The fan in my Poblenou flat is doing its best impression of a helicopter rotor, and I'm pretty sure it's losing. It's eight in the morning, and the air's already thick enough to swim through. The shutters are half-drawn, and the light slats across the floor in that lazy, golden way that only happens in August. I'm on my second coffee—a café con leche from the little machine in the corner of the kitchen—and I'm staring at a list of things I need to do today. NIE paperwork, bank stuff, and the eternal search for a flat that doesn't cost a fortune. I came to Barcelona on a whim, or maybe a spreadsheet, and now I'm here, trying to make it real.
That's the thing about arriving in August. The city is half-empty, but the bits that are full are really full. The locals have fled—most of them, anyway—and the streets are a strange mix of sunburnt tourists and festival-goers. I walked through the Gothic Quarter yesterday, and it was like wading through a human river. El Born, same story. But here in Poblenou, it's quieter. The tech offices are shuttered, the beach is a stroll away, and the rhythm is slower. It's a good place to start.
So, logistics. I'm here for the long haul—or at least for a few months—and that means paperwork. The NIE number, the foreigner's ID, the thing that unlocks everything from a bank account to a phone contract. I've been putting it off because, honestly, the idea of navigating Spanish bureaucracy in August, in the heat, with my limited Spanish, is not my idea of a good time. But it's got to be done. I've heard the key is to book a cita previa—an appointment—online. That's the golden ticket. Without it, you're just standing in line at the Oficina de Extranjería, hoping for a miracle.
I've got a notepad with me, the kind I never use at home but suddenly can't live without, and I'm scribbling down what I need. Passport, photocopies, a form I downloaded from the internet, proof of finances. The whole thing is a maze. But I've got the T-usual now—the 30-day unlimited pass that sets you back about 22.80 euros. It's the best deal in the city for residents, cheaper than a single ride at 2.90, and it's going to save me a lot of walking in this heat. The metro's a mess in August, with lines cut off for renovation, but I'm getting the hang of the replacement buses.
My first stop is a bank. I need a Spanish account, and I've heard good things about CaixaBank's HolaBank program—it's set up for internationals like me. The branch is on a corner in Poblenou, all glass and cool air. The guy at the desk, Javier, is patient with my stumbling Spanish. He asks for my passport, my NIE paperwork, and something called a Certificate of Non-Residency. I don't have that yet. He tells me I can get it from the consulate or a tax office. I write it down in my notepad, next to a small drawing of a frowny face. He laughs. 'Don't worry,' he says in English. 'Everyone starts somewhere.'
I walk out of the bank with a temporary account number and a sense of progress. The air hits me like a wall of wet heat, but I'm getting used to it. I decide to take the long way back, through the leafy streets of Poblenou, past the murals on the old factory walls. There's a bakery on the corner that smells like bread and sugar, and I can't resist. A croissant and another coffee cost me about 4 euros, and I sit on a bench in a small plaza, watching the world go by. A pair of old men are arguing over a game of chess, their voices rising and falling like the tide. A dog naps in the shade. It's a postcard, but a real one, not the kind you buy in a shop.
Later, I head to the Mercat de la Boqueria. It's off La Rambla, and it's a riot of colour and noise. But here's the thing: in August, with the festival crowds, it's packed. I'm shoulder-to-shoulder with tourists, all of us sweating and hungry. I push through to a counter that's serving esqueixada—a salted cod salad with tomatoes and onions—and grab a plate. It's about 7 euros, and it's perfect. I wash it down with a caña, a cold beer, and stand in the shade, watching the chaos. The market's a great place to eat, but it's not a place to linger. I make a mental note to come back early one morning, before the crowds, when it's just the vendors and the locals.
After the market, I need a break. I find a quiet spot at the Palau de la Música Catalana, a UNESCO-listed concert hall that's all stained glass and intricate carvings. The guided tour is around 12 euros, and it's worth every cent. The building is a dream of Modernisme, and standing in the concert hall, with its skylight of golden bees and the blue-and-white tiles, I feel the city settle around me. It's a reminder that even in the chaos, there's beauty. I buy a postcard for my mother and send it from the little post office on the corner, the stamp costing a few coins aside.
