Bay to Barca
I’ve spent 20 years telling clients to “do hard things.”
Here’s proof I take my own advice:
You know that voice that says, “Well, what if we just…left?” I listened to it.
We moved to Barcelona.
Look, I'm 47 with three kids. Sara and I had everything figured out in the Bay Area.
But here's what kept bothering me:
I found myself having the same conversations over and over.
Football, real estate, stock picks. I'd go to these dinners and think, “How many times can we talk about the same stuff?”
We get really good at executing the playbook, but sometimes you need to throw out the playbook entirely.
Sometimes you need to do hard things. You have to be comfortable being uncomfortable.
So, we packed up our family of five and moved to Barcelona. Now Sara and I are writing about it.
And I'm still running Object Edge full throttle. Turns out you can do hard things from anywhere.
But being here, watching my kids navigate new playgrounds in a new language, sharing killer views with Sara on Sunday afternoons…it's irreplaceable.
If you're curious about what happens when a tech CEO trades Silicon Valley for the Mediterranean Sea, when a family chooses adventure over optimization, come along for the ride
Bay to Barca
Episode 5: Paperwork, Pitches, and the Padrón
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This week we discovered the most powerful word in Barcelona parenting: empadronamiento. Not tapas, not Barça, not siesta—the padrón. If your kid wants to lace up for a local club, you don’t just bring shin guards; you bring documents.
It started innocently. “What do we need for sign-ups?” we asked. The coach smiled: “El padrón.” Cue a scavenger hunt across acronyms and offices—OAC, CAP, Ajuntament—and a crash course in the difference between what you think you need and what the lovely person at the desk actually asks for.
Here’s the play-by-play: we gathered passports, the lease, and a utility bill for good measure, then chased down the certificado de empadronamiento so the club could confirm we actually live where we say we do. Suddenly soccer wasn’t just a sport; it was a bureaucratic rite of passage. And honestly? It made us feel a little more here. There’s something grounding about getting your name into a city’s ledger. It’s like Barcelona saying, “Vale, you’re part of the neighborhood now. Welcome.”
Meanwhile, the kids are picking up the rhythms faster than we are. They already know which bakery gives an extra smile with a croissant and which playground has the good shade. We’re still figuring out why some shops close at the exact moment we need them—but even that’s becoming part of our family folklore. (Future us: plan errand runs like you plan dinner reservations.)
There were a few side quests. We learned that CAP isn’t a hat—it’s your local health center—and that “curas” in the pharmacy world means dressings and care, not clergy. The kind of vocabulary you only get by living life out loud (and sometimes a little lost) in a new place.
Somewhere between the appointments, we found our small wins: a sunny bench after the paperwork marathon, a new café that now knows our order, the grin on a kid’s face when the club says, “Bring boots to practice.” That grin makes the forms worth it.
What we figured out (so you don’t have to):
- Start empadronamiento early. Clubs often ask for it to prove local residency for youth teams.
- Bring passports, lease (full copy), and anything with your address—it speeds things up.
- Set up idCAT Mòbil so you can request documents online without trekking back across town.
- Learn your local CAP (primary care center) for everyday health stuff; it’ll save you time and confusion.
- Treat paperwork days like game days: snacks packed, spirits up, expectations realistic.
If you’re listening from afar and wondering whether the admin is worth it—the answer, at least for us this week, is yes. Because the paperwork isn’t just paperwork; it’s belonging. It’s the bridge from “we just arrived” to “we play here.”