Well, hi, it’s been a while. Here’s a quick rundown of the last six years: second baby born, new remote role, COVID, move to France and back in six months, knee-deep in motherhood and (mostly) single parenting, and finally the opportunity of a lifetime: three years in Riyadh (pssst: I moved over to Substack for the Saudi chapter. Check out and follow Cat in the Kingdom!).

Our arrival in Saudi Arabia in late September hasn’t exactly been a soft landing, but it somehow hasn’t been that hard, either. And, honestly, once you’ve moved abroad once, you can probably handle just about anything. Even when you’re only equipped with the Arabic word for “after you”, a good sense of direction and the open-mindedness to say, “why the hell not?”

Saudi is wild: it’s a hybrid of the America I wanted to get away from, what with its super highways and strip malls and flashy brands. Yet, it’s somehow peaceful and slow. For more than half a year, we have been sitting on the knowledge that we were about to do a 180 in our lives. And as our plane flew over this vast city upon approach, two months later than we intended to arrive, it was a total pinch-me moment.

I didn’t reveal anything much on social media until we had boots on the ground – I’ve learned in 18 years in Spain that nothing is ever promised when it comes to the government. Here are the most common questions I have gotten in the last two weeks:

Why Saudi?

We juggled the ideas of the United States (and then laughed at ourselves for even considering it) as well as European destinations like Belgium or Germany or Italy. 

What it ultimately came down to were two important factors: where will the kids and I feel the safest, and where will we be able to meet our financial goals while not sacrificing the things we like to do? So, again, we laughed at ourselves for considering the U.S.

The Novio heard of an opportunity in Riyadh right around Thanksgiving last year for a three-year stint, working in something extremely similar to what he was last doing as a civil servant in Spain. He interviewed while I was boarding a Florida-bound flight, and we found out in early February that he had been selected and our process had begun. I won’t get into specifics out of respect for his privacy, but the conditions were superb, so I didn’t hesitate to tell him yes, go for it.

What’s more, the Novio speaks Arabic and has always expressed interest in living in a country where he can speak it on a daily basis. That said, English is common place – from the road signs to the people you encounter. We took the kids for burgers last week, and my husband tried to order in Arabic. The cashier simply said, “Sir, I am from Ghana and do not speak Arabic.” In a city like Riyadh, where the non-native population hovers around 40%, I have not had too many difficulties asking for help or communicating.

How are the boys adapting? What are they doing for school?

The last few years have been a lot of upheaval for us, starting in January 2023 when my husband moved to Madrid for work, and I decided to tough it out alone in Seville so that their grandparents would be nearby and they wouldn’t have to change schools. It was a lot to handle on my own, and I didn’t do it very gracefully. Then, my mom died suddenly, my dad had two big health scares, and the grief consumed me whole. I went to sleep before midnight on New Year’s Eve and sobbed for having survived it.

I saw 2025 as a total do-over to be better, healthier and brighter for my kids, and to help them through this transition. Having been in an international school in Seville, they both speak and understand English and are used to friends coming and going. That said, it’s been a shock to their system. We have moved from their childhood home to a temporary apartment down the street to a compound for 10 days until we finally got our residency numbers to be able to settle into a new apartment. They had a few days before starting a new school.

In Saudi, we chose to take them out of the French system so that they could focus on English; the school we found – thanks in no small part to my office’s CRM – offers Spanish for native speakers, too. For the most part, they like their school. They do not like having to take the bus an hour each way or the 7:15 start time.

There have been a lot of tears, more bickering and phsyical fighting and attitude. I don’t know how I could have prepared them better for this but know we’re in for the same when we finish this chapter and go back to Spain. With two pre-teens in tow. 

Compound or apartment? What ammenities do you have?

My ultimate dream when having kids was to have a yard where they could play (or to where I could send them if I needed a minute to myself), and compound life was set to give me that dream in a detached villa. Reality usually comes back to kick you in the culo, right?

Traffic (and traffic rules) are insane in Riyadh. We chose our compound based on the distance from the boys’ school near the financial district and the availability of a bus route, and my husband’s workplace in the DQ. We also wanted to stay closer to the median of our budget.

When I began sending inquiries, I was shocked at the prices – many of them were more than I make in a year before taxes. I began using Instagram to check out places and get a feel for the communtiy in each one, and we came to a short list of five. 

Housing is hard to come by in compounds, despite a huge surge in the foreign population and building projects (this entire city is a construction site). Many of the places we had on our short list could not tell us about availability so far out, or they required a full year up front. My husband only toured our top choice, Azure Hittin, and signed a pre-contract to move in at the end of September. 

From the few days we have been here, I think we chose well. The apartment is just a squeeze smaller than our home in Seville, has a small balcony that opens onto a garden, and each kid has their own bedroom. There are padel and basketball courts, an insane gym, four pools and a small supermarket, plus a game room and playground for the kids. 

How are you filling your days?

Dude, shuffling the kids to the bus at 6:30 a.m. and having a whole day in front of me with nowhere to walk to and no meetings to log in for has been a big change. My company would not retain me remotely due to data concerns. It took me some time to come to terms with leaving not quite on my terms; I asked for a leave of absence for three years according to the family care provisions that Spanish companies must give you by law.

Many women in our compound are in a similar situation, so there are coffee dates and meet ups and people at the pool at all hours. For now, I am prioritizing getting the house organized, catching up on emails and podcasts and rest, enjoying SILENCE after a whole summer of the kids with me 100% of the time. I have some standing invitations for coffee with other connections around the city – but there is plenty of time for that. I’m also looking forward to delving into some learning and some projects that have been on hold for several years.

Is it really as hot as they say?

Yes and no. Riyadh is so close to the equator that the sun is only 12 hours (this sent me into a tizzy the first week, as I am used to it being dark only after dinner in Seville!), but the nights don’t cool off that much. We have our A/C on around noon and set to 27º until bed time, but today’s high is 31º, and the low is 22º. 

That said, I am getting out of here once the kids are done with school in late June! Temps stretch into the 50s.

When is your storage container coming?

No comment. We’ll be fortunate it it comes before Christmas; apparently the summer months are heavy transit times, so our late-coming paperwork pushed back the arrival to port date. 

We made a trip to Amazon 5.75, Saudi’s version of a bazaar, and have been getting things on Amazon, so the four suitcases’ worth of content will have to do for now! Fingers crossed my moka machine arrives in the coming days, because the instant coffee is not cutting it. Everything else, I can wait for.

Recently, at a dear friend’s belated birthday celebration, her hippie friend brought out a deck of animal tarot cards. While I scoffed as the other guests drew a card, I got curious and drew a praying mantis. This, of course, sparked a lot of giggles and a not-so-amused look from my husband. But Espe read that a praying mantis is an animal that waits for the universe to tell her when and how to strike. Fitting, I think, for someone who is experiencing the violent jump from hustle culture (hello, I worked full-time and then took care of running the kids around and the household) to have nine hours a day just for myself. 

I moved over to Substack for the Saudi chapter. Check out and follow Cat in the Kingdom!) I’ll definitely be posting on instagram (you can follow me here) and getting out more soon – and there are no pictures on this post due to, I’m assuming, the VPN.

Why Madeira?

The Camino de Santiago has been a transformative journey for countless pilgrims and even secular holidaymakers. It’s a place of self-discovery and cultural exchange. Its impact goes way beyond the individual as it’s contributed to local economies and promoted sustainable tourism. If you find a particular route gaining recognition online, you can bet that the local hospitality industry of the villages along the way see a boost.

Madeira, with its breathtaking natural beauty and steep history, is an ideal location for a similar route. A route through the Levadas has been formed in order for travelers to find a structured way to immerse themselves in the Portuguese island’s community and history.

Potential Routes and Landscapes
Madeira’s geographical features make it an exceptional location for a pilgrimage route, particularly the damp northern valleys. The island boasts a network of well-maintained levadas. The historic irrigation channels that wind through forests and along steep cliffs to offer unique views of the Atlantic Ocean. The local government has taken lengths to preserve and restore these networks, and they serve a civic purpose, too: they carry water to the dry southern end of the island as well as generate hydropower.

There’s a lot of coastline packed into the island of course, giving it a more marine and nature-focus compared to Santiago. In particular because there is the serene Rabaçal Valley, which is home to the 25 Fontes waterfall.

What to Expect on the Madeira Route
Heading off on the Madeira pilgrimage route (or any walking holiday in Portugal, for that matter), you can expect a little bit of everything. The island’s diverse ecosystems is the main focus of the trip, but also that it’s compact and manageable. You’re never far from civilization, yet you can often feel lost in its otherworldliness.

