The pasta was twelve euros. The wine was reasonable. The meal was lovely. Then the bill arrives, and there at the bottom sits a line that was not on any dish: coperto, two euros per person, roughly $2.20 each. To an American, freshly seated in their first Italian trattoria, it looks exactly like the thing …
An American retiree settles in Spain, walks into a local bank to open a simple checking account, and is politely turned away. Not because of her finances, her paperwork, or anything she has done, but because of her passport. She is an American, and for a growing number of European banks, that alone is reason …
The American waits for the gown. The doctor has said to get undressed, the conversation has paused, and somewhere in the room there should be a folded paper or cloth gown with ties down the back, the thing you put on so you are covered while everything else happens. In a French or Spanish consulta, …
There is a line in the Spanish calendar that most people moving to the country never notice until it has already cost them money. Spend more than 183 days in Spain during a single calendar year and you become a Spanish tax resident, and a Spanish tax resident owes Spanish tax on their worldwide income, …
Look up in any Spanish city and the whole street is doing its washing in public. Shirts and sheets, socks and underwear, hang from lines strung across balconies and between buildings, flapping over the traffic in full view of anyone who cares to look. Nobody cares to look. The laundry is simply there, the way …
For the price of a couple of coffees, a retiree in Spain can buy a small card that knocks up to forty percent off train fares across the entire country for a full year. It costs six euros, about six and a half dollars. It is available to anyone over sixty, whether they live in …
An American turns sixty-five, or moves to Europe already past it, and runs headlong into a decision that Medicare presents badly and almost nobody prepares them for. Should they keep paying for Medicare Part B, at more than two hundred dollars a month, for coverage that will not work where they now live? Or should …
Americans understand, deep in their bones, that salt makes sweet things better. It is why salted caramel took over dessert menus, why chocolate-covered pretzels exist, why kettle corn is addictive. The salt-sweet contrast is one of the great pleasures of eating. And yet Americans mostly confine it to candy and dessert. Greeks apply the same …
On a Sunday afternoon in America, a familiar ritual plays out in kitchens across the country. Someone cooks a large batch of chicken, rice, and vegetables, then divides it into a row of identical plastic containers, one for each day of the week ahead. It is efficient, organised, and, to much of Europe, faintly baffling. …
The produce section is the first place a visiting American gets it wrong, and it happens within thirty seconds of walking in. Someone reaches for a tomato with a bare hand, gives it the practiced supermarket squeeze, and a nearby shopper glances over. In much of Europe that squeeze is the tell. The rule is …
A family sits down at a restaurant in Seville, orders lunch, and asks for water. A waiter brings two large bottles of mineral water and, at the end of the meal, adds them to the bill: several euros for water that came out of a factory. The family pays without thinking, as tourists do across …
Walk through Paris, Rome, or Madrid in the middle of August and you will notice something strange: half the city seems to have gone home. Neighbourhood restaurants have handwritten signs in the window reading closed until September. Bakeries are shuttered, the corner shop is dark, and the streets where locals live feel oddly hollow. Europe, …