That evening, I meet up with a friend I made at a language exchange last week. We go to a tapas place in El Born called Amades, a small spot that's been around for years. We order croquetas (about 6 euros a plate), patatas bravas (another 6 or so), and a bottle of cava, because when in Catalonia. The food is simple and perfect, and we sit in the narrow street outside, watching the evening light turn the stone warm. My friend tells me about the Fiesta Mayor de Gràcia, which she says is the best in the city, and I make a note to plan around the crowds. 'You're lucky,' she says. 'August is mad, but it's also alive. Everyone's here for something.' I think about the eclipse, coming up on the twelfth, and wonder if I'll have a view.
The rent situation, though, is the real headache. I've been looking online, and the prices are what they are. For a modest one-bedroom flat in the city centre, you're looking at around 1,400 euros a month. On the outskirts, maybe 1,100. I saw a place this morning in Poblenou that was 1,350, which felt like a steal until I realized it was basically a shoebox. I'm told the summer is the worst time to look, because everything's picked over, but I'm here now, so I'll make it work. I've got a list of superilles, the car-free zones, and I'm hoping to find something near a green space.
I end the day back in Poblenou, at a café called Garage Coffee. It's a small place with a big personality, and the barista has a handlebar moustache and a smile. I order a flat white and sit by the window, watching the street fill with the evening crowd. The cost of living here is not what you'd call cheap—a coffee is about 2 euros, a beer 3—but it's manageable. I do some math in my notepad: with rent at 1,400 and everything else, I'm looking at around 2,500 to 3,000 euros a month to live decently. It's more than I'd spend in some places, but this is Barcelona, and I'm here for the long game.
There's a moment, around nine in the evening, when the sky turns a shade of pink that I can't describe. I'm sitting on the beach at Barceloneta, watching the waves roll in. The sand is still warm from the day, and the water is cool on my feet. I think about the eclipse, and how the whole city is preparing for it. I've got my glasses ready, tucked in my pocket—picked them up from a shop in Gràcia that was selling them for 3 euros each. It feels like a small victory.
I walk home through the quiet streets, and the city feels different in the dark. The generators hum, the cicadas buzz, and the occasional siren wails in the distance. It's a city that never fully sleeps, but in August, it naps. I close the door to my flat, and the fan is still spinning, still losing. I lie on the bed, listening to the sounds of the night, and I realize that I'm starting to feel at home.
Tomorrow, I'll take the metro to the Oficina de Extranjería, armed with my notepad and my patience. It might take all day, but that's part of it. I came here for the sun and the sea, but I'm staying for the paperwork and the coffee. That's the real Spain, the one you don't see on the postcards. And I'm just getting started. The night is warm, and the city hums around me. I'm not sure what the morning will bring, but I'll be ready. Hasta luego, Barcelona. I'll see you on the other side.
As I lie there, I can't help but think about what I've done. Moving to a new country is nuts. But it's also the best thing I've ever done. I've got a bank account, a notepad full of notes, and a flat that's temporary but mine. Tomorrow, I'll take the metro to the Oficina de Extranjería, armed with my notepad and my patience. It might take all day, but that's part of it. I came here for the sun and the sea, but I'm staying for the paperwork and the coffee. That's the real Spain, the one you don't see on the postcards. And I'm just getting started. The night is warm, and the city hums around me. I'm not sure what the morning will bring, but I'll be ready. I'll be ready.
One more thing before I sleep. I've been thinking about that moment at the Palau de la Música, standing in the hall with the glass ceiling above. It was like being inside a dream. But maybe that's what moving abroad is—a dream you have to wake up for, with paperwork and bank accounts and sticky metro rides. Still, there's something magical about it. I turn off the light, and the fan keeps spinning. I smile in the dark. We'll see what the morning brings.
But before I drift off, I want to say something to you, listener. If you're thinking about making a move like this—whether it's to Spain or anywhere else—do it. It won't be easy, and the paperwork will drive you mad, but you'll find your rhythm. Look for the little moments: a good coffee, a friendly smile, the way the light hits the tiles. They make it all worth it. I'll be here, learning the ropes, and I'll tell you everything I learn. Goodnight, Barcelona. Goodnight, world. Tomorrow, we go again.
And that's it for today. I'm Mateo, and this has been day five in Barcelona. Before I sign off, I want to remind you to check my notepad—oh, right, you can't. But you can check the show notes for links on NIE appointments and bank accounts. And hey, if you're in the city and see a guy with a notepad, looking lost but happy, that's probably me. Say hola. Until tomorrow, keep cool, and remember: the summer's not over, and neither are we. Buenas noches.