There’s a lot going on in regards to trees and flowers, such as the endemic Madeiran Firecrest and the rare Madeiran Orchid. The route offers opportunities to engage with local communities, and they are a friendly bunch. There’s a lot of traditional cuisine to try too, particularly when you come across a cultural event or mini festival.

Exploring The Ultimate Route
The ultimate Madeira pilgrimage route starts in Machico and concludes in Funchal, covering a distance of 58 km over 8 days. This is a good amount for both casual holidaymakers dipping their toe in the waters of hiking holidays, but it’s also enough to excited more experienced hikers too.

Walkers will come across coastal paths and colonial villages, seeing significant natural landmarks like Cabo Girao cliff and the San Lourenço Peninsula. The route includes visits to traditional fishing villages like Caniçal and Câmara de Lobos, and exploring local markets. You don’t need to head all the way West of the island, as much of the nature and culture is in the middle and East.

Conclusion
The proposal to create a Camino de Santiago-inspired pilgrimage route in Madeira has become a reality. There’s a ton of potential for undergoing a personal challenge in an environment that can often feel beyond Europe in many ways, yet remains distinctly European in much of its culture. This post was written in collaboration with Orbis Ways. I completed the Camion de Santiago’s Northern route in 2013, and you can read about it here. 

As a former teacher and a summer baby, I have always loved the hottest months of the year. It’s an excuse to subside on ice cream and gazpacho, to relax on languid afternoons with the persianas drawn to keep the cool in the house, to seek out a refuge in the mountains or close to the coast. Workdays are shortened, and balmy nights stretch longer than normal. Now that I have a (remote) staff job at an American university in Spain, my summers are only as long as my allotted 22 vacation days, but we tend to pack in some time on the road – and on both sides of the Atlantic.

Late June: Sweet Home Chicago

I’m pulling the kids out of school early to attend a work-related conference in my hometown. My parents moved to Colorado after the pandemic (well, my dad chose go and my mom was dragged, likely kicking and screaming, away from her beloved Chicago), effectively “unanchoring” me from the Midwest. I know – it was me who chose to move abroad in the first place – but knowing I could always come home and relish in a Chicago summer kept me afloat when I was lonely. That said, not having the constant pull of friends actually made my entire family really close, and we get to explore a totally different part of the country. After a few days in Chicago, we’ll head out west for three weeks and then bookend the trip with another week in Chicago to see friends and family. The Novio will join us for the last week.

Late July: On va à Normandie!

After a successful road trip last summer, spent crisscrossing Spain (seriously, we went from Seville to Murcia to Madrid to Galicia, across to Bilbao and back down to Madrid, sleeping in no less than seven autonomous communities but hitting a few others), we’ve come to the conclusion that we love the flexibility a car gives us.

And, thankfully, our kids are REALLY good car travelers.

Once we touch down in Madrid and recover from jetlag, we’ll be piling in my car to spend two days driving up to Caen to visit a friend. I have honestly been dreaming of France since we moved back from Lyon nearly four years ago, and this trip will allow us to hit some castles and new cities on the way up and down. And eat cheese.

My last trip to Normandy, I still had a learner’s permit. Now that we have the freedom of a car, I’d like to visit the D-Day beaches and Bayeux again, explore Caen from a local’s perspective and perhaps find time for Rouen and Mont St. Michel. I have also been dreaming of visiting St. Malo since reading All the Light We Cannot See ten years ago (skip the miniseries and read the book instead, please!!).

Oh, and as a petite pause during this trip, I will be catching a train down to Paris for the Olympic Games! My dad recently asked me what my biggest bucket list item is, and I giddily replied that it was to attend the Olympics in person. I’ll be attending women’s artistic gymnastics qualifiers, men’s and women’s football and a trip to the Fan Zone for men’s beach volleyball (look for me on TV!).

August: Pá casa

August will have us back in Seville. People assume I’m insane for wanting to be here when the city is devoid of people, where the midday sun forces you inside during the prime hours of the day. But honestly, it’s one of my favorite times of the year: an excuse to rediscover Seville via its air-conditioned museums and casa palacios by day, and indulge in late bedtimes for the kiddos after the sun goes down.

Where are you headed this summer? Let GPSMyCity help you plan!

To celebrate my favorite season of the year I’ve teamed up with GPSMyCity to give three of my readers a FULL ACCESS pass for the year on up to two devices! Unlimited trips, tours and local suggestions are right at your fingertips to make planning your summer escapes easier.

GPSMyCity is all about losing yourself without actually getting lost! The software allows local experts to craft walking tours of over 1500 cities around the world, and you as the traveler can browse routes for your destination. From historic sites to great bites, there are literally thousands of different guides and maps that you can download right to your phone and use on or offline – or, create your own guide to download. If you love to explore on foot, you’ll love using GPSMyCity.

Entering the contest is easy: you’ll just have to comment on your summer plans (or, your dream summer plans) on this post!

The contest will end on May 24 at 11:59 P.M. CEST, and I will announce the winners. If you’re chosen, I’ll send along a special claim code and instructions for you.

Disclosure: I’m also an author with a few posts and routes about Seville that you can download if you’re ever in town. Please note that the Seville articles authored by me are affiliate links, and this blog earns a commission if you purchase and download them. Thank you for trusting me with your trip! I was not compensated for this post.

France was a lovely little séjour, despite those pesky aspects of living abroad. Every pain au chocolat  reminded me of being 16 and traveling around France with my grandfather, every new word learned was a small personal victory to untrain myself from Spanish while slowly making sense of street signs and school communications. In a year where no one traveled, a summer of exploring a new home base became our salve, the balm that soothed away all the scary stuff and ever-present threat of the virus.

We spent six months living in Écully, a wealthy village of 18,000 people just west of Lyon. The largest park was on the grounds of an old château (now home to Lyon’s premiere cooking school and the only hospitality school restaurant in France to hold a Michelin star), the village church and Liberté-Fraternité-Egalité-emblazoned mairie anchoring a small downtown that was once the carriage route to St-Etienne. It wasn’t Belle’s Alsace but it was pretty damn cute, the homes named for flowers, doors overgrown with lilacs and ivy and random châteaus hidden behind apartment complexes.

I didn’t blog. The attempt to jot down a vignette or two every week suddenly seemed a momentous task after a day trying to fumble through French and not get lost and perfect a quiche lorraine. I truthfully didn’t want to find the time to do it. And now, half a year since we returned to Spain, I am ready to talk about it. And, truthfully, I don’t want to forget.

I have been a Francophile since I was a kid. Maybe it was growing up reading Madeline, or my mother’s obsession with French silk. I begged her to let me learn French at a fancy sleepaway camp in Minnesota, something I’d read about in a magazine. She scoffed that I could go to the park district camp and wade in a creek instead of drowning myself in baguettes.

By the time I was 13, she signed the permission form to let me start language classes – Spanish. I got the last laugh when I married a Spaniard and Nancy lost me to the mother continent.

Lyon. While Paris has long swooned me, I fell deeply in love with Lyon. The city is home to the second largest urban area in France, crowned by the Monts d’Or and framed by the confluence of the Rhône and Saône rivers.  Les gones – a nickname given to the lyonnaises – are comme si-comme ça about all things Parisian, crown themselves as the gastronomic capital of France and have witnessed some of France’s most emblematic events. The Romans. The Gauls. Antoine de Saint-Exupéry. The Lumière brothers. Jean Moulin. Paul Bocuse.

Mon dieu, I was in love with this place before even looking for flights, much less asking permission to work from another country. I would wind my way through the streets of the Croix-Rousse like the old canuts, dine in every restaurant Bourdain had stopped in on Parts Unknown and pick up my produce and cheeses that reeked of grass and the countryside at the Saturday morning market. I had dreamed of living in France since kids were learning French on tapes, and it was finally happening. Quelle aventure, la France!

March 2020

As the weather warmed, so did my urge to get planning. When I first moved to Spain, fresh out of college, I literally left just about everything to chance. I had spent a few days in Seville and knew I liked it, but the prospect of living there didn’t register when I was subsiding off of gazpacho in the July heat as a study abroad student.

We interviewed with a relocation company that specialized in expats one afternoon. As the Novio’s job as a civil servant got a delightful smirk, hearing I was American and hadn’t yet mentioned the prospect of moving was troublesome to her. Add in two kids who needed schooling and a budget during a housing crisis, and she declined to work with us. I was aghast: someone was refusing our euros?

