Wi-Fi, Visas and Viva España: Rediscovering Real Life in Spain After Brexit and Lockdown

A funny, uplifting look at life in Spain after COVID, Brexit, remote working, digital nomads and endless paperwork — and why real Spanish life, community, offices and connection still matter.

Two major happenings changed life in Spain, and they seemed to land on us almost simultaneously — rather like two overfilled suitcases falling off the same airport trolley. First came the world shutdown. On 11 March 2020, the World Health Organization characterised COVID-19 as a pandemic. On 14 March 2020, Spain declared its first estado de alarma. Suddenly, life as we knew it stopped. The shutters came down. The streets emptied. The world went quiet in a way most of us had never experienced before and, frankly, never wish to experience again. Then came Brexit. The UK officially left the European Union on 31 January 2020, but for many Britons in Spain, the real emotional, practical and administrative wallop arrived when the transition period ended on 31 December 2020. From 1 January 2021, life changed. The carefree “let’s just move to Spain and see what happens” days became a little less spontaneous and a great deal more laminated. Suddenly there were visas. Forms. Appointments. Rules. More forms. Copies of forms. Copies of copies of forms. And somewhere in the middle of it all, the British dream of Spain — the one involving sunshine, sandals, chilled white wine and saying mañana as if one had been born in a whitewashed village near Ronda — became slightly more complicated. Life in Spain for foreigners took on a completely different perspective. The landscape of the coast changed dramatically. Not just physically, although that too happened at the sort of speed that makes you wonder if Spanish builders are secretly powered by rocket fuel and café con leche. But socially, emotionally and commercially, everything shifted. Online life exploded faster than a cheap lilo in August. People learned. People adapted. People devised. People took advantage of automation, technology, apps, platforms, systems and anything else that promised they could be self-sufficient from the dining room table while wearing pyjama bottoms and a professional-looking shirt. Once upon a time, being able to send an email made you feel like Bill Gates. Suddenly, everyone had to become a banking expert, a Google expert, an Apple expert, a Zoom expert, a password recovery expert, a QR code expert, a digital certificate expert, and, in moments of real desperation, their own IT department. Google became our best friend. Apple became our therapist. WhatsApp became the family court, local newspaper, emergency room, confessional box and neighbourhood watch scheme all rolled into one. Then, when lockdown finally lifted and the world could move again, every man, woman, cat, dog and emotionally complex chinchilla wanted to travel. The wonders of the world became Instagrammable. Then the less obvious wonders became Instagrammable. Then the secret little places we “originals” had quietly discovered years before were suddenly mobbed by people in linen co-ords trying to photograph brunch from above. Europe became a backdrop. Beaches became content. Old villages became reels. Tiny tapas bars became “hidden gems”, which is influencer language for “this place will now be impossible to get into unless you book three months in advance, remortgage your house and agree to appear accidentally in 14 strangers’ holiday photos before being expertly edited out”. And let me tell you, there is nothing quite like realising you have been removed from someone’s sunset shot like an unwanted wheelie bin. Not a nice feeling for anyone. For poor Brits hoping to settle in Europe, the world had changed too. The old freedom had gone. Now came non-lucrative visas, work permissions, residency routes and, later, the shiny new phrase of the age: digital nomad. Spain’s Startup Law framework, Law 28/2022 of 21 December, introduced specific regulation for foreign nationals working remotely from Spain — and suddenly the laptop lifestyle had legal paperwork, which is exactly how Spain likes to keep everyone grounded. Digital nomad. It sounds so glamorous, doesn’t it? Like someone floating across the globe with a laptop, a linen shirt and flawless skin, answering emails from a hammock while drinking coconut water and being spiritually aligned. In reality, it often means sitting at a dining room table in Fuengirola, fighting with the Wi-Fi, trying to upload a PDF while your dog barks at the Amazon man and your neighbour starts drilling into concrete at 8.03am. Alongside the digital nomads came the coaches. Oh, the coaches. Life coaches. Business coaches. Nutrition coaches. Technology coaches. Mindset coaches. Confidence coaches. Visibility coaches. Instagram coaches. Breathwork coaches. Coaches coaching coaches on how