I moved to Spain in December 2016 and there were a few hurdles and details that I would have overlooked without substantial help from knowledgeable and Spanish-speaking people. Over the next few posts, I’ll talk about my experience of getting a Spanish Visa in the U.S. and figuring out what I needed to do after arriving in Madrid. Before diving too deeply into the immigration process - here’s the story of why I moved to Madrid in the first place!
In August 2014 I travelled with a few friends to Greece for Eunji’s birthday. It was an exciting trip: we wandered around Athens; walked to every monastery in Meteora; and then spent a week relaxing, biking, eating, drinking, and beaching on Paros. If there’s time later, I’ll try to get into some of our memorable adventures - but this is a story about what happened after the trip.
I decided to stick around for a few more days and consult the oracle at Delphi - note: a whole day is way too much time in Delphi - don’t take the first bus from Athens and then the last bus from Delphi. I meandered around the ruins and the museum and then spent a few hours reading, drinking tiny coffees, and talking to a nice Indian couple that worked in some diplomatic capacity in New York. I made it back to the hostel quite exhausted and ready to head back home.
The next morning, packed-and-ready - I enjoyed my first Athenian subway ride (way easier and faster than I’d heard) and got to the airport three hours early. I found a quiet corner of a McDonald’s and read until it was tim3 e to go through security - about an hour before my flight. At this moment I discovered that I had left my passport in the hostel. After a few moments of intense panic and self-recrimination, I called the hostel - “Can you check my room? I think I left my bag there.” Two excruciating minutes later -
“Yes, I found it!”
“Can you check the bag for my passport?”
“It’s here!”
“Can you put it in a taxi and send it to Terminal B at the Athens Airport?”
Thirty-five minutes later, after biting my nails to the elbow and checking my phone every fifteen seconds, a taxi slowly rolled-up to the departures terminal. I ran to the window of the car, grab my bag, and toss all of my remaining Euros to the driver. I yelled my thanks and hauled-ass for security - where there was no line - and then ran the rest of the way to the gate.
Finally, out-of-breath, I made it to the gate just-in-time to wait in the boarding line. After making my way to the seat and stowing my bag, my heart still pumping in my chest, my exciting tale of adventures-in-losing-things screamed to find to an interested ear. Suddenly a gorgeous, model-tall woman wandered onto the plane, after every other passenger, and folded herself into the middle-seat next to me. As we were taxiing and taking off, I excitedly started a conversation with the captive, pajama-clad audience that SwissAir had provided me.
We talked for the whole three hour flight and then for another forty minutes in the Zurich airport. That’s how I met Elena and how I eventually ended up trying to navigate Spanish immigration.