Starting a New Life in Girona: Real Experiences from an Expat

Articles by Carrie Clark Wood (@notthepitcher).

Moving from the US to Spain: What We Learned

Moving from the US to Spain - what we got right and what was much different than expected.

Things We Got Right

• Bureaucracy = Snail on vacation. We knew bureaucracy would be slow, but we didn’t realize we were signing up for the Scenic Route to Residency. After two months of obsessively refreshing the appointment website like it was concert tickets, we gave up and let a lawyer do their dark magic. Success! We now have fingerprints nearly on file and a bonus 6-hour round trip road trip to near the Andorra for the pleasure of offering our prints. Andorra was on the list eventually—just not sandwiched between government paperwork and car registration purgatory. Speaking of which: can’t register the cars until the fingerprints are processed, and the current ETA is... September. Maybe. Ish. But hey, when your expectations are "glacial drift," anything faster feels like lightspeed.
• A pool is not a luxury. It’s a life raft. We've apparently arrived just in time for Spain’s Greatest Hits: the Rainiest Spring, followed immediately by the “Why is my skin sizzling?” heatwave collection. Bonus round: a freak power outage that hit Spain, Italy, France and Portugal like a dramatic telenovela plot twist. The humidity? It's not weather, it's a lifestyle. When it hits 100%, the sky pretends it might rain, but instead just sits there, sweaty and smug. Moral of the story: the pool is not for fun. It’s for survival. They don’t call it a plunge pool for nothing. You have to plunge about every 3 hours to stay reasonably cool.
• Flying in Europe is what dreams are made of. We read that flights are cheap once you're in Europe. They lied—they’re even cheaper. 20 euros to Mallorca? Don’t mind if we do. Less than $50 to Paris? Oui oui! If this keeps up, we may start choosing destinations by in-flight snack options.

Things We Got Gloriously Wrong

• Cycling would be good. We thought (and knew from previous trips) the riding would be solid. Ha! That’s like saying the Mona Lisa is a decent doodle. It’s not just good—it’s soul-alteringly beautiful. Every ride is a postcard with elevation.
• Making Catalonian friends would be hard. Another swing and a miss. Locals here are next-level friendly. Warm, generous, kind, and—most importantly—fluent in “foreigner in mild distress.” They’ve become some of our closest friends and our unofficial cultural translators. Bless them for tolerating our linguistic adventures and repeated attempts to explain why we still don’t understand jamón etiquette.
• Food is cheap! (ish) We nailed this and totally blew it. On one hand, the fruit and veg are fresher than fresh (in the ground the morning we buy them) and cheaper than bottled water. On the other: monkfish doesn’t come with a discount. Also, we “accidentally” discovered the Roca Brothers and, uh... spent the grocery budget for two months on one meal. But it may have realigned our chakras, so... worth it? Yes, I think so.
• Trains are Swiss-watch precise. The fantasy: trains run like a choreographed ballet of punctuality. The reality: 38% of German trains are late. We were shook. It's a good thing Europe is pretty, because we’ve had time to stare at it while waiting on platforms.
• CrossFit would be the same. Oh, the optimism. Turns out, Girona CrossFit is where they train Avengers. I joined the "less intense" gym and still got humbled. Lightest dumbbells? 10 kg. Pull-up bars? Clearly designed by NBA players. Rings? Suspended somewhere in Earth’s upper atmosphere. I asked the owner if I could buy lighter gear. He looked at me like I’d asked if I could knit during class. And yet, within days: new weights, lowered rings, and more training bars. Miracles do happen. Or I scared him. Nope, he is WAY bigger than me and gives me something to aspire to when I can finally lift the weights that were in the gym when I first came.

So… Is it everything we thought it would be?

Not even close.

It’s better. It’s weird, wild, frustrating, beautiful, hilarious, and humbling. Despite the hiccups, the detours, and the bureaucratic treasure hunts, we keep finding magic in the chaos. Our planning couldn’t have predicted any of this—and thank goodness for that.

Because in the end, we didn’t just get a new home—we got a whole new story.

Why We Moved to Spain

Ah, the question everyone asks, and no one actually wants a full answer to. They expect one neat sentence like, “For the tapas!” or “For the sunshine!” But the truth? It’s a long list: better food, glorious sunshine, a radically different (and in our opinion, far better) way of life, lower cost of living in many areas, better healthcare (although I am a Kaiser lover, truly) a community of like-minded wanderers, personal growth, change, adventure…the list goes on. When I once paused when asked this by a U.S. Embassy worker —unsure if he was asking in an official capacity—he saw my pause, shrugged, and said: “There’s only one explanation. It’s Spain!” And honestly, that sums it up beautifully.

