then I ran inside, yelling for Will and the kids to come watch as I opened it.

I dropped the passports onto the ottoman in a scattered pile, grabbed one, and flipped through the pages as fast as I could.

There is no giant “APPROVED” stamp. You’re looking for the visa sticker on one of your passport pages. If you find it, you’ve been approved for Spanish residency and have 90 days to arrive in Spain from the date placed on the visa. That date is based on what you tell the consulate your target arrival date is. We had one-way plane tickets to Valencia for August 26, so we told them our arrival date would be August 27.

My heart raced as I flipped through those pages, but finally, I came to the one I was looking for.

The visa sticker was there, along with the first possible entry date of August 15th.

Quickly, Will and I flipped through the rest of the passports to ensure everyone was approved. We looked at one another, knowing we still had a lot to accomplish, but we’d done it. It was happening.

Game on.

As one does when one receives life-changing news, we notified our loved ones and friends that we were officially moving to Spain. Then we told Jackie, who was surprised it went so quickly, congratulated us, and gave some final advice on what to do once we landed in Valencia.

The rest of the summer flew by, but we weren’t done until we got on the plane. And getting on the plane proved to be one final adventure before we moved to Valencia.

I write here about building a life abroad—slowly, imperfectly, and with a lot of trial and error.

You can subscribe to receive new posts by email, or support this work with a paid subscription, one-time contribution, or just hit the ❤️ button below to help others find poco a poco.

If you’d like to reach out directly, you can find me at jen@jeninspain.com.

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On the last Thursday of June 2024, at 8:30 a.m., we sat at our visa appointment in Washington, D.C. Two hours of sleep and adrenaline kept us all awake and alert.

In a previous post, I discussed why we hired Jackie from Family Move Abroad to help us through this process. As we finalized our paperwork, Jackie warned us that the wording of our health insurance certificate could cause issues. Our insurance agent had assured us we should be good to go, so we pushed ahead, hoping it would be fine.

In hindsight, this was the one document that mattered most.

Everything went according to plan. Will and I were called back into an office separately to review our paperwork, which was exactly as it should have been … except for the health insurance certificate.

Before you can apply for a Spanish residency visa, you must show you will have health insurance in place. This is usually a private policy purchased through an agent or directly through the company. There are a myriad of options, and nearly all of them will exclude any pre-existing health conditions. In some cases, if you qualify for public healthcare, you don’t have to purchase the private policy, although many people do because it offers even more options for healthcare.

We purchased a 12-month private policy, which was incredibly affordable. We paid for the year upfront. Once the policy was in place, we received an email with the certificate attached, which we presented at the visa appointment.

To this day, I’m not sure what threw off the representative during our visa interview, but the wording on the certificate of coverage raised alarm bells. They informed us we had 30 minutes to correct the error, or we would have to return for a new appointment. They had already submitted our information into the system, which is where the 30-minute timeline came from.

In a panic, we called our insurance agent. We discussed our options, and our agent made it clear that we would not resolve the issue that day. However, he would work on it and do his absolute best to fix it so we could get our visas and be on our way.

With our tails tucked between our legs, we returned to the visa representative and told them what was happening. Sympathetic to our plight but with hands tied, he got his manager, who told us we could return the next day for a walk-in appointment and an extra fee. The manager gave Will his cell phone number and told us to call or text if we needed anything else.

Deflated, we went back to the hotel room to regroup.

The rest of the day was a blur and a flurry of phone calls. Our insurance agent, whose work day should have been over, contacted someone at the insurance company to correct the wording on the health certificate. He said this was a first in all his years of working in insurance, but he was determined to fix it. Once the contact at the insurance company came through with the certificate, he forwarded it to us, and we made plans to return to the visa office the next day.

With a full night’s sleep under us, we were in the lobby on Friday morning, waiting for the visa office to open at 8:15 a.m. Fortunately, they took us back right away, and everything was in order this time–including our kids’ acceptance letters into their international school, which the visa reps said would help to strengthen our application.

By 9:30 a.m., everything had been submitted to the system. It was now out of our hands; all we could do was wait for a response.

I write here about building a life abroad—slowly, imperfectly, and with a lot of trial and error.

You can subscribe to receive new posts by email, or support this work with a paid subscription, one-time contribution, or just hit the ❤️ button below to help others find poco a poco.

If you’d like to reach out directly, you can find me at jen@jeninspain.com.

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I have a longstanding love-hate relationship with Delta Airlines.

