I Moved to Spain, Not Just the Patio

After 20 years beside the Mediterranean, Michel Euesden is discovering that living in Spain means more than maintaining the house and getting through the paperwork. It means saying yes, getting involved and actually enjoying the country on her doorstep.

A house full of hombres, a parachute without a plane and the realisation that I’ve spent twenty years beside the Mediterranean without making nearly enough use of it.

Honestly. People book holidays to do what I keep driving past on the way to the bloody bank.

As another busy weekend approaches, I thought I’d write while no catastrophes have actually caught up with me.

De momento.

They may simply be finishing lunch. Even impending disaster deserves a menú del día and a little sobremesa.

The House Is Still Full of Men

For a woman doing Spain solo, I require an extraordinary supporting cast. I’ve seen smaller entourages accompanying royalty.

And Antonio, of course.

Antonio is practically a fixture. If I ever sell, the estate agent will have to clarify whether he’s included.

You can live with someone for thirty years and never realise they weren’t particularly domesticated. No, I don’t mean he bit people.

He might do now. Bless him.

Neither of us lay awake whispering, “Darling, when did we last change the filters on the special water taps?”

No seductive conversations about rewiring. No pool-maintenance pillow talk.

We bought the bloody house twenty years ago. Things got done while we were at the office. We came home, water appeared, lights worked—and our marriage survived another day.

Marital bliss. Nothing keeps romance alive quite like never having to locate the stopcock.

Now there’s no “we”.

But I’m still at the office.

Only before the office, I’m dealing with the bloody men.

Every day is a school day. Unfortunately, my timetable includes plumbing, electrics and advanced Finding the Thing the Man Is Pointing At.

“¡No, la otra!”

Of course. The other one. We only have an entire bloody house to choose from.

Everything wants attention THIS year. Now Teddy George is the only resident fulfilling the testosterone role, the house has apparently requested reinforcements.

Either that or word about the custard creams has reached every building site in Málaga.

Teddy supervises. Gracie judges. I make tea.

There will always be another filter.

The Mediterranean, meanwhile, has been patiently waiting for me to finish my admin.

Then There’s the Gym

Yes, I’m still being voluntarily electrocuted weekly. Given Antonio’s regular attendance, surely we could negotiate a package?

At the local gym, more testosterone awaits, with men determined to give me muscles I haven’t ordered.

“¡Vamos, Michel! ¡Una más!”

There is ALWAYS una más. I finish ten and apparently there are four left. Spanish gym counting deserves an independent inquiry.

I’m trying to fill my diary, cariño. Not split the sleeves of my jacket.

And when a 120-kilo beast whose gym kit smells as though it hasn’t been washed since Covid tells you to lift something, you lift it.

“¡Respira, Michel!”

I will, darling. But first we need to discuss washing powder and fabric conditioner.

Possibly a pre-soak.

But I’m there. Using the place. Meeting people. Attempting things. Expanding both my Spanish vocabulary and, against my wishes, certain muscle groups.

I’ve Become the Girl Who Can’t Say No

Meanwhile, I’ve become the girl who can’t say no.

I’m the CEO of my own life, operating without a finance director, an administrator or anyone remotely more sane than I appear to be when accepting everything I’m invited to.

My mouth commits. My diary fills. My brain finds out on arrival.

The Parachute Without a Plane

Which brings us to Monday.

My lovely friend Val Williams had organised a birthday parachute experience. Naturally, I asked no sensible questions.

There I was, swimming costume on, shorts and vest over the top, expecting to jump out of an aeroplane.

Meeting point: Fuengirola port.

Un momento.

Was I checking in beside the sardines? Would somebody weigh my handbag on the fish scales?

It was parasailing. A parachute pulled by a boat.

No plane.

A fairly substantial detail to miss, but in my defence, I’d been busy agreeing.

Up above the boats, the beach and the throngs of people—absolute peace.

Just sea and sky. Nobody requesting a photocopy of my NIE. Nobody announcing “tenemos un problema”. Nobody calling “Michel!” from inside a cupboard.

For once, nobody could hand me anything to sign.

Qué maravilla.

And beneath me was the coastline I see all the time.

Except I was actually seeing it.

“We live beside experiences people save all year to come here and enjoy. Then we tell ourselves we’ll try them when somebody visits.”

