WHY?

At the end of May 2016, we're moving to Barcelona. As non-Spanish-speaking parents of two kids under 5 who have good jobs and a comfortable life in Boston, a reasonable first question people might ask us is: what the hell are you thinking? And so to kick-off this blog, an abbreviated answer to that very sensible inquiry.

This whole adventure has been percolating for many years. It started as a recurring daydream we had every time we traveled abroad, like a nagging stowaway that crept into our luggage and followed us home and stuck around just a little too long. It's hard to pinpoint exactly when we simultaneously said we'd do it and believed we'd do it; over time, it just became like a game of chicken—us against our fanciful imagination—and finally, we had to take our own dare.

Therefore, the question of "why?" is most accurately answered by "why not?" And I don't mean that as a blasé dodging of the question; I mean it more as a challenge—why...not?

To digress, in my previous life as a Real Working Person, I found myself utterly dreading and resenting my otherwise very cushy job. I spilled my guts to a therapist, who (for $150/hour) asked the most stupidly obvious question, but one to which I had no compelling answer: "Well then why don't you quit?" So I did. And with hindsight, I do think it was one of my better decisions.

So back to Spain. Why not? Why not just go? The moment felt right and the window seemed open. I needed to find a job somewhere, so why not Europe? The kids are old enough to enjoy adventures (i.e., no more diapers, praisethelordhallelujah), but not so old that they'll spoil it with angsty indignation about relocating (i.e., me circa 1999). And Aaron was totally onboard to mix things up a bit (okay, a lot). So we bet on the fact that we'd end this life with more regrets if we didn't go than if we did, and that pretty much settled it.

To be clear, this could be a horrible, horrible decision. Lots of things could go very wrong, and I make no pretense about an international move being an easy and glamorous transition. Let's start with the fact that no one in our family speaks Spanish or Catalan (though some of us are diligently trying, muchas gracias). Let's continue with the fact that Aaron doesn't yet have a job. Let's further add that we'll be 4,000 miles from our nearest family member. And we can conclude by acknowledging the many wonderful things we're giving up—Aaron's great job, a home that we love, friends we'll be far from, a daily routine that works—many of them for good.

So being realistic, we're hereby defining "success" in simple and attainable terms: we'll count it as a win if do it. If we land in Barcelona next May on a one-way ticket and move to Spain. Notably absent from this definition are: how the experience will be, how long we'll stay, how many friends we'll make (or not make), how great our jobs will be (or won't be), how many weekend trips we'll take (or won't), how glad we will be that we did it. Those are unknowable. One year from now, I could be writing about what a huge mistake it all was. But that will be okay.  Because we took our own dare and then waited expectantly to see what would happen.