From Seattle to Spain

It isn’t where I landed… but it’s where the story begins.

First, there was me, the husband, the daughter, and the cat.
Then there was me, the daughter, and the cat.
Then, me and the cat.

It was time to go.

But where?

France seemed like the obvious answer—we’d had a holiday home there in the early 2000s, and my heart always kind of stayed behind in the Dordogne. I called my daughter.
“Mom, we can’t go back.”
Oh. Okay then.

Chiang Mai? Sure! I made an offer on a house that looked like a Habitrail.
Dominican Republic? Meh. Not a golfer.
Spain? I’d been to Madrid and Barcelona. Loved the fiery people, the food, the chaos—sounded just like me.

Google (my new life coach, therapist, and travel agent) told me that the Costa del Sol was one of the most popular expat destinations in the world.

So off to Málaga I went. I couldn’t even pronounce it properly and didn’t know a soul there. Every time I told friends where I was moving, I got some sort of mystified look.
I didn’t know why—now I do. Learned the hard way.

What could possibly go wrong?

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Spain, Day One: I Should Have Seen It Coming

After twelve weeks of chaos in Seattle—selling my house, my car, my piano, my business, and somehow convincing a 14-year-old cat with kidney issues (who had never set paw outside the house) that international travel was a great idea—I boarded a flight to Málaga with one goal: a fresh start. A clean slate.

In six to eight weeks, the container would arrive. I’d be living in a charming finca with a casita and a kitchen where I could cook and host for guests while overlooking the Costa del Sol.

I pictured early morning markets, tapas on the terrace, and maybe even meeting someone named Javier.
But mostly, I pictured being happy in some foreign land. A dream come true.

Yes, welcome to MAH-luh-guh, Spain.

Instead, I arrived jet-lagged, over-packed, emotionally exhausted, and clutching a cat carrier like it was my last shred of stability.
Laptop—my cat, not a device—looked equally skeptical.

First stop: baggage claim.
Suitcases? Missing. Naturally. But I was unfazed. I had two bags already waiting for me at my “five-star” Airbnb. My optimism was still intact.

Then came the Spanish Cat Customs office, which I’d been warned was a bureaucratic gauntlet. I approached with a four-inch stack of documentation, ready for battle.
The customs officer barely glanced at me before waving her hand and muttering, “Adelante.” That was it. No drama.

My papers fluttered uselessly in my hands like the world’s most boring script—one no one asked for and no one intended to read.
No plot twists, no suspense—just a sweaty American clutching a binder tabbed with false hope.

I shrugged it off. Things were looking up.

Outside, the Andalusian sun was setting, warm and golden, as I stepped out of the airport and into an Uber, heading to the address of the Airbnb I’d booked for the next six weeks.
When I arrived: no host. No welcome. No bags.

Just me, Laptop, and my carry-on, sitting on a curb like contestants eliminated from The Amazing Race: Expat Edition before the first checkpoint—holding a key on a string that had been tossed to me from a taxi window like I was in some kind of Mediterranean spy movie.

And then?

I realized I’d left the special cat food in the Amsterdam airport during the layover. Brilliant.

I don’t lose things. Ever. I’m the woman who alphabetizes her spice drawer, travels with a backup phone charger and a backup for the backup, and once found a missing earring inside a vacuum cleaner bag.

And yet here I was—jetlagged, unraveling, and standing in the Spanish sun with a kidney-compromised cat and zero food.

What was wrong with me?

I blinked into the light, clutching the carrier like it was a life raft, wondering if this was my version of a breakdown: stylish luggage, no plan B, and a can of generic tuna somewhere in my future.

Eventually, my other two HUGE suitcases showed up—in a FedEx truck, naturally—and I began an Olympic relay race as the only participant: dragging each bag through the building’s entrance, propping open the door with my body while shuttling in the cat carrier, then one bag at a time, through the dark building, out the other end, across the courtyard, up the stairs, and finally into the—ugh.

The Airbnb?

Less five-star, more post-surgical recovery ward with a lingering hint of cigar smoke. Yellowing walls, one towel, no cups, no forks, and no Wi-Fi.
Laptop (the cat) looked around like she was ready to file a formal complaint.

So I did what any grown woman having a minor international breakdown would do: I left my cat behind, wandered the streets, and found what amounted to a 7-Eleven, where I bought an apple, some cheese, and generic cat food.
We ate in silence, staring at each other.

That night, I sat on a creaky sofa, laptop open (the computer this time), Googling a new place to land.
Tomorrow I would move again—this time to a beach town outside Málaga.

Maybe that’s where my Spanish dream would finally begin.

Or maybe I just keep going—because when you’ve come this far, what else is there to do but see how the story turns out?
Either way, I was still in MAH-luh-guh.

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