Not through the windscreen between appointments. Not as the background to another phone call. Not while thinking I must buy washing-up liquid.

It was beautiful. And I was part of it.

How had I never done this before?

Stop Waiting for “One Day”

We live beside experiences people save all year to come here and enjoy. Then we tell ourselves we’ll try them when somebody visits.

Why? Do we need a relative arriving with hand luggage before we’re allowed an afternoon out?

I seem to have appointed myself permanent resident and occasional spectator.

Well, resignation submitted.

I want to use what’s around me. The sea. The promenades. The sports facilities. The little streets I haven’t walked down because they don’t lead to anywhere on my usual list.

The market where I could buy something different instead of marching towards the same six ingredients as though under military instruction.

The café where I could sit long enough to learn somebody’s name.

The local event I keep saying looks lovely while making absolutely no arrangements to attend.

At this rate, Un Día needs its own page in my diary. It’s carrying more appointments than Monday.

And enjoying Spain doesn’t require being attached to a parachute. You can keep both feet on the ground and still broaden your horizons.

Take your coffee into the square. Walk beside the sea. Try the class. Ask what’s cooking. Stay for the conversation after lunch instead of treating the arrival of the bill as an evacuation signal.

Sobremesa. A wonderful arrangement in which you’ve finished eating but nobody expects you to become useful immediately.

I could be quite gifted at that.

Becoming Part of the Place

We chose a life here. Of course it feels different from the life we knew before—we’re living in another country.

We can remain foreigners and still become neighbours. Join in. Speak our imperfect Spanish. Get something wrong, laugh, learn and try again.

My grammar occasionally needs roadside assistance. Somehow, the conversation survives.

I’m not handing over my tea or my custard creams. Let’s not become unreasonable.

But there’s room for those and a tostada con tomate. Familiar comforts and new experiences. We don’t have to choose one menu for the rest of our lives.

Perhaps plan your peaceful beach day somewhere inland. Your inflatable flamingo will thank you.

The People We Meet Along the Way

Tuesday, after a day at my favourite place that we don’t talk about, brought dinner with the Hookers and the Americans.

Calm down. They’re friends.

Although by the time this reaches the third urbanisation, I’ll have opened a nightclub and somebody will be asking about the dress code.

Steve, who is Asian American, chose Chinese food—something I thought I didn’t like.

Delicious.

Another opinion of mine requiring a small administrative amendment.

Perhaps it’s time to reconsider what I actually think I like—and what I now don’t.

Food. Activities. Assumptions about the sort of woman I am.

Apparently, she eats Chinese food and goes airborne on Mondays. Who knew?

The boys were on such form I could hardly eat for laughing. If I develop abdominal muscles, I’m crediting the dinner guests.

Their sessions come with a chair.

And that’s another part of the life we’ve chosen here: the people. Spanish friends, friends from elsewhere, people whose paths might never have crossed ours if we’d stayed where we started.

What a waste it would be to live among all those different stories and only ever listen to our own.

Perhaps It’s Time to Say Yes

Then came the man with the brain.

The extraordinary brain. The voice of pure gold. The man who could change my life.

Now, put your café con leche down. I can hear the chairs being pulled closer.

Bang on time. Even cleverer than expected. More charming than I could ever have imagined.

Madre mía.

I went in expecting a conversation and came out needing to reconsider the plot.

And yes. I said yes.

Perhaps these past two years have been preparing me for a life Teddy, Gracie and I could never have imagined.

But first, paperwork.

In Spain.

Even a bright new future needs a photocopy.

They say you should live a life you design.

I’m letting life design mine—with a little more curiosity and considerably fewer automatic “that’s not for me” responses.

We chose Spain. Let’s enjoy the place itself, the people, the food, the customs and the opportunities around us. Let’s give ourselves permission to be enthusiastic residents.

The chores will still be there when we get back.

Antonio certainly will.

Just in case an enthusiastic yes means I don’t make it home, the will is with the new lawyer. The custard creams have been bought in bulk.

Don’t forget Teddy and Gracie, or expect determined licks until you fulfil your obligations.

Gracie does not accept mañana where biscuits are concerned.

Que me quiten lo bailao — they can’t take away the dancing we’ve already done.

And we’re not finished dancing yet.