Little did I know just how much I would hear the word non when we eventually got to France that summer.

Well, then the rest of March 2020 happened, and I promptly cancelled my trip to the U.S. that summer and planned on an été français.

April – May

One silver lining of the pandemic is that housing options suddenly opened up, meaning that the offerings were suddenly ours for the picking. We weighed commute against price against outdoor space (post-pandemic trauma is real) and found a suitable place in Écully. I loved its proximity to the city of Lyon and the village’s town center; my husband loved that it was 1.5 km from the autoroute and only 20 minutes to his new headquarters.

After we’d booked our house, schooling for Millán suddenly got solved, too. I had long heard the praises of the public education system in France, but that a spot at a crèche was about as difficult as getting one at an elite preschool in New York City. I took to Facebook as any old millennium would and immediately found a Facebook group called Españoles en Lyon.

Un tal Fulanito messaged me, un voisin d’Écully by way of Huesca, and he sent me the inscription forms, detailed information about timetables and the names of a few good places to check in town. On a whim,  I called one, not even realizing that there was a crèche a lot closer to our new digs.

“Âlo?”

I tried, in French, to ask about inscriptions. She told me someone would call back (I think), and he did (thank goodness), but it wasn’t until he wrote me an email that I thought to ask if he spoke Spanish or English. François (“me llama Ud. Paco, s’il vous plaît!“) was half Spanish, with an andalusian surname.

As it turned out, the woman who appealed to the mayor, Mme. Parfait, had called that morning to ask how many spaces François would need, and if I could just send the baby’s birth certificate and our proof of housing, he would ask for a five-day spot for Millán.

This.could.not.be.more.perfect.

It was all falling into place. Enrique’s school was LITERALLY across the street, and Millán had somehow gotten a spot (COVID, you fickle bitch). We had a home, my Spanish to French translations had arrived, and I could finally start dreaming about ma via française.

I bought tickets for July 2, direct to Lyon from Seville.

June

As Seville began to awaken and we could finally leave our homes, that travel-panic mode kicked in. I still hadn’t learned any French and, despite having everything seemingly under control, I’d never been more wound up. The pandemic definitely made my anxiety shine hot and bright, and my family was often on the receiving end of grunts and shouts. We made tentative plans to come back in late October, when Enrique would have a school break, so I dutifully packed our bags for the summer and early fall, chose a few toys and books and helped the Novio pack the car.

He arrived to Écully on June 23, found the nearest supermarket, his way to work and a few other Spanish families. I moved in with his parents, juggling the kids and work while tip-toeing around my father-in-law’s schedule. As I was sending out an email invitation to 40,000 juniors in high school, I received an email from Transavia that my flight had been cancelled.

I rebooked on Air France for the same day, via de Gaulle, forwarding my mother-in-law the tickets to print.

Oye, niña: Millán’s name is spelled incorrectly, she announced as she passed them to me.

I was aghast. HOW could this be happening? She shooed the kids away while I called Air France. And waited. And waited. In a post-COVID world, there were so few operators that I was on hold for hours before the agent told me I’d have to call Air France in France. Cue more hours on the phone, a credit card that had reached its limit, my American card assuming the purchase was fraudulent and the tickets on July 2 selling out. I was nervous that borders would close just as soon as they’d opened up, so I hastily booked us onto the July 4th flight via Paris. It was three times as much as I’d paid on Transavia originally, and my privilege was on full display right then and there. I could afford to book and rebook – what would it be like fleeing for our lives when I was crying over an extra two days in Spain?

July

We made it to July 4th. As my mother-in-law helped me wheel the bag to the check-in counter at the Seville airport, I felt a sense of relief that we were almost there, that my gumption (or truly just my stubbornness) had got us this far. Millán slept the whole flight to Paris, waking up as we touched down. The airport terminal was practically a ghost town, but that didn’t stop my kids from rolling around on the ground, sticking their suckers on every surface and pulling their masks down.

Let me remind you that the early summer months was a very small breath of air, like breaking to the surface after being underwater. There is the awareness that the virus is still circulating freely but no one has really, fully let down their guard.

Breathe, Cat. You will be fine.

Only NO ONE in France was wearing a mask when we arrived. The enormous Carrefour in Grand Ouest didn’t enforce them until later in the month when cases began to climb. Vieux Lyon, a UNESCO World Heritage site and huge tourist draw, merely suggested wearing them indoors. My family were the only weirdos masking up unless we were eating because we didn’t want to be assholes (and we didn’t know enough French to survive a hospital setting – despite everyone needing a hospital but me during our stay).

But WE WERE IN FRANCE.

I got to exploring the village in our first days, not wanting to spoil Lyon by going without the Novio. We found all of the bakeries, slowly working from one end of the display case to the other, with me clumsily ordering coffee. The betting house had cheap beers, so we stopped there after the park for Super Bocks and a sirop, the French version of a soft drink, for the kids. I even got a loyalty card at Picard for frozen foods.

Le (merde de la CAF)

One morning, we marched over to the town hall and asked to speak to the woman in charge of school assignments. She was impressed that I had gotten my documents translated to French and – voilà, Madame – gave me the cell phone number of his Spanish-speaking teacher, who wrote me an email that same afternoon.

I called François at crèche and asked about the adaptation process for Millán and how to complete his registration. Do you have the CAF? he probed, telling me that he could not finalize the process nor tell us how much we would owe for care until he did.

And thus began the two-month odyssey into getting Millán registered for daycare. The CAF, or the caisse des allocations familiales, is the social services body that serves families and young people, often giving rebates according to salary. When creating an account online to request our family allowance, I realized I’d need a French phone number. That was easy. I’d also need a French bank account. Every bank we tried told us no – either because of U.S. tax laws, or because I’d tried to get a bank account without my husband’s signature (who could guess that the patriarchy in France was more dominant than in Spain?). One flat out refused because he said our short stay was not worth his time. The Novio was frustrated by having to take time off of work, and the CAF refused our Spanish bank number.

There was a bright spot: when we stopped by LCL, a woman heard us discussing the situation in Spanish. Odiel, a widow who had lived in Écully her whole life, offered to accompany us to other banks as a translator and quickly became a friend.

By the end of July, we had finally succeeded in opening a compte nickel, which is an account that is typically reserved for refugees before they are fully established. We kept the minimum amount – 20€ – in the account and paid Enrique’s school cantine through school intranet.

Bank account and French number in hand, I applied for the CAF number online and went to Social Services to request help. After 10 minutes of bank and forth and calling another social services office, I was told to stop the following morning for a doctor’s appointment and to speak to the official in charge of the CAF in town. We were getting somewhere! I treated myself and the kids to macarons as the church bells rang. Because it was noon. And, just like Spain, everything closed in the middle of the afternoon.

The following morning, I showed up at the Maison de la Metropole, a trailer in the middle of a dirt lot. We saw a doctor, who spoke enough English to give my kids a clean bill of health and a few hints about the CAF, and then said they’d be closed for the entire month of August. Damn, Europe.

August

When I wasn’t dealing with bureaucrazy, Millán turned a year old and began walking, we spent a lot of time on our terrace and in the yard with the neighbors and finally exploring the city’s museums, parks and bakeries.

It could have been easy to mourn the loss of our summer in the U.S., but every weekend brought the opportunity to see how much we could cram into 48 hours. The hilltop Dauphinais castle at Allymés, followed by a walk around Pérouges. Down to Grenoble and to Vienne. We even made it to Geneva on our wedding anniversary and to the Black Forest to celebrate our birthdays. The weekdays meant working while Millán napped and spending the afternoons somewhere – often a park, a château or a park next to a château.

Enrique woke up most mornings asking, “Where are we going today, Mommy?” My intrepid three-year-old definitely takes after his mother.

I would occasionally meet other families at the park who spoke English, or who I could cobble together our basic story. But my very Spanish children couldn’t muster getting out of the house before noon, which meant that the parks were often for us while families had their midday meal.

September

In late August, I took Millán to the adaptation days for the crèche. It was lovely to meet François, who was gracious but told me it was impossible to do anything without the CAF because the computer system wouldn’t let him input information.

In the meantime, I looked for childcare options for Millán. Getting an assmat, or an assitante maternelle, was also impossible without the CAF, and the micro crèche in town was 800€ for five days, part-time (we pay 280€ for full-time in Seville). I took to Facebook again, where we found a lovely nanny who had lived in Chicago before coming to Europe, and she watched the kids each Wednesday and on school holidays. Oh, yes – Enrique had no school on Wednesdays, so I decided to keep Millán home, too. My kids adored Natalia, and as Millán napped, we got to know one another over tea.

