Courtesy of the author
At the age of 63, I was bankrupt and in foreclosure. I had less than nothing because I owed money to a friend. All I had were my pensions. I knew I could never afford to retire in the US.
I felt like it wasn't my fault. I'd worked in Hollywood as an assistant director for 20 years. Then, I moved to Santa Fe, New Mexico, where I planned to grow my nest egg by investing in rental properties while selling real estate.
That worked until the housing market crash of 2008. My properties went underwater to the tune of hundreds of thousands of dollars. My income from real estate sales dried up completely. My brokerage went out of business.
I took my Social Security pension early. Another pension from my work in Hollywood would kick in at 65.
I am a well-traveled person. I knew that countries with a more affordable cost of living existed. I just had to find one that worked for me.
The month before I filed for bankruptcy, I signed up for a course to get a TESOL certificate to teach English to speakers of other languages. I put it on a credit card and put the credit card into bankruptcy. When I completed the certification, I was hired by Santa Fe University of Art and Design to teach summer English immersion programs to faculty and graduate students from affiliated universities in South America, Central America, Mexico, and Spain.
During Santa Fe's frigid winters, I began to visit my former students to scout their home countries. I spent three months in Brazil. Salvador, Bahia enchanted me, but it was neither safe nor affordable. Argentina is culturally rich but unstable politically and financially. Valparaiso, Chile, was intriguingly shadowy and filled with steep stairs that challenged my aging knees. Honduras was not for me. Antigua, Guatemala, rose up my list despite safety issues and poor infrastructure. I spent idyllic time in Puerto Rico just before Hurricane Maria devastated it. I've spent a lot of time in Mexico. I know it well. It was always on my shortlist, but lack of safety remained a drawback.
I assumed that Europe would not be affordable, but in 2016, one of my former students invited me to visit him in Madrid. Alberto was a fine arts professor. He guided me through museums packed with Goya, El Greco, and Picasso. He led me through diverse neighborhoods, elegant parks, and grand boulevards. Alberto took me to Sevilla. I traveled to Granada, Cordoba, Cadiz, and Barcelona. Each one seduced me.
I had been dead wrong about Spain's cost of living. It was cheaper than some of the South American countries. It fit my budget and then some. Even better, it had first-world infrastructure and such excellent public transportation that I wouldn't need a car.
The sunny weather and glorious flora reminded me of Southern California. Spain was filled with friendly people, world-class museums, amazing food, and exquisite wine. Best of all, Spain was safe. I could walk alone anywhere, any time of the day or night, without fear. That sealed the deal. I knew I'd found my place.
I returned to the US and researched the requirements for moving to Spain. My pensions just met the financial threshold. I had to buy Spanish health insurance — I needed a letter from a doctor saying I had no infectious diseases. Everything had to be translated into Spanish by a certified translator. I filled out forms in Spanish, paid fees online, and took passport photos. I made an appointment at the consulate in Houston and delivered everything in person. I picked up my residency visa six weeks later.
The Spanish bureaucracy was a formidable challenge, but downsizing my possessions proved more so. Having anything shipped was prohibitively expensive. I sold things, gave things to friends, and gave things to charity. I had 90 pounds of documents shredded, and I dumped sentimental treasures into the trash. Finally, my life fit into four suitcases.
In 2017, at 70, I moved to Madrid alone. I'm still there. It was one of the best decisions of my life.
