Escape from New York

A couple of hours before we left our house in Queens for good, I picked up a cardboard box filled with glasses and cups. As I carried it down the stairs, the bottom gave way, sending everything crashing to the floor. Hoping it wasn’t a bad omen, I rushed to pick up the hundreds of shards before our friend arrived to drive us to the airport. And just like that, our journey away from MAGA USA to Spain had begun.

Iberia Airlines allowed us to bring our cats Gilbert and Tula into the plane cabin with us, but Pushkin—our tiny five-pound rabbit—was relegated to cargo, like a poor 19th-century immigrant traveling in steerage. For us fancier immigrants, the flight to Madrid had a nice surprise: our seating row was composed of just two seats, which to me pretty much equals first class. I don’t care that I don’t get a complimentary mimosa if I can avoid strangers trying to make conversation or elbow wrestling for the arm rest. On the other hand, that mimosa might have come in handy, since we flew the red-eye and neither of us were able to get any sleep. (The cats were doped up, so they were blissfully out until we landed.)

Arrival in Madrid

Upon our bleary-eyed arrival in Barajas airport, we were greeted by the sight of happy dogs that had flown cargo, tails wagging as they were reunited with their owners. But there was no sign of Pushkin. Try as I might, nobody could tell us where our conejito was. Eventually, someone said that he must not have been on our flight, and that I probably needed to go to the cargo building to claim him. They couldn’t give me an actual address for the cargo building, though, only that it was about a 20-minute walk from the airport. We couldn’t very well do that walk carrying two unhappy cats and 100 lbs of luggage, so we took a cab to the hotel, where I left Sabine with the cats and promised to return shortly so we could all get some sleep.

I took a taxi back to the cargo area, only to be denied entry because I didn’t have my passport (foreshadowing!). Thankfully, the cab driver was kind enough to go in on my behalf. He returned with the news that I needed to come back with Pushkin’s paperwork and that the whole thing would take half an hour.

Since the rabbit was registered in Sabine’s name, I picked her up from the hotel and we made our way back. That half hour turned out to be a five-hour ordeal involving countless forms and stamped documents that I only knew from Russian literature (fittingly, for a rabbit of his name). I’ll spare you the tedious details, but suffice it to say that the poor bunny was in a terrible state by the time we finally got him out. Despite the bureaucratic nightmare, there were some genuinely kind and helpful people who made the experience a little less harrowing, including a female veterinarian that Sabine pronounced “smoking hot.”

Back at the hotel, with all the pets fed and settled, we finally could begin looking after ourselves. Famished and unable to find any other vegetarian-friendly options near the hotel, we ended up at a “Mexican” restaurant with decent Google ratings. Unfortunately, it seems that since Mexico’s independence in 1827, Spaniards have refused to learn anything about my native country’s cuisine. Our tacos were essentially globs of melted cheddar cheese wrapped in tortillas. (Though, unlike Sabine, I must admit I ate them. Don’t judge me.)

On the road

The following morning, we picked up our rental car and Sabine embarked on a five-hour drive to Sevilla (because, like a real New Yorker, I don’t drive). During a pit stop, we bought “vegetable” sandwiches, which, on our first bite, revealed a big scoop of tuna. When I went back to ask them to make them again, the guy at the counter seemed sincerely baffled that we wouldn’t have known vegetable sandwiches include fish. He offered to remove the tuna for me, so instead, I just bought a new one with no fish for Sabine. Meanwhile, she had befriended two feral kittens in the parking lot, and I had to talk her out of adopting them. We compromised by sharing our tuna sandwiches with them.

Sevilla at last

Our apartment in Sevilla was lovely, with a stunning balcony view of the river. We were finally at our new home for the next twelve months! We were so excited that we didn’t care that the only furniture we had was a thin “Japanese” (I’m pretty sure it’s actually Chinese) futon we got from Amazon and a plastic chair and tiny table the landlady left for us. When Sabine stepped into the shower, she let out a startled scream after being doused with ice-cold water. The next day, our landlady assured me that there wasn’t a problem, I simply needed to replace the gas canister. So, I lugged the empty canister across Sevilla’s famous Triana bridge and exchanged it for a full one, for 20€. When I asked the cashier how long she thought it would last, she estimated around a month, which seemed like a pretty good deal. The new canister was so heavy that Sabine and I had to carry it back together, but we didn’t mind getting a little sweaty with the promise of a nice hot shower at the end. 

To our dismay, it turned out that the boiler was broken. The repairmen, who were supposed to arrive at 11 AM, didn’t show up until 1 PM. They were friendly at least and explained that the boiler was ancient and needed to be replaced. It being Friday, they wouldn’t be able to bring the new boiler until Tuesday, so for our first weekend we were relegated to washing ourselves one cold no-no zone at a time.

Seven things we learned on our first week here

Things started picking up speed soon after that. Here are just a few of the things we’ve discovered:

1. The bread, cheese, and tomatoes from the local supermarkets are amazing and significantly cheaper than in New York. Also, you are supposed to don gloves to pick up produce, something we didn’t realize until a couple of days later. We were just grabbing veggies with our naked paws like American savages.
2. As we had seen on our first trip to Andalucia a few years ago, people here are friendly, with the exception of the very rude cook at a vegan restaurant in the Alameda de Hercules neighborhood. Also, people here are thin, except for the very rude cook at the vegan restaurant in the Alameda de Hercules neighborhood.
3. This might be a cliché, but there is a real feeling that everything is human-scaled: low buildings, pedestrian-friendly streets, bike paths everywhere, public seating that is not designed to prevent people from sleeping on it, and lots of green, open spaces. Also, businesses don’t seem to mind if you ask to use their bathrooms.
4. There are tons of mom-and-pop stores everywhere. Unlike in the US, chains haven’t completely taken over. Sure, that means you have to visit several stores to get everything you need, but it’s also more pleasant than walking into a fluorescent Wal-Mart where the employees have to rely on government assistance to make ends meet. 
5. There are tons of bookstores everywhere. It makes me wonder if my dream of having my own could ever come true. (Although, to be honest, the dream is really to sit all day surrounded by books with a cat on my lap, not running a business.)
6. You can’t tell the weather by looking at how people are dressed. Everyone seems to be wearing down coats no matter the temperature. Men also love wearing down vests, and women love wearing leopard-skin anything—coats, pants, blouses, hats, shoes, scarves. 
7. Sevillanos like to walk slowly, and they never jaywalk. It’s a bit hard to deal with for two New Yorkers.

Now what

We’re still working through a ton of paperwork to legalize our stay. You will be asked for your NIE (an alien registration number) or passport for a surprising number of activities, including ordering things by mail and filling out a loyalty card at the local pet store (I’m not kidding). Unfortunately, finding an appointment to get the NIE is famously difficult. Our immigration lawyer secured us an appointment in another town because he couldn’t find us one in Sevilla for this month, and we’re going to need it to claim our shipment of furniture at the end of March. 

Emotionally, we’re still a bit dazed. While we are constantly amazed by the city’s beauty and amused by the differences between Spaniards and Americans, we also experience moments of dread, wondering when and how we will start to make our real lives here. Still, every time I read the news about Trump’s Putinization of the US, I feel we made the right decision.