Taking Enrique to his new classroom on September 1 was a slow, steady build up to a taste of freedom. For nearly six months, they’d been my little shadows. It was hard to work, to exercise, to sleep with the constant interruptions of kids. But it was also bittersweet after six months of new adventures, new milestones and time to grow as a family unit.

François called shortly after the start of the term and told me that we’d been given a provisional CAF number but had to present a number of documents. So, it was back to Maison de la Metropole, but I asked the Novio to come with one of his French coworkers for assistance. They took our documents, bank statements, copies of our family book and maybe two years off our lives due to stress, but we were finally given a provisional CAF number that was set to expire on December 31.

The next step was to petition for the spot to the mayor, who would have to cover any extra expenses if we weren’t able to pay for the schooling. At the end of September, I had both boys in school four days a week. Formidable, non?

October

Some time in mid-October, I suddenly felt adapted. I didn’t rely on my GPS or I didn’t fumble over my words at daycare to tell them when Millán had woken up (only to discover, a month later, that I had reversed word order). The library and children’s center recognized my children as les americains. I learned that the 69 on the license plates corresponded to the metropolitan district. Auverge-Rhône-Alpes shrunk to the Rhône shrunk to the le Metropole to le Grand Ouest and to Écully. Our world seemed small yet expansive simply because it was different.

We’d been to the big draws, and I jotted down small museums and villages to visit in our second half. There were wine harvests and film fests, and we’d hardly ventured to what Lyon offered further away from the Presqu’île.

“They’ll never shut our museums or cinemas, pas les choses culturelles,” they whispered. Enrique was home on a Tuesday, thanks to the ever-present vacances in the French school system. We said goodbye to his sitter and I stuffed him quickly into the car, got some McDo and found a spot to park in Vieux Lyon. Another lockdown was imminent so I wanted to take him to see one more Guignol. A distant relative of Punch & Judy, Monsieur Guignol is the beloved lyonnais puppet whose shows were social commentary on the buttoned-up Catholic society in the early 20th Century. We loved him. The theatre was packed, and Enrique sat on a shallow, overturned bucket as Guignol outwitted the evil proprietor of Club Sandwich to get the francs that he owed Mama Swing, who didn’t even have money for a hotel and was forced to sleep out in the cold.

We ended the outing with ice cream from René Nardonne next to a slate grey river. It was the last time we’d be able to eat at a restaurant, but we were told one month until freedom and culture and normal life. You know, to save Christmas.

November

I held out hope that my December holidays could be cashed in on a museum day and eating somewhere on my ever-longer list. I had to laugh: my Spanish cellphone company informed me I’d start paying roaming on November 3, so I only used WIFI while at home (and I was ALWAYS home). We stopped spending money on entertainment, instead using our allotted one hour out of the house, time-stamped attestation in hand, to see how much of our one kilometer perimeter we could trace.

Life became mundane – gads! boring! – while in France. But we were in FRANCE. Where only the self-proclaimed gastronomic capital could have outrageous prices on every piece of produce but cabbage and fish that tasted like freezer burn at a fine dining restaurant. It rained every day and eventually the neighbor’s geese stopped honking.

December

I called Menchu on Tuesday afternoon to see if she was free. The Confluence mall, with its cheap parking and endless dining options, was our halfway point, a merging of both our rivers and our families and our shared experience. “Jo, muero para tomar un café” Starbucks and a long stroll to the car became a simple taste of freedom and we joked about how Madrid was wide open to the French, but we couldn’t venture further than 15 kilometers from our homes.

The month went by quickly. Packing, purging, eating through whatever was in our freezer. We planned for a Christmas with Ángel, Menchu and their children but prepared for a feast at home. The pandemic brought out the resourcefulness in me: we made wreaths out of paper plates, a nativity from a 12-pack box of Kronenburg. My car battery died, and I could somehow find a place to get it replaced after buying Christmas presents at Carrefour. The days ticked down, and it made me sad to think of the experience we had lost by moving abroad during a pandemic. For my husband, it was six months of torture. For me, it was six months of reminding myself how exciting everyday life can be.

C’est fini

As we pulled away from Chemin du Chancilier shortly before the end of 2020, I bouncily told my eldest to wave goodbye to his school out the window. Au revoir, Stèphane! Au revoir, petite section! He asked for the tablet as I felt tears prick the corners of my eyes. Down we went on the A-6, crossing the Presqu’île on a needle-thin bridge before turning south on the A-7, the gastronomic motorway between Paris and Marseille. Out past the refineries, the shabby outskirts, snaking down the Rhône towards the Mediterranean.

I left Lyon with a heavy heart. Maybe it’s because Millán began walking here, and Enrique got his first stitches as I held his hand and looked away (and onto the Château d’Annecy, what!?!?!?). Maybe because it was my chance to live in a country that has forever captured my heart, even if the chance to really do it right was muffled by a global pandemic (can we say it again? Fuck COVID). Maybe because I need some challenge on a more regular basis.

When you meet people and know that your connection to them is fleeting, every minute seems important. François. Odiel. Julie. Menchu. Natalia. I have been overwhelmed with the generosity and warmth of the few people we have met and even wrote the mayor a thank you note to express my gratitude that he saved Millán that spot at the crèche.

Into 2021

What I may have liked best about those six months in France was how simple our days seemed. Even in the ho-hum of daily life, even when we were shuttered away, once more, in our homes, I couldn’t shake the tingly magical feeling. That we’d weathered a global pandemic, only to find ourselves more willing to try something new, to explore. And there were no extra distractions: no doctors appointments or social engagements, not always running off to see something and snap a few pictures. We had the space to grow together as a family over meals, trying to make sense of French pop songs and their odd music videos (Je te voie, Julièn Doré) or testing out all the snacks at the gas station as we visited little villages or explored further afield. I find myself craving the butter and cheese crackers that cost more than a 12-packs of cans of 1664 beer as I type.

There are little things about Lyon that have stayed with us: Millán’s favorite stuffed animal is called his beloved doudou, and Enrique’s birthday cake was a whimsical take on Guignol. We tend towards camembert when we can find it. I bought a six-pack of 1664 just because (I definitely didn’t get it for the taste) and work to French pop.

“You know we’ve been home for six months already.” The Novio is right, anything post-pandemic lockdown seems to have passed at warp speed since.

Home is where we are truly anchored. What we brought to France fit into my car, underneath kid feet or jammed into the crevices between seats. I brought a cheap bottle of Beaujolais jeune in Oignt on our third and final trip to that beautiful little village, and maybe we will drink it some day and reminisce about that time were were foules enough to move to a foreign country during a pandemic.

Yes, it was disappointing in many ways. I didn’t get the full experience I had been dreaming about since reading about the girl who lived in an old house in Paris, covered in vines. The French I learned was by way of a little green owl. The boys missed swim class and play dates and even catching a last guignol show.

Je ne sais pas, I still can’t put my finger on what France was. As the days fade into summer, as we plan for the long, hot months and the upcoming school year, I pine for it. Life seemed simple, simply because we had one another and a good rind of cheese and the balmy summer nights watching the sun set over the old farmhouse next door.

Am I vraiment folle for moving abroad during a pandemic? What other topics should I cover about Lyon or France?

The midday bells are about the shrill from the Giralda. I duck into shady Plaza Santa Marta, where the overgrown trees send lines of light against whitewashed walls and the stone cross. It’s one of those places on the tourist drag that no one seems to know about, hidden deep in a maze of streets in the city’s old Jewish quarter.

The bells sound, clear and solitary – there are no clipping hooves or megaphones or even cars.

Mateos Gago has been paved over, a pedestrian paradise for whenever it is that the tourists will return. But half of the storefronts sit empty – there are no tourist shops, and only the mainstays of Peregil, Patio San Eloy and Cervecería Giralda, which recently made headlines because of the Arabic hammam found during recent restoration work, are open.

The sevillano Disneyland of Santa Cruz is a ghost town.

¡Sevilla para los sevillanos! they always say. But then one realizes the extent of destruction that the castle in the sky that the city on the Guadalquivir built. A city built on tourism will fall when the tourists aren’t coming.

Helen and I sit under an awning on the breezy afternoon. It’s been more than a year since we’ve seen one another, so we chatter away in English as if we’d had a coffee together last week.