Many moons ago, on our very first European trip, Will and I flew Delta home, connecting in Atlanta. Unfortunately, weather was a factor, so our connection to Chicago was delayed—and delayed again. Delta had no answers other than to wait, so jetlagged, exhausted, and angry, we waited. Other airlines began to resume service, and still, we waited. We could’ve driven home faster, but our luggage was probably in a cargo bay somewhere in the airport, so even that wasn’t an option.

I never forgot that experience, so Delta became my least likely airline to book. Not that it mattered because once we had kids, we didn’t travel much, and when we did, Southwest dominated our Nashville airport.

Enter 2024.

Deep into the points and miles credit card game, I was determined to book a reasonable flight deal to D.C. from Raleigh. With more than a little hesitation on my part, that turned out to be Delta through a SkyTeam alliance.

I booked the flight, and when travel day arrived, I told Will, “If our flight gets canceled, we will hop in the car and drive. It’s only about a four-hour drive.”

Have more prescient words ever been spoken?

Sure enough, as we sat in the airport, we watched other flights take off while a summer thunderstorm threatened ours. We had an early-morning visa appointment the next day—one we couldn’t afford to miss. The time kept getting pushed back further, but finally, we were boarding nearly three hours later.

And then we sat on the tarmac. First, it was a mechanical issue. Then it was the weather. Finally, at 10:00 P.M., the flight was canceled as the crew was about to time out.

We had an 8:30 a.m. visa appointment the next day. There was no way we weren’t going to show up. It could take months to get another one.

Will and I looked at one another, knowing Operation Plan B had just commenced.

We scrambled to grab our things and the kids’ belongings and rushed off the plane past the long line of passengers awaiting their rescheduling or refunds. Thankfully, we didn’t check bags, so we practically ran to the parking lot, knowing how limited our time was to get to Washington, D.C.

Once in the car, we only stopped once to fill the gas tank, grab coffee and snacks, and then get on the road.

Will and I talked the whole way, desperate to stay awake and alert when we were exhausted and waaaaaay past our bedtimes with kids asleep in the backseat. In Richmond, Virginia, we came upon a nasty accident that threatened to keep us from making it in time. I called the hotel we’d booked and begged them to keep us on the books because our flight had been canceled, and now we were driving instead.

Finally, FINALLY, we pulled in front of the hotel at 4:00 a.m.

Bone-weary from the drive, we checked in, made our way to our room, and collapsed. I was terrified that we wouldn’t wake up if we fell asleep. Knowing there was a good possibility I couldn’t stay awake, I set an alarm for 6:30 and fell into a deep, much-needed sleep.

Reader, we did get up in time to make the appointment, and I’ll tell you about that fiasco next time.

I write here about building a life abroad—slowly, imperfectly, and with a lot of trial and error.

You can subscribe to receive new posts by email, or support this work with a paid subscription, one-time contribution, or just hit the ❤️ button below to help others find poco a poco.

If you’d like to reach out directly, you can find me at jen@jeninspain.com.

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Preparing for an international move can be more than a little tricky. While I love to be as frugal as the next person, this was not the time for being cheap or unwilling to ask for help when needed.

Moving to Spain involves enough variables that we decided this wasn’t the place to cut corners.

I’d been following several Instagram accounts focused on moving to Spain for quite a while, but when I discovered a former client (and friend!) had moved to Barcelona, I asked him for some pointers. One of those was to hire a relocation coach. That’s where the incredible Jackie Baxa comes in.

Jackie runs Family Move Abroad, lives in Sevilla, and has a wealth of knowledge about all things Spain. We hired Jackie in October 2023, but we didn’t really get the ball rolling with her until early 2024, when we began compiling paperwork and getting into the finer details of this move.

When we discovered our driver’s licenses might not arrive in time for our Washington, D.C., visa appointments, Jackie helped us determine what we could use instead to prove our residency. And even if the licenses arrived in time, she advised us to take those items with us anyway, “just in case.” Jackie was also there to hold our hands at the last minute as we drank a bottle of wine and compiled every piece of official paperwork into a binder to travel with us to D.C.

I absolutely could have handled these things on my own. I (weirdly) love paperwork and making sure it’s done correctly. But the stress of this situation could have caused mistakes, which we did not need.

Our driver’s licenses arrived in plenty of time for our appointment, and we were all set.

Or so we thought.

Don’t miss the next post, where I’ll outline the snafu that almost caused us to miss our long-awaited visa appointment.

I write here about building a life abroad—slowly, imperfectly, and with a lot of trial and error.

You can subscribe to receive new posts by email, or support this work with a paid subscription, one-time contribution, or just hit the ❤️ button below to help others find poco a poco.

If you’d like to reach out directly, you can find me at jen@jeninspain.com.

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