So what actually makes life so different here?

1. Nobody cares what you do for work (unless they’re American).This is one of the greatest cultural upgrades. Never—not once—has a Spaniard asked us, “So, what do you do?” My friends’ professions remain a complete mystery unless they casually reveal it through some random expertise. It’s refreshing, liberating, and something I never even realized I needed until I lived it.
2. Phones at the table? Absolutely not. Meals are sacred; for talking, for connecting, for savoring food that tastes like it was made by someone’s grandma who loves you. If you’re invited to lunch, block out your calendar. Lunch starts around 14:00 and may or may not last until dinner. You are not meant to rush. Also, the waiter will not hover around every four minutes asking, “How is everything?” They’re not ignoring you—they’re giving you peace, silence, and permission to enjoy your life. Need something? Just ask. It appears instantly like magic. We have yet to experience “bad service,” but we suspect many visitors confuse peace with neglect.
3. Time> Money. Always. People work hard here—but no one worships the hustle. No one brags about being “so busy.” Life is not lived as a competition. Example: Some businesses simply do not open during holidays. Why? Because life is for living, not for selling socks or processing Amazon returns. Also, Sundays? Nothing. Is. Open. Daily everything shuts down between 13:30 and 17:30, rain or shine. The whole city collectively agrees to take a nap and you just…adjust and then pinch yourself that you are so lucky to live where this is what is valued.
4. Everyone is bilingual…at least. In Catalonia, everyone grows up speaking both Catalan and often also Spanish. Most people under 70 add English on top. Meanwhile, we’re celebrating mastering the past tense of “to go.” Someone corrects our grammar almost daily, and always with kindness. Trying is succeeding when it comes to speaking Spanish. Catalan? That will be our reward once we survive the driving test—which fewer than 50% pass on their first few attempts. Yes, really.
5. Celebrations are a way of life. Fireworks? Weekly. Holidays? Constant. Festivals? Everywhere. There’s always something to celebrate—saints, seasons, food, the harvest, the moon, your neighbor’s cousin’s dog…you name it. Although we arrived without family here, we’ve gained an entirely new one: brave souls who also said “let’s just move to another country where we understand about 40% of what’s going on.” And unexpectedly, local families have welcomed us with a warmth that is genuinely touching.
6. Spain is huge and wildly diverse. With 17 autonomous regions, each basically its own little country, no two places feel alike. Everything we’ve described is our life in Catalonia—and even here, every corner is different. We can’t wait to explore—and inevitably fall for—the rest of Spain.

The Reality of Moving to Spain

Sell everything and hop on a plane! Easy, right?

Wrong. Starting a new life abroad is less “Eat, Pray, Love” and more “Project Management From Hell: International Edition.”

First, you must begin the visa process six months before you even dare pack a sock. This requires collecting every legal document you’ve ever owned—from your birth certificate to that marriage license you lost sometime during the Bush administration. Then everything gets translated into Spanish, notarized, and sent to a Competent Authority—which, if you’ve worked in Medical Devices like me, is a phrase that triggers the same fear as “FDA would like a word.”

Next up: the apostille. Think of it as notarization wearing a ball gown—ribbons, seals, stamps, the works. Processing time ranges from “same day” to “geological era.” Only after THAT can you assemble your visa packet—ours was two inches thick each and professionally lawyer-stacked so nothing was missed… until something was missed. Thankfully the Consulate took pity and let us sprint to Kinko’s like contestants on The Amazing Race: Bureaucracy Edition.

While waiting, we began the emotional Olympics of decluttering 30 years of belongings. Keep? Sell? Ship? Burn? Store at parents’ house because it’s too good to toss but too ugly for Spain? Living in the same house for 25 years means this takes approximately six months of 12-hour days. Social life? Please. We’ll see you…never.

Then came logistics. Containers, flights, pets—timed with NASA precision. Three days before departure, the airline kicked our German Shepherd off the plane for exceeding the weight limit. Changing our flight would’ve destroyed our house-closing schedule, so we hired a flight nanny, which apparently costs more than two business-class seats and includes a bonus European vacation—for the nanny, not us.

House closing in Spain? One signature and an agreement to wire a terrifying amount of money “soon.” The trust involved is mind-bending.