“Hello my friends!” A sevillano, patillas and gominola and all, smokes a cigarette nearby as I move the stroller out of his way. “No, no, please! Please do the work!” The work is feeding a baby but we humor him as his wife, above us on the first floor, shouts down that his English is shit. “You like my city?”

I point out that he’s wearing a mask emblazoned by the flag of Extremadura with “extremeño” embroidered (of course it’s embroidered) on one side. Helen points out that we’re locals.

He looks as though he’s been sweating on the only cool afternoon we’ve seen in the city this month but starts in on his life story: an extremeño whose family sells pork products to many of the tourist-catering eateries on Mateos Gago. Judging by how empty those bars are, I can imagine he’s had a tough year.

But he continues exuberantly, listing off his wares as if he were entertaining a moonstruck guiri over a cervecita in Plaza Salvador: “…sausage, ham with the black foot, white wine, the sweet and the dry, whateveryoulikeeh!…”

Seville has succumb in the last dozen years. Menus are in English (and French, and Italian, and German). Souvenir shops have elbowed out the neighborhood staples. A city that prides itself on lo castizo y lo popular is becoming a place where you can hear a puño of languages on any given street of Barrio Sant Cruz. In my early days, hearing English was a momento for rejoicing, not eye rolling.

Triana and a great number of its mainstays have weathered the pandemic that brought the world to a near standstill. El Centro has not.

El torero. La flamenca con la guitarra. Ese es el imagen que vendemos a los extranjeros. Es lo que les llama la atención. The guide at Casa Fabiola doesn’t realize that the last to join her 12:30 tour is extranjera as she takes us through the Fundación Bellver pieces painted by foreign artists. The bullfighter. The flamenco dancer with a guitar. That is the image we sell to foreigners. This is what gets their attention.

Maybe it’s alegría, it’s joie de vivre that you should be selling us. Where are noontime libation is taken in a bar that once housed an Arabic bath. Where sobremesa is a way of life. Where a city sealed off to the world (and anyone outside of the province for the time being) is both a death sentence and a nirvana for locals.

I breathe in the azahar once more. Like the empty streets of Santa Cruz, I know it is fleeting.

As the world begins to open back up, we are all traveling dreaming. Moving to Lyon for half a year was a salve for me, balm to cure my travel bug temporarily. But for someone who always has half a dozen places in mind for my next trip, there is really only one destination I am yearning to go to: Madrid. Both on a professional level and a personal one, I am looking forward to jumping on the high-speed train, booking into a COVID-certified hotel in Madrid and walking the streets of Chamberí – mask on and with caution.

If you’re traveling to Madrid during the COVID-19 pandemic, there are a few things to keep in mind so that you stay safe and healthy while respecting both national and local laws.

While the federal government is anchored in Madrid, many of the granular level decisions about activities, tourism and commerce during the pandemic are delegated to the 17 regional governments. For this reason, Madrid’s curfew is at 11pm whereas Andalucía’s is at 10pm. The city of Madrid is found within a region of the same name (la Comunidad de Madrid).

The most current information can be found on the Comunidad de Madrid’s COVID-19 information page (Spanish). Here are the highlights at the time of publication:

Vaccination and Vaccination Passports

Vaccination groups are determined by regional governments, though the Spanish government pays for and distributes the doses to them according to population. The federal government recently halted inoculations of AstraZeneca for an undetermined amount of time. April will be a month that determines the rhythm of vaccinations, and the Spanish government has announced that its goal is 70% or more of the population immune by September.

Currently, there is no need to present a vaccination passport.

Mobility Restrictions

At the moment, borders to the Comunidad de Madrid remain open, and the Comunidad will not close them despite encouraging citizens to limit movement unless necessary.

If you need to move in or out of a restricted ZBS, you will need a permission slip. Justified reasons include to attend a doctor’s appointment, for work or for educational purposes, or to care for another person who cannot take care of themselves.

Note: Madrid will be closed during the weekend of the Feast of Saint Joseph (Wednesday, March 17 through Sunday, March 21) and Holy Week (Friday, March 26 through Thursday, April 9).

Transportation

Madrid is a wonderful city for walking, and this is arguably the safest form of transportation. You can also rent a bike through BiciMadrid or a private outfitter, grab an Uber or local taxi on Cabify or use the Renfe commuter trains, Metro de Madrid or red city buses to get around. Contactless payment is preferred, masks are required and each mode of transport operates at a lower maximum occupancy with additional reinforcements at peak hours.

Dining and meeting with others

Having visitors over to your home is still expressly forbidden, but social groups are allowed in small numbers: outdoors, you can be up to six people, whereas indoors are limited to four. Restaurant occupancy in Madrid is set to 50% indoors and 75% on terraces, restaurants are open for business until 11pm but cannot accept new diners after 10pm; takeaway options can continue to serve until midnight.

Shops

Shops and large shopping centers can be open during the day at up to 50% occupancy, so long as they are closed by 10 p.m. Exceptions to this would be any sort of business that is considered essential, such as pharmacies, vets or gas stations.

What to do in Madrid during the pandemic

Madrileños are having a field day enjoying their city in a springtime with fewer crowds. Theatres, movie theatres and cultural attractions can have up to 75% of their maximum occupancy filled, and large venues, 40%. Typical holiday celebrations have been postponed this year but Madrid boasts expansive parks, world-class museums and plenty of street life. Visit the official Madrid Tourism page to check what’s open and happening.

You can also enjoy the province, so long as the ZBS is open.

As always, take normal precautions: wear a mask (it’s the law), socially distance, wash your hands frequently and don’t travel or go out of your home if you’re experiencing any symptoms compatible with COVID-19.

Traveling may be far from your mind, even with the long Holy Week celebrations around the corner. It’s really a double-edged sword: Spain’s tourism sector is reeling after an entire year (and more!) lost, yet it’s not wise to be free-wheeling . When it’s safe, I will be back in La Capi, gladly revisiting all of the places that made our years in Madrid special.

This post was written and published on March 17, 2021. At the time of publication, all information was current.

This post is in collaboration with Hotels.com, but all opinions are my own.

Chico tells me he misses Sevilla. I do, too – it seems like just as soon as I moved back, we were making plans to leave. When Paulina reached out to me for a guest post, I was happy to relive the days where Sevilla felt very much mine, exploring its every rinconcito.

The Andalusian capital, Seville, is a remarkable city for traveling solo in Spain. Filled with beautiful architecture, museums and vibrant streets, it’s a great destination to wander and enjoy in your own company.

Here are the best things to do in Seville in 3 days as a solo traveler:

Take a tapas tour

Seville has an array of incredible experiences to offer to its solo travelers and tapas tour is one of them. Embark on a gastronomic journey across the best tapas bars in town to savor delicious Andalusian food.

The guided tours give the perfect opportunity to meet new people, enjoy tapas paired with a glass of wine. This tour promises a quintessential Seville experience and every solo traveler must go for it.

Enjoy a Flamenco show

Flamenco is an enchanting art form that brings together singing, dancing, and guitar playing. It’s the pride of southern Spain, and Seville has some amazing venues where you can witness a remarkable Flamenco performance. The shows are held throughout the city in numerous bars, tablaos, theatres and even museums.

As a solo traveler, the best way to enjoy it is in an intimate setup where you can sit close to the stage. This gives you a chance to get hooked to the brilliant expressions of the talented performers. It’s an experience that should not be missed on your visit to Seville

Stay in a cool hostel

A typical dorm room in hostels. This one is Grand Luxe in Seville.

With numerous choices available in Seville, zeroing in on a place to stay is an interesting task. As a solo traveler, it’s time to switch your search from the best boutique hotels in Seville to the best hostels. It can be your best bet as prices are reasonable and hostels have a fun vibe.

Hostels encourage socialization by hosting amazing dinner events, walking tours, pub crawls and much more. Staying in a hostel is the perfect way to make new friends, party hard and enjoy an unforgettable experience. Further, Seville will not disappoint you even if you are a backpacker who prefers a quiet hostel setting.

Get lost in Santa Cruz neighborhood

Step into the fascinating history of Seville by wandering in the narrow streets of Santa Cruz. From magnificent palaces, churches to plazas, there is a lot be explored in this splendid neighborhood. This popular tourist destination was Seville’s old Jewish quarter and you will stumble upon several architectural marvels here.

Every part of this neighborhood has a story to tell about the 3 influential cultures that once existed in Andalusia. Santa Cruz is the perfect destination in Seville to get lost and take the joy of solo travel to the next level. Some of the best family hotels in Seville are also located in this neighborhood.

