Women Embracing Solo Travel In Your 50’s & 60’s Series
I felt like I was betraying my beloved Spain by going to Italy.
And then again… I had fallen in love with Italy long before I discovered the depths of Spain.
I’m going to Italy in a few weeks for almost a month, or at least that was the plan. But I couldn’t resist adding a little bit of Spain once more.
The truth is, I have been in love with Italy for years. Most of my life, actually. For a very long time, I wanted to live there so badly.
But then little by little, life brought me to other parts of Spain and to The Camino. And now I’m hooked.
I feel the Camino Call. It is loud. It is a wonderful noise that brings happiness straight to my heart. I feel bound to it. I keep saying every Camino will be the last one. And four Caminos later, I am already planning the fifth for next spring.
But I don’t only want to walk Caminos.
I want to live in Spain.
Maybe somewhere along one of the routes. Maybe somewhere completely different. There are so many amazing places to live, and for me, those old stone buildings and little villages scattered throughout Spain feel almost magical.
Have you noticed how many people seem to want to be there too? Or is that just my bias talking?
The expat communities seem to be growing all over Europe, and Spain in particular. I see it in the news, in reels, in posts, and in advertisements aimed at people looking for a way to make a life there.
And I get it. I really, really get it.
But then there is the part that makes this decision so damn complicated: My children.
It is incredibly hard to imagine living so far away from them, especially now that I am about to become a grandmother.
But I have to keep reminding myself that my kids are grown. And their lives are theirs. Just as my life is mine.
And their lives aren’t necessarily going to include me in the way I sometimes dream they will. Maybe there will be more time together. Maybe there won’t. Maybe their families will live nearby. Maybe they will move across the country, or across the world.
That is reality.
And once they all find their own paths and their own families, I will be old enough to see how things turn out for me, too.
Maybe I’ll live near one of them.
Maybe I’ll live near all of them.
Maybe I’ll live far away from all of them.
Maybe I’ll do something completely different.
Right now, though, I’m trying to figure out how to hold on to that ridiculous smile that spreads across my face when the pilot announces: “We will be landing in Madrid in approximately thirty-five minutes.”
Because I know what’s coming: Public transportation. Figuring out which train goes where. Getting off in some town I’ve never seen before. Finding my way to my next little stay.
And I f*ing love it.
I love figuring it all out.
I love not knowing exactly what comes next.
I love that feeling of arriving somewhere alone and realizing, Okay. Here I am. Let’s see what happens.
I am sixty, and I want this.
I want to feel happy doing what I love and being where I love to be.
Of course, the dream would be to do that while living close to my children.
But I can’t choose one child over another. And uprooting my entire life to live near one of them, without knowing how much time we’d actually spend together, doesn’t necessarily make sense.
Besides, I love my neighborhood. I really do. Just… not as much as I love Spain.
So how do I decide where to be?
Not easy.
There is the family distance.
There is the social aspect of life. If I moved closer to one or two of my kids, I’d still be starting over in a new place where I don’t know anyone else.
And then there is the financial part. That one is a big one.
Moving to the other coast will be more expensive than where I live and that is terrifying, not just because of the money, but because of the what ifs.
What if I can’t get used to it?
What if I don’t like it as much as I thought I would?
What if I make a huge move and discover that I was romanticizing the whole thing?
So yes, I am very inclined toward Spain.
But I need time. I need to actually be there for a while. I need to explore patiently. I need to look at different areas and see what everyday life, not vacation life, would feel like.
There will be trips back and forth to see my children and, soon, my grandchild. There will be many of the same nice things I have here. But perhaps in a place I simply like better.
Of course, there is so much more to think about.
And, as always, there is the damn money. Money matters. A lot.
But you know what? I always figure things out.
Oh, everything would be great if I could live three months here and three months there. Three in Virginia and three in Spain. Or six and six. Who knows?
For now, though, I’m going to stay positive.
I’m going to enjoy my upcoming trip.
I’m going to keep writing.
Loving.
Hoping.
Working on my future.
And, hopefully, finding that right remote job opportunity too.
Because having a real income would definitely make this whole Spain-versus-everything-else question a little easier.
And, not gonna lie, I’m starting to miss the mental challenge of working.
Apparently, sixty isn’t slowing me down.
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