There’s this thing nobody tells you when you move to Spain with a head full of sunshine and tapas dreams. It’s not even a secret. It’s just… lurking. Like one of those sea urchins you only notice after you’ve stepped on it.
It started with a letter.
Well — email. But it felt like a letter because it had that tone.
Official. Chilly.
“Estimado señor Jacobs,…”
Oh god. Full name.
Bad sign.
Apparently, because I was staying longer than 90 days — thanks to my brilliant plan to ‘immerse myself in the language’ while my girlfriend surfed kangaroos or whatever in Australia — I needed to sort out my residency paperwork. Or at least pretend I was trying.
First requirement on the list?
Private health insurance.
I blinked at the screen.
“Wait. I have travel insurance.”
Nope. Not good enough.
European bureaucracy doesn’t care that you have some crummy “lost luggage and rabies shots” travel plan from a website you don’t remember visiting. They want full private cover. Spanish compliant. Fancy stamp. All that.
Cue my descent into the online insurance labyrinth.
Every website promised they were “expat friendly.”
Lies.
Half of them wanted my NIE number, which I didn’t have yet because… well, that’s what I was applying for. The other half demanded a local bank account first, which — surprise — I also didn’t have.
I phoned a guy named Javier who apparently “specializes in helping foreigners.”
His opening line:
“Are you European?”
No.
“Ah.”
And that was basically the whole consultation.
Eventually, somewhere between despair and a nervous breakdown, I stumbled onto this actually helpful site: private health insurance in Spain. No hidden weirdness, no six-month deposit demands, no twelve redundant PDFs. Just actual information I could read, in English, like a functioning adult.
I submitted the form.
Held my breath.
Got an email back from a real human.
(That shouldn’t feel like a victory, but it did.)
And finally — finally — I had a shiny little PDF policy with my name on it. Fully compliant. Ready for whatever paperwork demon came next.
But then…
The woman at the Oficina de Extranjería glanced at my printed policy.
She nodded.
Stamped my form.
And said:
“Ahora necesitamos el certificado de empadronamiento.”
I smiled like an idiot.
Because I had absolutely no idea what that meant.