If you’re the type of person who is mentally ill enough to uproot their life and move to a foreign country (me), then you have probably crafted some sort of rote, robotic response to the question “So, how to you end up in *insert your city here*?” Every new person I meet asks it, and let’s be honest, so do I. It’s simultaneously the most and least interesting thing to ask someone, because depending on the context, or how many hours of sleep I got the night before, I might not want to fully “get into it.” But lucky for you, today I will.
I’m reinfusing a bit of the color into my answer. And I’m sharing all the details. And yes, I will just be sending a link to this newsletter to every dating app match that asks me this. Work smarter, not harder.
First things first, I’m an Air Force brat. My Dad is a pilot, and even though he was a reservist when I was growing up, being in military environments from a young age heavily influenced my ability to be comfortable with change. We lived on the border of Mexico when I was a kid, so I was used to experiencing cultures that weren’t necessarily my own right out of the gate. Side note, this is where I first started making Mexican food my personality. It still is. Moving on.
Even as a little kid, I met so many people who had lived so much life. I got used to people coming in and out of mine when their families were inevitably stationed somewhere else, and then again at about age 12 when it was my family’s turn to move.
We moved to a tiny town in Texas called Brenham. Now don’t get me wrong; it was a lovely place to grow up, for the most part. But, it is certainly different from life in a military border town, let me tell you. Just to paint a picture, shortly after moving, I learned of this quirky local identification system: BIBs and BOBs — AKA “Born in Brenham” and “Born out of Brenham.” I’m a proud BOB, by the way. But this gives you a sense of the generational gravitas that my town holds on the BIBs…in both good and bad ways, in my opinion. As someone jumping in headfirst to a new world at a vulnerable age (I was pimply, and I wasn’t cute yet), this regional attitude was a big factor in my home not always feeling like capital-H Home.
I grew up, my skin got better, and I eventually went off to study at a giant, traditional, good ol’ Texas school. Though I’d wager to say I’m a completely different person now than I was then, I still look back on my university experience with a lot of fondness. But, hands down, the best decision I made during those years was to study abroad for a semester in Tuscany.
My school bought out this beautiful old monastery in a tiny town called Castiglion Fiorentino, and they renovated it into a study center. This town was tucked away in a lush, quiet pocket of the region, about an hour south of Florence, and it was every bit as quaint as you would imagine.
I spent my days eating pasta from the local nonnas who cooked for us every day, very poorly ordering cappuccinos in Italian, and finding as many creative ways of fitting an overflowing carryon onto easyJet flights as I could. I became infatuated with a boy who later turned into my first real relationship, and I learned how to stand on my own two feet. I learned that wine pong is not a good idea. I even started a band??? The moral of the story is that my eyes were opened to the reality that there is a whole lot more out there than BIBs and BOBs.
After graduating with my new, shiny journalism degree, my first job out of college was none other than hostess at the local fine dining establishment, Fish Daddy’s (I wish I was kidding). I worked this job 1) because they were the only place that would hire me knowing I would be leaving in three months and 2) to save a bit of money for my big move to Nashville…a major life change that I had my eyes set on for quite some time.
Somewhere between my Italian fever dream and getting my degree, I developed a maaaaajor chip on my shoulder. You know, the angsty, needing to prove myself energy that I can only imagine was intolerable for anyone around me. That fully manifested in my move to Nashville. My thinking was that by moving somewhere where I didn’t know anyone, all on my own, to break into a new industry, make my own money, and create a damn name for myself, nobody would be able to doubt me anymore. I would have “proven myself,” whatever that means.
Well, I did that. I made friends. I built a life. I got the job. Good for me, I guess! But, after a while, my life started to feel so small. Predictable. My job got super toxic, and I reached my “I’ve had enough with corporate America” existential crisis at the ripe age of 23. Honestly, despite the job, I really loved a lot of my life in Nashville. But in the back of my head, I always remembered how free I felt as a silly little American, 19-year-old study abroad student, jaw on the floor, soaking in culture like a sponge. This wasn’t it.
While all this was happening, my sister was going through a very parallel experience. She did the same study abroad program as me, just a couple years ahead. Her post-grad years were pretty much the exact opposite of mine: marrying her high school sweetheart, moving to Houston, and having her first child. But, we both always had this living abroad fantasy tab open in the back of our minds. I could never let go of it, not that I ever really wanted to.
I was searching for expanse. For different points of view. For that capital-H home, if you will. I wanted to stumble through a new language and ask, “so how do you celebrate Christmas here?”. I wanted to feel salt water in my hair. To discover, for myself, if there are places in the world where wine is actually cheaper than water.
I was about to quit my job, and my sister figured that if she was going to move abroad, she should probably do it before buying a house or having more kids. So, what did we do? We joined forces.
Now, I had never set foot in Spain. My sister came to Barcelona once, and she hated it. My brother-in-law had also never been here, but he had some family living here at the time. After all, Barcelona couldn’t be that bad. Mountains? Sea? Decent airport? Sure, why not. Thank God we were right. Looking back, this was a certifiably insane decision, but that seemed to be good enough for all of us to dump all our savings and kick off the absolute bureaucratic shit show that is the visa application process.
Three and a half years later, and I’m still here, living in my sunny apartment where I hear the Sagrada Família bells chime every hour. I went over to my sister’s for dinner this week. She made pot pie, and I brought cookies. We talked about her life, raising kids in Barcelona, and how she picked up her son from a playdate this week and was beaming at the fact that he was speaking Spanish fluently to his friend. I talked about how I’ve somehow managed to navigate the complicated Spanish legal system and find a way to live here long term while pursuing a career that still moves me in the direction I want to go. In the middle of our conversation, I had to stop us just to say…I’m proud. I’m proud of her. I’m proud of myself. I don’t know where life will take me in the future, but I know I will forever and always attribute so much of who I am to Barcelona.
Anyway, I hope this newsletter was okay! No worries if not! Talk soon! Bye!