to coach other coaches. You name it, within seconds someone online will tell you they are an expert in exactly the thing you did not know you needed until their advert followed you into every corner of the internet like a needy ex-boyfriend. The world became smaller. But somehow, it also became lonelier. Everyone was connected, yet many people felt more isolated than ever. The inbox was always full, no matter how much went into the outbox. The day stretched longer, heavier, more cluttered. People became imprisoned behind screens, and some, sadly, still are. But that is not why we came to Spain. We did not come here to live inside laptops. We came for Spain. For her spontaneity. Her passion. Her freedom. Her glorious refusal to make everything too polished, too perfect or too predictable. We came for early morning walks through town as everyone is waking up and setting out their day. The baker lifting the shutters. The old men already deep in conversation as if they are solving world peace over a tiny coffee. The woman watering plants outside her front door with the concentration of a NASA launch engineer. We came for a coffee and a pitufo in perhaps not the most beautiful establishment in the world, but served with such Spanish simpatía that it becomes the most gorgeous feast. We came for night-time strolls along the paseo. For stopping for a caña or two. For a tinto de verano when the heat softens and the sky turns gold. For chatting to locals and tourists simultaneously, somehow understanding half of everything and still feeling completely part of it. We came for life. Real life. Not scheduled, optimised, automated, filtered, password-protected life. And then there is work. Once upon a time, going to the office gave structure to your day. It gave rhythm. Purpose. Social intercourse with colleagues — and I use the phrase in its proper, old-fashioned sense, although frankly after lockdown even a conversation by the photocopier began to feel wildly intimate. Then offices became almost a thing of the past. But not for the Euesdens. Oh no. We may do many things. We may pivot. We may adapt. We may occasionally swear at printers. But surrender entirely to the dining room table? Never. Over the past few weeks, we have been moving with the speed of gazelles. Admittedly, gazelles with paperwork, reading glasses and occasional back pain, but gazelles nonetheless. One balmy June evening, during our nightly dog-walking outing in the pueblo, we drove past an office. There it was. Waiting. Calling. Practically fluttering its eyelashes at us from the side of the road. Faster than the speed of light, Mr E turned the car around and obtained the number. Now, being the least fluent in Spanish of the two of us — which is a remarkable achievement after 30 years, but one must own one’s gifts — I somehow found myself speaking to María, the owner of the office. And just like that, an appointment was made for the following day. And there began, all over again, my love affair with Spain. Because Salvador and María are exactly the kind of people you imagine when you dream of the real Spain. Trusting. Open. Family-orientated. Local business people who still do business as we did when we first arrived here three decades ago. Handshake first. Contract later. Human first. Paperwork somewhere behind, waving frantically and demanding a photocopy of your NIE. The town hall has not changed much either. Perhaps it is a little slower than I remember, but then again, who among us is not? Half the staff are probably not even in the town hall anymore, but imprisoned at home, trundling through paperwork like whirling dervishes in ergonomic chairs. And this is something we have discovered we simply cannot do. Our home is our home. It is our castle. It protects us from the world. It is where we kick off our shoes and become us again. Dogs running around demanding cuddles, biscuits, walks and the sort of attention usually reserved for visiting royalty. Dinner to be prepared and eaten at leisure. An evening nightcap on the terrace. Coffee with a forbidden piece of chocolate, unseen by outside parties and therefore legally calorie-free. It is where the colourful son appears for a cup of tea and a Tunnock’s, bringing with him that particular family energy that says, “I am only staying ten minutes,” and is somehow still there two hours later. Home is not a place of work. At least, not for us. We leave that at the office. And there is nothing more satisfying than putting together an office. Cleaning it. Preparing it. Imagining it. Making it a visible extension of your home, but with slightly fewer dogs and hopefully better filing. Buying the extra touches that make it undeniably yours. The chair. The plant. The lamp. The little things that whisper, “Something is beginning here.” Because that is what an office really is. Not just walls. Not just desks. Not just