Moving My Remote Job to Spain: A Summer Start on the Digital Nomad Visa

When I stepped off the plane in Valencia with two suitcases and my work laptop, it was 9 p.m. and the sky still glowed orange. The heat hugged me like a weighted blanket, and the air smelled faintly of salt and orange blossoms. I was equal parts thrilled and terrified. I had a good job I could do from anywhere, a carefully packed folder of visa paperwork, and a fuzzy plan. What I didn’t have—yet—was a home, a routine, or a community. That would come, one hot summer day at a time.

Why Spain (and Why Now)

I’m a software engineer in my 30s, and like a lot of us post-2020, I started asking bigger questions about how I wanted to live. My company agreed to remote-first permanently, and I realized I’d been “living at work” in the States. I wanted late dinners without guilt, a city I could cross on a bike, more sun on my skin than fluorescent light, and a culture that doesn’t side-eye you for eating lunch at 2:30 p.m.

Spain floated to the top for a lot of reasons: the pace, the food, the public spaces, the fact that summers extend the evening like a promise. When I found out Spain had a new(ish) digital nomad residence option—technically “teletrabajadores de carácter internacional”—the idea got very real, very fast.

The Digital Nomad Visa, Simplified (What I Actually Did)

I’m not a lawyer, so this is just my experience, but here’s how it worked for me.

I gathered documents before I left the U.S.: an FBI background check with an apostille (that step took the longest—start early), my university degree, a letter from my U.S. employer stating I could work remotely from Spain, proof of income (they look for roughly 200% of Spain’s minimum wage; when I applied, that was in the 2,300–2,600€ per month range), and private health insurance with full coverage in Spain and no co-pays or waiting periods. I also lined up a Certificate of Coverage for social security from the U.S., since I remain employed by my U.S. company.

Everything not already in Spanish needed an official translation (traductor jurado). I used a translator recommended by an immigration group and paid per page—worth the peace of mind. A friend nudged me to get two extra certified copies of everything. That friend deserves a paella.

Instead of applying through the consulate, I entered Spain on a tourist stamp and applied from within the country (perfectly legal, but there’s a timing window). I hired a local immigration lawyer because my bandwidth for forms was already being eaten by work. We submitted my application online; I received a receipt number (the resguardo) that let me stay while they reviewed it. The legal processing time is 20 working days; mine took five weeks to approve. Then I had my fingerprint appointment for the TIE card (the physical residence card), and three weeks later I picked it up. Bureaucracy still moves in its own rhythm, but having the “your card is ready” text felt like a victory parade.

Costs, in case you’re budgeting: translations added up to around 200€, my lawyer charged 800€, government fees were under 100€, and my private health insurance runs me 58€ per month. I’m still sorting taxes (Spain’s special expat regime can be helpful in some cases), and I hired a gestor (accountant) for that part. My only non-negotiable advice: don’t wing your taxes. Ask someone.

Landing in Valencia in the Heat

I arrived at the end of June—just in time for San Juan, when locals light bonfires on the beach to “burn” the old and welcome the summer. I hadn’t planned to jump waves at midnight with strangers, but there I was, tired, jet-lagged, shoes full of sand, making a wish. It felt right.

Valencia in summer is almost obscenely beautiful. The Turia gardens—a dried riverbed turned into a park—curl around the city in green. Mornings are cool enough for a run; afternoons shimmer with heatwaves; evenings belong to everyone. July brought fireworks during the Gran Fira de València. August, I quickly learned, belongs to “cerrado por vacaciones” signs taped to shop windows and apartments with the blinds drawn against the sun. You adapt: early outings, long water breaks, and a very Spanish acceptance that some things wait until September.

Finding a Home Without Losing My Mind

My first month was in a coliving in Ruzafa, the kind of neighborhood where the produce stands spill onto sidewalks and someone is always hauling a chair to the curb to sit in the shade. It was pricier than a long-term flat, but having Wi-Fi, air conditioning (critical), and a kitchen from day one took the edge off.

Apartment hunting is a sport here. I scrolled Idealista and Fotocasa, messaged agents in clumsy Spanish, and learned quickly to bring printed documentation to viewings: pay stubs, copy of passport, reference letter. Some landlords wanted a Spanish bank account; some wanted a deposit plus an agency fee (mine was one month’s rent); many wanted proof I wasn’t going to flee after a summer of beach walks. A few showed me apartments without AC and looked confused when I hesitated—August in Valencia will adjust your priorities.

After three weeks, I signed a year lease for a one-bedroom near Ruzafa’s market for 980€ per month. Utilities are about 110€ in summer (the air conditioning does work). Fiber internet was 30€ after the promo. It was not the cheapest option, but it felt like home—the kind of home where you learn the sounds of the neighborhood: the bread truck horn in the morning, the recycling truck clattering bottles after midnight, spontaneous applause from a nearby plaza.

Work Rhythms and Balance in a Very Sunny City

I’ve never been more conscious of time zones. My team sits on U.S. East and Pacific time, so I experimented. What works now is a split day: mornings for Spanish class or a bike ride and deep work, lunch at 2, a short rest when the sun is ruthless, and then calls from late afternoon into the evening.

