Working from Spain sounds lovely when you say it out loud.
“Just bringing the laptop — I’ll be working from Dénia for a few weeks.”
Everyone nods. Jealous, impressed. Someone says “digital nomad” like I’ve joined an elite club of flexible thinkers who take calls with ocean views and sip coffee under olive trees while reviewing Q4 data.
That person has never tried working from our half-furnished townhouse in July.
The Wi-Fi is… okay. When it works. When no one else is on it. When Leo isn’t watching Minecraft videos and the twins aren’t having simultaneous Roblox meltdowns because the router decided to nap in the heat.
I’ve taken meetings from the stairwell because it’s the only place with decent reception. Bryan rigged up a booster — actually a tangle of wires wrapped around an old colander — which I didn’t ask for and refuse to acknowledge.
I can’t sit in the living room after noon. It turns into a convection oven. The terrace has shade until about 11am, then the sun hits it like it owes it money. So I chase shade across the house with my laptop like a cat following warm spots, only in reverse.
One day I did a client Zoom from the bathroom because it had a fan and a door that locked. I think I sold something. Or agreed to something. Either way, I haven’t been invited back to that meeting.
There’s also the background noise.
Birds I can live with. Geckos? Fine. But screaming children mid-call? Less cute. The twins seem to only need snacks, mediation, or plasters the exact moment I unmute. Leo started shouting “emergency!” during one call because the paddling pool had gone “disgusting” and he needed “an adult with a net.”
Bryan was in the kitchen with noise-cancelling headphones, making coffee like he wasn’t part of this family.
Then there’s the neighbours.
Lovely people. But they pop in. They bring things. Eggs, peaches, one time a cactus in a bag. They knock, shout “¡Hola!” through the window, and carry on talking even when I’m clearly mid-call. One of them dropped off a watermelon the size of a beach ball, during a presentation, and I had to pretend I was just being burgled by a friendly farmer.
Nobody here respects headphones. Not the neighbours. Not the kids. Not even the dog that occasionally wanders into our garden from somewhere unknown and barks at walls.
I’m still working, technically. Emails are being sent. Deadlines met. But it feels less like “remote work” and more like a tactical operation involving chargers, ceiling fans, bribery, and blind hope.
There are moments when it’s nice. Like when the breeze actually makes it through the shutters and I can hear the sound of someone else’s lunch plates being washed. Or when I look up and realise I’ve replied to six emails with a view of the Montgó in the distance, and no one has screamed at me in 20 minutes.
And then a gecko falls into the printer tray and we’re back to chaos.
So yes, I’m working from Spain. Technically.
But I’m also sweating through video calls, herding children, moving my laptop every ninety minutes, and trying not to scream when the Wi-Fi drops just as someone says “final offer.”
If that’s the digital nomad dream, I think I need a nap.