somewhere for the Wi-Fi router to disappoint you. An office is hope. Is this the next success story? Where is it going to lead? What chapter is going to unfold in this magical place of dreams, deadlines, coffee cups and mild printer rage? Yes, of course there is frustration. This is Spain. There will be licences. There will be paperwork. There will be unspeakable amounts of paperwork. There will be multiple copies of the same documents handed to people who will look at them gravely, stamp something with great authority, and then ask for the same documents again in a slightly different order. There will be internet companies who require proof of identity, proof of address, proof of existence, proof of patience and, quite possibly, a blood sample from your maternal grandmother. There will be suppliers who also want impossible copies of the same documents. There will be moments when you look at a form and think, “Is this a contract or a personality test?” But still, it is a pleasure we would not change for the world. Over our 30-year Euro Weekly News life, we have lost count of the number of offices we opened. Each one holds memories. Characters. Adventures. Experiences. Drama. Comedy. Tears. Laughter. Success. Disaster. Comebacks. All of it, frankly, belongs in a Netflix series. And no, we would not change any of it. It is part of our heritage. Part of our journey. Part of who we are. By now, we are experts at opening offices in Spain. So if you need an office opened, you know who to call. And it is not Ghostbusters. It is the Euesdens. But what makes this little office so special is not just the space. It is the people. We have been adopted by the family. We have met their grown children — although whether children ever truly grow up is still open to debate and should probably be discussed over wine. We have met the grandchildren. We have been welcomed, watched over and cared for in that gloriously Spanish way that makes you feel not like a tenant, not like a client, but like a person. Yesterday, I could not visit the office because we are still awaiting the internet installation on Thursday. In the grand scheme of my day, it was not imperative. The office was not going to run away. The desks were not going to elope. The Wi-Fi, naturally, had not yet arrived to cause emotional damage. But still, María called. Not to chase. Not to pressure. Not to ask for another document. She called to see if we were both OK. To see if we were happy. To ask if we needed anything. And there it was. The Spain we fell in love with. Commercialism with compassion. Business with heart. Kindness without performance. It is still alive and kicking here in Spain. Perhaps after the pressures of the past five years, you have to look a little harder to find it. But it is there. And when you do find it, it is a wonderful experience. Before the invitations are sent out for our little opening, we have a dinner first. With the family. In their courtyard. Under the stars. Prepared and served by them. Talking around the table with two guiris who have somehow survived 30 years in Spain, doing things the Spanish way with Lancashire accents. And really, is that not the dream? Yes, we need technology. Yes, we need automation. Yes, we need apps, digital signatures, online banking, cloud storage, AI, systems, reminders and all the modern miracles that stop us from drowning in admin. For me personally, technology is not a luxury. It is necessary for life. But let us not forget why we moved here. It was not just for the big yellow thing in the sky, although let us be honest, she does help. We moved here for the Spanish way of life. For the food. For the culture. For the laughter. For the logic that makes absolutely no sense until one day, suddenly, it does. For the passion. For the noise. For the late dinners. For the family tables. For the local businesses. For the people who remember your name, your dogs, your coffee order and possibly more about your life than your own relatives. For the way Spain can frustrate you at 10am and make you fall in love with her again by lunchtime. That is the magic. That is the madness. That is the life. So yes, the world changed. COVID changed us. Brexit changed the rules. Technology changed the rhythm. Screens changed the way people work. But Spain — real Spain — is still here. She is in the morning coffee. The evening paseo. The caña on a warm night. The town hall stamp. The family courtyard. The handwritten number on an office window. The unexpected phone call from María asking if you are OK. And after everything the past few years have thrown at us, that feels not just precious, but powerful. So hasta pronto. Viva España. Let us do life the way we choose. The Spanish way. With paperwork in one hand, a pitufo in the other, Wi-Fi hopefully arriving on Thursday, and faith that the next chapter may just be the best one yet.