Explore Plaza de España

Plaza de España is known to offer a visual feast to visitors with its incredible architecture. It was built in 1929 and is located in the gorgeous Maria Luisa Park. This renowned destination has been featured in many movies including Star Wars and Lawrence of Arabia.

You can spend the day by strolling along the plaza, taking a boat ride and admiring the beauty of this marvelous location. The only companions you need to take to Plaza de España are your camera and your selfie stick.

The tiled alcoves representing the provinces of Spain is a favorite spot among visitors for photography. Besides, it has amazing fountains, bridges, and canals that create the perfect backdrop for beautiful pictures.

Visit the Cathedral and climb the Giralda tower

The centuries-old Seville cathedral is an emblematic landmark of the city and a UNESCO World Heritage Site. It’s the world’s largest Gothic church and is famous for its stunning architecture. Solo travelers love this place as they can take their time to pay attention to the meticulously designed interiors.

The cathedral’s bell tower, La Giralda, is 104-meter-high and you can reach the top by ascending the 35 ramps. The awe-inspiring sight of the city from the top makes your climb worthwhile.

Visit food markets

The delightful dining scene in Seville is a result of the fresh ingredients used in its cuisines. You can get your hands on the fresh produce by visiting the local food markets. You can find everything from fruits, vegetables, meat, fish to even spices at these markets.

You will find myriad delicious options of what to eat in Seville at these lively food markets.
It’s a great choice if you are wondering where to eat in Seville as a solo traveler.

Visit Las Setas de Sevilla

Photo by Seville Traveller

Las Setas de Sevilla, shaped like mushrooms, is one of the largest wooden structures in the world. This contemporary building attracts visitors with its quirky design.

Las Setas has three levels that house a museum, a restaurant, a market and a public plaza. The highlight of the building is its terrace from where you can enjoy fantastic views of the city.

Visit the museums of Seville

Seville is home to many museums that lets you witness the incredible art, culture and history of Spain. The museums boast splendid collections of everything from antiques, paintings, archaeological exhibits, traditional garments to contemporary art.

Museum of fine arts, Flamenco museum, Andalusian museum of contemporary art are the most popular museums in the city. Make the most of your solo trip by visiting the museums and enjoy an enriching experience.

Visit Triana, my neighborhood!

Located on the west bank of River Guadalquivir, Triana is considered as one of the best neighborhoods in Seville. This vibrant district is famous for its charming streets, markets, ceramics and Flamenco.

Triana is home to the iconic Castle of San Jorge and the Church of Santa Ana. This neighborhood is undoubtedly a backpacker’s delight and best explored on foot.

About the author:

Paulina has lived more than five years in Spain and fell in love with Seville. Maybe because of the delicious food? Or the stunning architecture? Or the great weather all year round? Probably it’s a mix of all! She is a writer about her favorite places in Andalucia at visitsouthernspain.com

Fifty days in my home, stealing quick trips to the garbage bins and the supermarket. Fifty days balancing a full-time job and two kids, plus a husband I am not used to seeing all the time. Fifty days with an excuse for baking cookies, sleeping in past 6 am and watching the boys’ clothes grow too small or too short for them.

Ever felt like a tiger in a cage? So did nearly 47 million people living in Spain. Confined to our homes under the strictest lockdown measures in Europe, May 2nd meant an hour of freedom outside the confines of our walls, from watching the world from a window or balcony.

At 9:09 pm, the boys both sound asleep and the Novio splayed on the couch watching CSI (ugh, again), I slip on shoes and a light jacket.

“¿Te vas?”

Sí, voy.

My camera and I need to walk further than the nearest plaza or supermarket. I close the door silently behind me and head east. I need to see the Puente de Triana, the golden bath over the Giralda as the sun sets behind me.

I don’t feel the same solidarity as others – I live in a house next to an empty house. There are no music concerts or comunidad-wide bingo games. We can steal glances at the neighbors, mostly elderly, who rarely venture from their homes but to clap for healthcare workers at 8pm. Even as I write this, I have only just run into someone I know today. We had a cervecita planned when the spring came.

In these fifty days, springtime in Sevilla – fleeting in even the best years – has given way to the start of a blistering summer. Within a few weeks, we won’t leave the house until after 9, when the day finally cools at the edge of night.

Hasta el 40 de mayo… you can’t leave your house. But when you do, so will everyone else.

The Novio had taken care of most grocery runs and going to work occasionally as an essential worker. I’d been content to watch Enrique run around the patio in circles while baby Millán tries to escape his playpen, the sun on my face.

At 1 pm, we have a beer in El Bar de Mi Casa. I hadn’t ventured more than 300 meters from my house, much less to my favorite cervecería, mandated closed since March 14th.

My route to daycare normall takes me here, to the heart of Triana’s commercial district. Past bakeries, bars, small shops. Tonight, frayed signs, hastily printed out and with vague messaging about reopening, flutter as people go by, on bikes or scooters.

The most jarring? I’m staying home. Closed until the virus passes.

I’ve felt quarantined for months, to be honest. Giving birth during the hottest months of a punishing summer. Single parenting during the week. Get up-work from home-take care of the boys-work from home-take boys to park-bedtime routine-sleep. Four days straight. Home became my new normal way before COVID-19. I lived for brief trips out for groceries or necessities. A drink on my own while the baby napped in his strolled or I could run out without either one.

Those little moments were mine. A coffee at Pedro’s on the way back from work, running into Raúl at Aldi every Monday morning. I don’t miss people so much as I miss my rituals (sorry guys).

I’d like to say that I walk sin rumbo. But Triana has been my home in Spain for six years – I know where she hides her secrets. And I knew San Jacinto would be packed with people.

As the sky turns a cotton candy pink – a telltale sign of the beginning of summer and its end, much like the end of total lockdown and the beginning of de-escalation – I turn north. Zig-zagging through the narrow alleyways near Las Golondrinas, I turn on Calle Alfarería.

This street, once home to the ceramics factories that give it its name, is now pocked with new housing developments. Most respect the stucco facades and wrought iron balconies. But the modern housing units that connect Alfarería and Castilla seems…odd. Here? I skip down it anyway.

Spit out on Calle Castilla, which snakes along the western bank of the Guadalquivir, I hear things. Bike bells. Neighbors laughing and calling out to one another. Church bells. My days have been anything but silent, but I have missed white noise.

I’m struck at how crowded the street is – I shouldn’t be. Sevillanos live in the street, treating the bar or the tapas joint downstairs as their newspaper, their living room, their inner circle.

Plus, a famous couple lives here and the previous week’s Feria de Abril – celebrated on balconies rather than the fairgrounds – meant the street is still tangled in bunting and the remnants of tattered paper lanterns. Nos puedes quitar la Feria, pero nunca la alegría. Amid so much death and uncertainty, the spirit of the locals is as strong as ever.

There is nothing so sad as a tattered farollillo, and the sight of one on the Callejón de la Inquisición pinged me in the side, the sadness for a springtime, lost. I haven’t had a primavera sevillana since 2016, and it shows.

There’s a man loitering next to the Callejón. I ask if he’s waiting for someone to pass, and he points to his dog, a grisly German Shepherd, while flicking the butt of his cigarette to the cobblestone. He’s been able to go out with his pet since the beginning, so it’s apparent he’s not buzzing with elation like I am.

Sunset was is at exactly 9:25, and the Paseo de la O is bathed in the yellow light of the streetlamps. He llegado.

My barrio is one of lore – inhabited by sailors and gypsies, haunted by flamenco chords. When I lived in Madrid, my neighborhoods was just that – a jumble of apartments and parking places and old man bars and city. Forever and ever, amén.

Triana is chaotic. Wild. Familiar. Foreign.

And breathtaking.

The jasmine and jacaranda have bloomed while we were locked away. Wildlife has returned to all part of Spain, and Triana’s river looked clearer than ever. I breath in the deep scent of the flowers, the damp of the river, the clean air that is not tinged with old oil in the fryer.

I take just as long to cover 150 meters as I do a kilometer, in awe of the bridge, the beauty, the barrio and the smell of a city, waking up.

We are on our way. This will be over. For all of the grief I’ve felt over the last seven weeks, I feel a small seed in my stomach – hope? Bliss? Hunger?

I am not alone on the Guadalquivir banks, of course, but I may as well be. Gone are the fisherman on the thin stretch of gravel, the tables that spill out of restaurants on Calle Betis. There are no teenagers draped over the steps of the Faro de Triana, limbs linked as they stare downstream towards the Torre de Triana.

