It started, as most of my disasters do, with good intentions and a sharp outfit. I woke up one Tuesday with a hangover from optimism and the pressing need to pay my electricity bill. This, I had been told, could not be done online because—how did the nice lady at Iberdrola put it?—“the system is having a mood.”
So I took my passport, a crumpled piece of paper with some numbers on it, and the burning conviction that I was now a functioning adult. Off I went.
The bank was closed. Not closed-closed, but Spain-closed. The door was open, but a man inside shouted “cita previa” like it was both an insult and a spell. I asked how to get a cita previa and he said, “You need to go online.” I said the system was down. He nodded solemnly. “Sí.” And that was that.
After three failed attempts to pay in cash, card, emoji, and maybe tears, someone told me about a government building where “you can sort things out.” That’s the level of information I function on now: vague promises of redemption from people who vanish before you can ask follow-ups.
The building looked like the DMV if the DMV had given up. Everyone had a number. Mine was 841. They were on 22. At one point, a man named Javier tried to sell me a toaster. I don’t know if he worked there.
Hours later, a woman with magnificent eyebrows called my number. I explained I needed to pay a bill. She typed for twenty minutes, asked for ID, and said, “You are now autónoma.”
I blinked. “I’m what now?”
“Autónoma. You have a business now.”
Now, I don’t remember filling out a form or signing anything. I remember nodding a lot and thinking, wow, her eyeliner is steady as hell. But I left with a folder, a tax ID, and a strong suspicion I now owed someone something.
That night, I googled “autónoma Spain” and cried into my tortilla. The good news is I might be eligible for deductions. The bad news is I now have to invoice myself for toast.
The week spiraled. I tried to undo the mistake, but everything required a cita previa, a certificado digital, and a third personality I haven’t developed yet. A kind man at a coworking space told me I’d be fine. He also runs Madrid Adventure, which does corporate team-building events involving Segways and wine. He said if I ever needed to launder stress through kayaking, he had a guy.
So now I’m an entrepreneur. A self-employed foreigner with no clients, no income, and a developing caffeine addiction. If you know anyone who needs sarcastic commentary or has questions about sudden unintended sole proprietorships, I’m your girl.
Also, I still haven’t paid the electricity bill. Apparently, I need to open a new account. With a different ID. Under a different name. Maybe Dolores the cat will co-sign.