On days when I needed community (and better A/C than my apartment could sustain), I went to a coworking space in Ruzafa—about 180€ per month for a hot desk. In August, the coworking thins out; a lot of Spaniards take their big vacations now. The emptiness has its own energy: projects move quietly, nobody tries to schedule a meeting at 1 p.m., and at 9 p.m. the light still invites you to walk.

The hardest part has been the boundary between “I live in Europe now” and “half my life happens five to nine hours behind me.” There were nights I ate dinner at 10:30 after a late call, wondering if I’d traded one kind of pressure for another. But a Wednesday sunset in Albufera, watching boats skim the rice fields with a cone of lemon ice cream in hand, also felt like an honest answer: this is the balance, not perfect, but mine.

Finding My People

I arrived knowing no one, and I won’t pretend that wasn’t scary. Loneliness sneaks up on you in mundane places. I almost cried in a Carrefour aisle trying to decide between twelve kinds of olive oil, aware of how many life decisions I was making alone.

What helped:

• Weeknight language exchanges in small bars, the kind where the group takes over two tables and switches between Spanish and English every fifteen minutes. I butchered verb tenses, laughed, and left with WhatsApp contacts.
• A women-in-tech meetup where someone lent me a fan and a list of “you must try” cafes. It’s easier to talk shop when the person across from you also learned what empadronamiento is this month.
• Padel nights at the municipal courts. I’m not good, but I show up, and so do other people who are new and eager to play.
• A neighbor who knocked to tell me my blinds were “too open” for the afternoon sun and then invited me to a Sunday paella. Tip: in Valencia, paella is a midday thing. Ordering it for dinner is like asking for pancakes at 10 p.m.—possible, but you’ll get a look.

Some friendships came from obvious expat channels; others started with a question at a market stall about which tomatoes are right for salmorejo. Say yes to small invitations. They lead somewhere.

Everyday Life: Food, Transport, Healthcare

Day to day, I bike. Valencia is flat and laced with bike lanes. I grabbed a Valenbisi pass and also bought a used city bike. When it’s too hot to pedal, I hop the bus. The airport metro is a smooth twenty minutes; the beach tram is full of sandy feet and good moods.

I’ve fallen hard for esmorzaret: the Valencian mid-morning ritual that looks like a sandwich too big for your hands, olives, peanuts, and a cold drink for under 6€. Lunch often comes as a menú del día for 12–15€—three courses, bread, a drink, and a coffee that feels like a punctuation mark. In August, I rotate cold soups (gazpacho and salmorejo), and sometimes I take the metro north to Alboraya for horchata with fartons, which sounds like a prank until you taste it.

Healthcare-wise, my visa required private insurance, and I booked a GP appointment within a week of arriving because I needed a refill prescription. It was straightforward: short wait, friendly doctor, and a pharmacy that felt more like a conversation than a transaction. Long term, once you’re contributing into the system or after you’ve been here a while, there are ways to access public healthcare; for now, my private plan works, and costs make sense in my budget.

My monthly basics: rent 980€, utilities 110€ (summer), internet 30€, coworking 180€, phone plan 18€, health insurance 58€, groceries around 250€, eats out maybe 150€ depending on my calendar. I know people spending less and more. It depends on your neighborhood and your coffee habits.

What Surprised Me

• People are kinder than the bureaucracy makes them seem. A woman at the police station coached me through the fingerprint scan like a patient aunt.
• Summer is a personality here. The city exhale in August is real. Some shops post a handwritten “back in September” and mean it. You learn to embrace long evenings and a slower pace.
• Spanish isn’t just a language—it’s ten tiny courtesies a day. Saying buenos días when you enter a room. Waiting your turn without a number ticket. Choosing “usted” for someone older. These small things build a life.

I also still mess up. I told a shopkeeper I was very married (casada) when I meant very tired (cansada). She laughed until she cried. I did too.

If You’re Considering It

• Start your background check early. The apostille takes time, and you can’t rush it.
• Use a sworn translator and keep neat digital and paper folders. Future-you will bless past-you.
• Get private health insurance that explicitly covers Spain without co-pays or waiting periods. They’ll check.
• Budget for an agency fee and extra deposits when renting. Consider a month of coliving to land smoothly.
• Build a routine before you build your social calendar. Mornings for you, evenings for others works well in summer.
• Time zones are real. Be honest with your team about boundaries; offer solutions (split days, fixed call blocks).
• Learn enough Spanish to stumble through a conversation. You’ll be surprised how far good intentions carry you.

Looking Back (and Forward)

Six weeks in, I’m not claiming mastery over anything—least of all Spanish bureaucracy—but I have a TIE card in my wallet, sand permanently trapped in a pair of sneakers, and an evolving definition of balance. Some days I miss things I didn’t expect: my go-to hike in California, a certain brand of oat milk. Most days, I bike home at 9:30 p.m., pass families walking in the warm dark, and feel a quiet certainty that this experiment was the right one.

If you’re on the fence, you don’t have to plan the whole year today. Plan the first month. Plan the folder of documents. The rest, like my neighbor’s advice about blinds, will show up when the sun does.

Best wishes from Valencia,