Seven years ago, I moved from the U.S. to Spain. I was 70 years old and on my own. Now, I’m living my best life in the vibrant European capital of Madrid. Here’s how it happened.

After working in Hollywood as an assistant director for almost 20 years, I left that world behind and moved to Santa Fe, New Mexico. My idea was to invest my small nest egg in real estate and let it grow into a cushion for my retirement. I bought two houses and started selling real estate.

In the housing crash of 2008, both of my properties went underwater. The value of each fell to $100,000 less than the mortgage. Suddenly, my real estate was worthless, and I had no income. By 2010, I was bankrupt, in foreclosure, and owed money to a friend. The nest egg was gone. I was 63 years old. I had no children, no parents, no husband, no real estate, and no obligations. I felt scared and, at the same time, euphoria for being completely free.

I realized if I were ever going to retire, it would have to be in a country where I could live on my pensions. I am a well-traveled person, and I knew such places existed. I set out to find the right one for me. During Santa Fe’s freezing winters, I traveled in search of a warmer, more affordable home. I’d lived in Mexico for six months in 2000. It was on my shortlist, but safety was a concern.

I visited in Chile, Argentina, Honduras, and Puerto Rico, too. I spent three months in Brazil. Salvador, Bahia, tempted me, but it wasn’t affordable enough. Antigua, Guatemala, also rose to the top of my list despite shaky infrastructure and potential safety issues.

I hadn’t considered Europe because I thought it would be too expensive, but in 2016, I flew to Madrid to visit a friend who had been my English student when I taught a summer program in Santa Fe. He guided me through the city’s diverse neighborhoods, elegant parks, world-class museums, and traditional tapas bars.

It turned out Spain was well within my budget. The infrastructure was developed. The public transportation was clean, convenient, and affordable. And best of all, the streets were safe and filled with friendly people at all hours of the day and night.

My friend took me to Seville to meet his parents. Sitting in the shady garden of the ancient Alcázar, listening to the splash of fountains and drinking coffee with my pal, I felt content and oddly at home. Days later, I experienced the same sensation strolling through the Albaicín in Granada. I had found a place where I belonged.

I spent a week volunteering in an English immersion program for Spanish professionals. I was enchanted by their enthusiasm, intelligence, and seductive joie de vivre. By the time I got back to Madrid, I had new friends.

Spain has a lot of similarities to the southern California of my youth: climate, flora, beaches, and architecture. For me, it evoked a comfortable nostalgia. When it was time to return to the U.S., I didn’t want to go back. I thought, “I could live here.”

Back in Santa Fe, I started investigating the residency requirements for moving to Spain. My pensions just met the financial threshold. I started gathering documents, ordered an FBI report, and got an apostille. My doctor wrote a letter saying I had no infectious diseases, and I bought Spanish health insurance. I printed bank statements, took passport photos, filled out forms, and paid fees online. Finally, I had everything translated into Spanish by a certified interpreter.

I made an appointment to present my application in person at the Spanish consulate in Houston, which was assigned to me because of my permanent residence in New Mexico. An official took my passport and told me it would be returned with my residency visa affixed to one of the pages in six weeks to three months.

Once I got an email announcing my visa was ready, I flew to Houston, picked up my passport, returned to Santa Fe, and sold or gave away almost everything I owned. I arrived in Madrid two months later with four suitcases.

I’d kept in touch with the Spanish friends I made when I volunteered at the English immersion program. One of the women, Isabel, invited me to stay in her guest room while I looked for a rental. I searched for apartments in central Madrid, but since my Spanish was less than basic, Isabel called to make my appointments and went with me to the showings. Within a week and a half, I’d rented a furnished studio in the Chamberí neighborhood.

Within 30 days of arriving as a resident, I had to submit all the same paperwork I’d presented in Houston to the immigration office in Madrid, along with my empadronamiento (a document that shows you’ve registered your address with your municipality). Isabel went with me to that appointment and the immigration office. Thanks to her, I submitted everything by the deadline. Three months later, my official residency card came in the mail. I’ve since discovered that helpful generosity like Isabel’s is common for Spanish people.

Now Zumba, Pilates, language exchanges, and Spanish classes fill my days. Evenings effervesce with the conviviality of meeting friends for wine and tapas, going to concerts, singing at the piano bar, and dancing the night away. I’m writing the things I didn’t have time to write during my working life.

I’ve gotten healthier because I walk to and from public transportation. As a senior resident of Madrid, I have a card that provides me with unlimited rides on the metro, buses, and urban trains for free. Life without the expense and responsibility of a car is pure joy.

Spanish health care allows me to address all concerns without additional fees. If I want to spend a weekend at the beach, a clean, comfortable, fast train will get me there in two hours. Since Madrid is a transportation hub, travel within Europe is easy and inexpensive. So far, I’ve been to Amsterdam, Berlin, Frankfurt, southern France, Turkey, and Portugal’s Algarve region. Later this year, I’ll go to Edinburgh for the Fringe Festival and Venice for the Biennale.

Spain has proved to be all I hoped it would be and more. My move turned out to be a brilliant decision, and I’ve never been happier.