For once, I felt that the city belongs solely to me.

Circling back, I bypass the bridge in favor of the street. The bars here are stacked one on top of another on a normal day, and the patrons, too. Eerily quiet on a Monday night, though the next morning would see businesses beginning to open their rejas halfway as employees worked to disinfect in the hopes of opening on May 11th.

But, briefly, there was just a city and its people and nothing more. Honestly, did we ever need anything more?

It felt like the first night I ever spent in Triana – a silent Sunday evening when I found everything was closed at twilight and everyone was hunkered down in their home, waiting for Monday. The swallows circled overhead, black torpedoes against a fading sky.

I wish I had something prolific to say about being home for so long and finally rediscovering the world outside of my doorstep. But truthfully, I go to bed every night thankful that I have survived kids, dust bunnies and trying to manage my sanity, my household and my job. That we are safe and healthy. That I have not run out of books or food or patience (or, um, allergy meds).

Seville isn’t itself – but it’s for the better. When I left Seville the first time, I felt heartbroken and hopeful, all at once. My friend Juani had recently moved back from Chile and said it best: you have to leave Sevilla to truly love it.

And, maybe, you have to leave it but then return and have it forbidden. Either way, I can taste the Cruzcampo at La Grande, hear the bellowing of neighbors in the plaza.

I scoffed, but eventually heard horror stories of people held at customs for not defaulting their student loans or not filing their taxes. Back before we had smartphones, I scanned and made copies of all of my bank statements just in case Uncle Sam came calling. Every April 15^th, I gloated over all the zeros on my tax returns.

Then came love, marriage and the baby carriage, and I entered the murky world of filing taxes in Spain as an employee, dutifully filing in both countries.

A dozen years on, my interest in protecting my assets while understanding tax laws for my little American passport-totting Spanish children had me looking to the experts for more information about how and when to report my earnings abroad, as well as how to generate a positive return. It turns out that I had little idea about the intricacies of basic filing knowhow, which I’m sharing here as five things most expats don’t know about filing their US taxes from Spain:

Deadlines – April 15^th is just another date on a calendar for expats filing taxes abroad

When you’re living abroad, you suddenly have double the dates to remember – holidays at home and abroad, your next trip stateside, and when to file your taxes in both countries.

This proved to be especially important for me as an American living and working in Spain. The Spanish declaración de la renta is not due until June 30^th but cannot be filed until April 1^st; in order to file my American taxes, I had to first file my Spanish claims and receive my return to send to an American accountant. April 15^th – the American deadline – is thus too precipitated, but the common knowledge is that Americans residing abroad have a two-month grace period until June 15th, so long as you have filed for the extension prior to April 15th.

You can file for a later deadline, provided you do it prior to April 15^th. Below are the important dates to remember when filing your US taxes from abroad:

Previous year tax return: October 15^th

FBAR: October 15^th

Even if you arrive to a zero balance on your tax return, you are required to fill out an FBAR if your worldwide assets total more than $10,000 or their local equivalent across any account bearing your name – even if just for one day. For instance, I began filing an FBAR in 2014 when I bought a house, as the amount I transferred in from the US was over the threshold.

Child tax credits: having a case of the babies can pay off on your taxes

I was well aware that the Spanish government offered what they called a cheque bebé, or a tax rebate on children up to age three. I chose to get the monthly 100€ check as a lump sum on my Spanish returns, as well as take advantage of the Comunidad de Madrid’s 90€ monthly rebate for working mothers.

When I found out I also qualified for a refund in the US under a recent tax reform called the Child Tax Credit, I was thrilled to know that the money I was paying out of pocket for childcare would be returned.

There are two types of child tax credits: the Child Tax Credit and the Dependent Care Credit. I was able to file for the former, which qualifies for a reduction of $2000 per child, provided the child is under 16, has an American social security number or Individual Taxpayer Identification Number and is an American citizen. Because I did not earn enough to be taxed in the US via my Spanish income, my child tax credit came in the form of a refund – finally someone paid me a “salary” for my second shift job!

The other credit is for those who wish to claim up to $600 per child for childcare costs for dependents under the age of 12 when one or both parents work or are eligible to work.

Ojo – if you have filed for the Foreign Earned Income Exclusion , you will not qualify for these exclusions.

FATCA: This is the reason why your foreign bank asks you for a W-9

Oh, the Foreign Account Tax Compliance Act. No sooner had I signed the dotted line on a mortgage, my assets at my Netherlands-based bank were frozen. Imagine me, IKEA boxes piled onto a cart, having two debit cards and a credit card denied when I’d just been paid my finiquito and my monthly wages.

Enacted in 2014 and enforced heavily throughout the world, this IRS-imposed financial bullying is meant to catch those with offshore accounts but ends up hurting expats with its reporting. All Americans wishing to bank abroad are typically asked to provide both a W-9 form and a copy of their residency status to open and operate a bank account; when the law came into effect, I was politely asked to sign a W-8BEN, despite the DO NOT SIGN IF YOU ARE A US CITIZEN OR GREEN CARD HOLDER warning across the top.

Anyone know any Spaniards named Catherine Gaa? No?

Despite following my bank’s instructions, my accounts were frozen for two weeks, meaning my mortgage, life insurance and other important bills went unpaid – even my blog went offline when I was truant on my hosting fees.

FATCA can be problematic when trying to bank or own a business abroad, as the IRS has to know about it. Your bank is probably getting bullied into giving you the W9 and demanding to see your local residency card, anyway. In turn, they report your full name, birthdate, US social security number and bank balance to the US authorities.

Word to the wise: if you’re marrying a foreign national, bring up FATCA and taxes in the US like you would the question of having children or not. It may impact how you bank together.

Double taxation and Foreign Earned Income Exclusion: do I make enough money abroad to file?

While we’re on FACTA… the reason the whole mess came to be was because of a bunch of rich people using tax paradises to not pay on their worldwide earnings, something that the US requires you to report no matter where you live or where you earn your money (or euros or yen). It traps us little guys who earn normal salaries abroad and pay taxes on those earnings.

While the US has tax treaties with more than 6 countries, these agreements are really meant to not tax foreign nationals living and working in the US from being taxed in both countries. In other words: if you have a US passport and earn money, you should file. If you are, say, Spanish and work in the US, you wouldn’t have to file in Spain because of these treaties.

If you’re earning less than $100,000 worldwide, chances are you won’t owe the IRS any money. You can file for something called the Foreign Earned Income Exclusion in this case, or even the Foreign Tax Credit, which deducts $1 for every dollar you have already paid in taxes in another country. This is where filing for an extension in order to pay taxes in your country of residence comes in handy; you can then apply for the Foreign Tax Credit via Form 116.

Back filing and getting up to tax compliancy

Most expats know that they are legally obligated to file taxes every year, but the common belief is that if you don’t earn money in the US, you won’t have to pay any money to Uncle Sam.

A friend of mine brought up a great point recently during a US consulate town hall: if I know I owe nothing to the IRS, why do I have to pay someone to do my taxes? When you compare the price of back filing your taxes through the IRS’s streamlined procedure to the $50,000 start price for not complying with FATCA, it makes sense to bite the financial bullet. What’s more, the IRS can find you since you let your bank report to them.

In order to become compliant via the streamlined process, you must:

• File your last three federal tax returns
• File your last six FBARs, if applicable
• Pay any taxes due
• Self-certify that your previous failure to file was non-willful

What companies can file my taxes for me? Can I use Turbotax if I live abroad?

Anyone else wish they would have learned about filing taxes when they had their first job? Or in high school? Or at any point in their lives?

When I was slinging sandwiches at age 15 at a local deli, I never imagined I’d end up living abroad. My dad dutifully tallied my $6.25 hourly wage before April 15^th, and we celebrated with 29 cent hamburgers at MCDonald’s for dinner. Taxes are fun! I’d say as I chowed down at the dinner table.

HA.

You can absolutely use Turbotax or your parents’ accountant, but as we began to earn money from renting our home and then bled money into childcare, I realized I needed someone who was specialized in tax law in both Spain and the US. The Novio does a great job on our declaración de la renta in Spain, reading up on new laws and saving receipts of everything from school uniforms to a new corkscrew for our rental property – but he is as useless as I am on American taxes.

Bright!Tax was exactly what I needed as money matters got murky last tax season.

