Illustration by Ellie Shim
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When we all arrived in Valencia almost three years ago – nine oversized suitcases, three children, their two parents and me, the 75-year-old grandmother in tow – it was meant to be a family adventure.
What none of us expected was that I would be the one who stayed.
When my daughter and her family decided to live abroad, I asked if I could come too.
The plan was simple: share their bold chapter in Europe, soak up the culture, be useful, be present. At 75, it felt like a gift. It also felt temporary. I left with a return ticket.
I didn’t use it.
Seven months after they returned to Vancouver, I am still here.
I could have followed them home to the familiar rhythm of family life. Instead, I stayed – not to prove anything, but because I wanted one chapter that was mine.
This city – that once felt new and unfamiliar – finds me settling into its Spanish rhythm, where clocks are decorative and “right away” is a suggestion rather than a promise. Time stretches. I am learning to stretch with it.
On Wednesdays, I take a Spanish lesson with a more advanced Spanish friend who patiently corrects my pronunciation while I confidently misplace entire verb tenses. After that comes a longer class that is officially educational but unofficially a social gathering with vocabulary. I know many useful phrases. I simply can’t deploy them quickly enough to keep up with a native speaker. Progress is being made – at a dignified pace.
Living abroad at 78 involves equal parts adventure and administration. Recently, I achieved what felt like an Olympic victory: updating my address on the Padrón, Spain’s municipal registry. I arrived armed with enough documentation to purchase a small country, only to be told I needed a notarized letter from my landlady confirming that her son – the actual owner of the property – had authorized her to act on his behalf.
Naturally.
Back I went for the letter. Then back again to the office, where the same agent scolded me for not updating my address sooner when I moved apartments. How they knew I had previously lived on Calle Hernán Cortés remains one of Spain’s great mysteries. Satellites, perhaps.
But I stood my ground. I navigated the exchange in a language I technically do not speak well. I walked out with every paper stamped and approved. At my age, victories matter. That afternoon, mine came with a well-earned glass of wine.
Another came at a privately run hospital in Valencia. I went in for simple blood work and left with orders for blood tests, a urinalysis, an ECG and a bone density scan. Presenting oneself as an elderly woman, it seems, is a gentle invitation to check everything.
The doctor and I communicated through gestures, goodwill and what I can only describe as expressive eyebrow diplomacy. The reassuring news: my heart rhythm is steady. My heart, at least, is not hesitating.
And neither am I.
I miss my family, especially in the quiet hours when the apartment goes still. I miss our shorthand of shared history, the sound of my grandchildren’s laughter in the next room. Staying has not erased that longing. It sits beside the joy.
I walk daily – sometimes briskly if a bakery is closing. Tai chi on Mondays. Spanish on Wednesdays. Mah-jong on Fridays. Wine at Mercat Colón with women who have also chosen reinvention. My social calendar is healthier than my bone density.
I may not speak fluent Spanish yet, but I am becoming fluent in living well – and, at 78, that feels right on time.
Six months ago, staying felt bold.
Now, it feels natural.
The story is not finished.
As seniors (such a polite word for old people), we’re often tolerated but not always taken seriously. So if another “seasoned” reader comes across this and feels inspired to chase a passion, take a risk or start ticking things off their bucket list, I’ll be thrilled.
In the spirit of the old slogan – just do it. It’s never too late.
Janet Skog-Reid lives in Valencia, Spain.