Meanwhile, we lived in Spain on a tourist visa while the LA Consulate examined our application with the intensity of a dragon guarding treasure. We received visa approval before our “overnighted” luggage showed up—68 days later (overnight apparently means “sometime this quarter”). Spanish holidays added at least a week delay per fiesta… and there are many fiestas.

When the visas were ready, our ocean container decided to arrive at the exact same time. We had to choose: fly to LA and risk missing delivery or wait and risk overstaying our tourist visa and becoming squatters in our own house. We gambled. It mostly worked. They released one car; the other was held hostage for another month. Hopefully they enjoyed the free test drive.

In summary: The timing involved in moving countries makes an FDA for-cause inspection look like a casual brunch. Retirement is peaceful now, but the six months leading up to it? Holy. Moly.

What We Mean by “Quality of Life” (Catalonia Edition from an American perspective)

When people ask why we moved to Spain, we usually say “quality of life.” This is often followed by a polite nod that suggests we’ve either discovered a secret beach or joined a very tasteful cult.

So here’s what we actually mean.

Quality of life isn’t about doing less.

It’s about life being easier to live.

In Catalonia, many of the things Americans work very hard to add to their lives—health, calm, connection, good food, movement—are simply built into the day.

A few examples:

• Time has shape. Days include walks, meals, errands, and conversation. Work happens, but it ends. Evenings are still intact. We often see both parents picking up the kids from school at 5 o’clock in the afternoon.
• Movement is automatic. People walk to bakeries, cafés, markets, and pharmacies. Fitness happens quietly, without apps, gear, or heroic effort.
• Food is ordinary—and excellent. Good coffee costs a couple of euros. Lunch is real. Eating well isn’t a special occasion or a financial decision.
• Public life is lively. Children play in plazas. Older people are out daily. Families eat late. Benches and green spaces are everywhere, and they are used. And, it is green all winter which is such a delightful sight for someone coming from brown, dry Colorado which can get quite depressing around this time of year when it looks like there is no sign of life left.
• Work has edges. Lunch exists. Vacation is expected. Shops close. Messages can wait. Ambition does not require exhaustion.
• Healthcare is calm. Clinics are nearby. Pharmacies give advice. Getting sick is inconvenient, not terrifying.
• Nature is close. Beaches, mountains, and countryside are normal parts of life—not something that requires planning, gear, or a long weekend.
• Consumption pressure is lower. Phones last until they die. Coats last for years. Homes are furnished slowly. Nobody is constantly upgrading their identity or adding something to their “inventory” just because someone else just did.
• Social connection is frictionless. You see the same faces. You exchange greetings. Belonging happens without scheduling.

In short: A good day here doesn’t require planning, money, or recovery. Life doesn't feel like something you escape from on the weekends. Rest isn’t a reward. Success isn’t measured only by speed or output. Monday doesn’t feel like a personal betrayal.

Catalonia optimizes for continuity over intensity, daily pleasure over episodic reward, and human systems over maximum efficiency. That's what we mean when we say quality of life.

Learning to Feel Safe in Spain

Knowing Spain is safer than the U.S. intellectually is one thing. Actually relaxing is another sport entirely.

Case in point: I stopped my bike for a discrete nature break and a car screeched to a halt, hazards flashing, driver sprinting toward me yelling. I assumed I’d committed some sort of roadside crime. Nope. She thought I’d crashed and leapt into full rescue mode. Spain: where strangers stop traffic to help you pee safely. Since when are cars a safety net when cycling?!

Then there was the pet store. A mom and daughter were buying aquarium fish at the same time we were. However, all the tanks they were interested in were quarantined as the fish had just come in. They followed us out to the parking lot. My American instincts screamed GET IN THE CAR NOW. Reality? They didn’t want to ask their question in the store for fear of making the shopkeeper feel bad. The mom just wanted to know where else to buy aquarium fish because her daughter was heartbroken, leaving with nothing for her aquarium. No kidnapping. No scam. Just sad fish vibes.

At night, I still reflexively lock doors, roll up windows, clutch keys like a wolverine, then remember: oh right, Girona. Not a crime documentary. I roll the window back down, turn the music up, and enjoy the evening like a normal European.

Barcelona? Crossbody bag, always. Girona? I recently left my handbag—with €300 and more importantly, my national ID (which took a year of planning and 6 more months to actually get)—across a restaurant for three hours. Was it smart? Absolutely not. Was it fine? Completely.

Learning to trust public spaces again is a work in progress. But so far, Spain keeps gently reminding me: relax… we’ve got you.