An honest review of Bright!Tax  from an American abroad

Katelynn, a qualified American CPA working for Bright!Tax, got in touch with me immediately to schedule a call and talk through my household situation. While filing taxes when it was just me was a cinch, marrying a person with a different passport and entering a 30-year mortgage and lifelong parentage with him complicated things. Katelynn’s humor and understanding of both Spanish tax law basics and the language allowed her to figure out exactly where we were spending our euros and how that may benefit me in my US return.

What’s more, the communication was immediate yet not drawn out – she meant business in the best sense of the word, keeping deadlines in both countries in mind. After each call, a follow-up email with my action tasks was sent, allowing me to keep tabs on the documentation I would need to provide for my situation. As I was also preparing for a move and a baby, I appreciated that I didn’t have to chase someone else down.

Rather than sending all of my personal and financial information via email, Bright!Tax uses an interface with double authentication that allows you to fill out corresponding fields and upload your documents directly to their server. It was quick and simple to understand, and I didn’t have to worry about my information getting out to the interwebs or about GDPR, the European data protection laws (my new vendetta after FATCA).

The best part? I was able to get a refund equivalent to a month’s pay via the Child Tax Credit and the depreciation for renting our home in Seville. My dad had worked out how to make my return equivalent to zero year after year, but having insider knowledge of new tax laws meant a payout and direct deposit into my American savings account

I have already reached out to Bright!Tax about my 2019 filing, which will include the FBAR and the FATCA forms, this year. If you mention my blog or my name, you can get $50 off your filing – and if you need to take advantage of the streamlined process, every little bit helps!

February means my place of work will be sending me a list of my deductions for 2019, and the Spanish government will be paying me another 600€ for contributing another member to society (and someone who will pay pensions in the future), so it’s time to get cracking on my taxes once again. As they say – nothing in life is certain but death and taxes – and the cervecita I’ll have when I’m filed and compliant in both countries.

Full disclosure: Katelynn prepared my taxes free of charge for 2018 in exchange for my post. I can’t speak more highly of the whole process – and I keep it real.

Not that my run-ins with Spanish bureaucrats have been serendipitous, but as I looked back on 12 years of Spain through rosy colored glasses (or just a Cruzcampo haze), I realize that so many of the relationships and milestones of my Spain life have been a series of coincidences. From my hearing casually about the auxiliar de conversación job to meeting the woman who would introduce me to the Novio (who happened to live around the corner from family back in Chicago) to how we named Millán.

I recently met with Susan Solomont, a former diplomat to the American mission in Spain, for coffee and a chat on a rainy morning in Seville. Her literary agent had put us in contact months before, but between our schedules and the time difference, a well-timed email meant that we could meet the following week during the Solomont’s annual trip to Spain instead of connecting over Skype. Serendipitous, indeed.

In many ways, her husband’s appointment as ambassador to Spain under Obama was just that – a happy coincidence and the chance to serve her country’s diplomatic mission abroad. Spain and the US have long enjoyed a positive relationship, so despite the frantic preparations to arrive at Calle Serrano, 75 and all of the minutiae of being a diplomat’s wife, Susan’s journey was, like mine, full of small but bountiful coincidences.

My reporter’s notebook – a relic of the days when I planned to be a journalist and had a heavy interest in Washington – stayed shut as we filled an hour with conversation that carelessly flitted between topics – touching on politics (got that right out of the way), sharing our favorite places in Spain and musing about raising children to be kind and forward-thinking.

In her book, Lost and Found in Spain – Adventures of an Ambassador’s Wife (you can nab it on Amazon, Barnes and Noble or Indie Bound), Susan starts off with an anecdote before delving into an aspect of Spanish identity, from cultural to religious to historical. In many ways, Susan’s inception of the news she’d be headed to Spain, her apprehensions over the move and settling into her new life mirror my own, just revved up on Cola Cao Turbo. I felt moved by the shared experience and wanting to learn more about life in Barrio Salamanca – just a few blocks from my house but somehow worlds away.

Susan graciously answered my questions via email so that she could enjoy snuggling Millán and tell me about her own children while I sipped my fourth coffee of the morning over our chat.

Can you speak about how your letters to loved ones back home evolved into a book?

When I lived in Spain I wrote a series of letters I called Holas. They started as personal letters to keep in touch with my 13 closest friends. They started to go viral, and I started writing more about our life as diplomats. They were more informative than personal and they ended up reaching over 3000 people.

A literary agent friend who received them encouraged me to put them into a book. She said to me, “A book of letters is not a book. You need a beginning, a middle, an end. Tell a story”.

It took me two years to write the book and two years to find a publisher. These things take time and finally, in 2018, the book came out.

Your transition to Spain was not a smooth one, despite training and assistance from the Department of State. Looking back, what could you have done to prepare yourself for the post?

The transition to Spain had its highs and lows. I was not able to bring my professional work to Spain and instead had to work hard to forge my own identity – hence the “Lost” part of the title. Plus I was away from family and friends and my community. The “Found” part – I found my role, my voice, my place in the Embassy community and Spanish community.

Our Department of State (DOS) is changing [sic and] can find roles for spouses and partners. Perhaps now I could have brought my professional work with me, but in retrospect, I’m glad I didn’t.

No doubt, an ambassador’s job takes you to many interesting places across Spain for various functions, several of which you detail in your book – I particularly liked the story of Jerez del Marquesados. What was your favorite? And is there somewhere you didn’t get to that you wish you could have visited?

I’m often asked what is my favorite place in Spain. Impossible to answer, I love so many places. We traveled everywhere in the country. It is so special that I know each region and have visited. I do have a particular fondness for Extremadura and its countryside. I also love Mallorca. The color of the water, the beauty of the Tramuntana countryside.

One day I will return to walk part of the Camino.

An ambassador’s life or his wife’s seems glamorous. What were your days actually like?

Our days were very busy. People assume this is a job where you are socializing all the time. Yes, we were constantly meeting people, but it’s not fancy teas and dinner parties. The work was political, economic and cultural. We also were there for Americans living abroad and traveling. We worked long and hard days advancing the agenda of the US [in Spain], sharing cultural values and strengthening the bilateral relationship.

Holidays can be both memorable and difficult times for those of us in Spain. I celebrate July 4^th, Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas in my house, which my husband and his family willingly take part in. How has your view on American culture changed since your assignment?

When we lived in Spain we celebrated all American holidays and also celebrated Jewish holidays both with our Jewish friends in Spain as well as non-Jewish friends. Our July 4^th celebration was very special. We served hot dogs and hamburgers, had an American rock n’ roll band, danced the night away and celebrated the US’s birthday.

Halloween- I used to host a doggy Halloween party where embassy staff would dress their dogs up and come play on the lawn. Our Marine Unit had a Halloween party as well.

And Christmas- we had the most fantastic tree, decorated in Spanish and American flags.

There are many Spanish stereotypes flirting around Spain and the Spanish lifestyle – I’m guilty, having lived in the land of toros and tapas! Are there any that you found utterly false, or even alarmingly true?

YES— we wanted people to know that siestas, bullfights and flamenco are not the norms. Spain is a modern democracy that works hard. Perhaps on a weekend someone might take a siesta. Or perhaps there are people who go to the bullfights but not everyone likes them. And the same for flamenco.

Spain and the US enjoy a strong relationship, and each sees the power and mutual benefit in these relations. Were you met with any hostility as part of yours and Alan’s mission while in Madrid?

Not at all. We were embraced by Madrid and all of Spain. People would stop me on the street and say, “I love your country, I love President Obama”.

Have you been back to Spain since 2013? What is your first stop in Madrid?

We come back at least once a year. We always spend time in Madrid. We get very busy seeing old friends and eating and drinking too much. We always need a vacation after our time here.

I had to glance at my watch to keep a well child check up, but Susan’s second coffee date of the morning arrived shortly before I had to duck out. Juan and I have always had a case of six degrees of separation – we have about a dozen people in common – but on that rainy, midweek morning, finally gave one another dos besos. Another serendipitous moment (appease me, please).

Chance led both Susan and I to Spain, and despite our moments of both feeling lost, we found ourselves – and, funnily enough, one another – through its people, culture and food and wine.

Susan and her agent graciously provided me with a PDF copy of Lost and Found in Spain, but all opinions expressed here are my own and were not contingent upon meeting Susan. I enjoyed its lighthearted tone – it does read like a long form letter in many sections – and its reflections on Spanish life and culture through an American lens. You can find more about the book and her companion’s children’s book, Stella the Ambassadog (adorable!), on her author webpage.

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