The Invisible Currency of Belonging in Galicia
Belonging in Galicia isn’t measured in euros. You can arrive with a bank account full of savings, a flawless NIE appointment booked months in advance, even a LinkedIn network stretched across continents, and still find yourself outside the circle that matters. The circle here isn’t digital, it’s relational. It’s the quiet, slow-moving economy of trust and reciprocity that you can’t hack with an app or access at a counter in the Concello.
I learned this not from a book, but from lived experience — because unlike many who have chosen Galicia later in life, I grew up here. Belonging was never abstract; it was stitched into the rhythms of ordinary days. I sit in the same coffee shop my family has been going to since it opened more than thirty years ago. (Oops — I just dated myself). Granted, staff have come and gone. I have come and gone. And yet, certain things remain.
It’s our go-to coffee shop whenever we’re in downtown Vigo, the place my son now claims as his own. The place where they serve his favourite tortilla ever, and where he took his first public steps running towards grandpa. He walks in, or even passes by, and the waiters — who all know us, but more importantly, know him — come out with a little plastic cup of patatillas (the word people in Vigo use for potato chips), because they know he loves them, and because they love him. No app, no loyalty card, no transaction. Just recognition, continuity, affection. That is currency.
Why Relational Capital Matters as Much as Logistics
For people relocating to Galicia, the focus often falls on logistics: securing housing, figuring out health cards, and bracing for the dreaded cita previa. And yes, those things matter. Without them, life here quickly gets complicated. But paperwork and logistics alone don’t get you very far. The real barrier is rarely the document itself; it’s access: Who tells you which gestor is worth their fee. Who makes the introduction that gets your kid into a preschool spot. Who vouches for you when the landlord hesitates.
This is relational capital. Pierre Bourdieu, the French sociologist, called it “the aggregate of the actual or potential resources which are linked to possession of a durable network.” It’s an academic way of saying what Galicians already know: who you are connected to shapes what you can do.
Here, relational capital can mean the difference between being stuck at the margins, or stepping into the stream of daily life.
A single recommendation can mean everything — not just softening the rigidity of bureaucracy, but pointing you straight to the person who will actually get things done. You may desperately need a plumber at an odd hour, and a trusted connection can open a door that would otherwise stay firmly shut. And yet, this kind of capital is not hoarded like money. It is shared, extended, and tested. You don’t accumulate it by extraction but by presence. By showing up at the neighbourhood bar, the school drop-off line, the local romaría. By listening more than you speak, by learning when to offer help and when to accept it.
A History That Shapes the Present
Galicia’s social fabric didn’t come out of nowhere. It is woven from centuries of migration and emigration. Families here carry the memory of departure — of brothers gone to Cuba, of daughters working in Switzerland, of parents who left for Barcelona or Buenos Aires. In my case, it is the lingering of ancestors who moved to the United States. The remittances sustained villages, but so did the letters, the parcels, the word-of-mouth networks that kept people tethered across distance.
This history forged a culture where family and community matter more than any state structure. Institutions were distant, often distrusted; what people had was each other. You relied on kin, neighbours, compadres. That reliance persists. Even today, returnees from Galicia’s waves of emigration slide back into the embrace of networks that span oceans.
For newcomers, understanding this history is essential. You are entering a place where trust is not an abstraction; it is the residue of lived survival. Relational capital is not a quaint custom. It is an inheritance, a tool for resilience that has carried Galicia through waves of departure and return.
The Centolla Christmas
One Saturday morning, right before Christmas, our neighbour who works at the port stopped by and asked, “¿Os gustan las centollas?” — “Do you like centollas?” Centollas, the spider crabs of Galicia, pulled from the cold Atlantic, are a holiday delicacy. Sweet, briny, a little messy to eat, they’re the centrepiece of many a Christmas table here. But they’re not cheap. In season, especially around the holidays, they can sell for upwards of 30 or 40 euros apiece, sometimes more. When I said yes, we do like them, he grinned and told me he’d managed to get some at cost. Would I like them? I only had to cover his price. Of course, I said yes. For 20 euros, he handed me eight centollas — enough to feed a feast. Eight spider crabs is a lot for any Christmas meal, especially for a small family like ours.
So we shared. We called our cousins and passed some along. We brought a couple over to the neighbours across the street, the ones who are quick to let us know when our cats are doing unsafe things from the third-floor window or fifth-floor terrace. And we carried a few downstairs to the neighbours who have, more than once, stepped in to care for one of our dogs when an emergency pulled us away.
The centollas filled our table, yes — but more importantly, they stitched us into the fabric of obligation and gratitude that makes community real here. They were a reminder that the true feast isn’t the seafood itself but the flow of trust and reciprocity that circulates with it.
Reflection
I sometimes think about the difference between currencies. Money circulates quickly, impersonally. Relational capital moves slowly, intimately, carrying with it a weight of trust that can’t be measured on a bank statement. Both have their place, but only one makes you feel at home.
Belonging here isn’t granted by documents or transactions. It’s earned — in the long rhythm of showing up, of being seen and seeing others. Galicia doesn’t measure you by what you have, but by how you join in: At the table, at the festa, at the market — and in a coffee shop in Vigo, where a waiter steps out with a little plastic cup of patatillas for your son — not because he asked for them, but because the fact that it would make him happy was already understood.
Bibliography
Bourdieu, Pierre. The Forms of Capital. In J. Richardson (Ed.), Handbook of Theory and Research for the Sociology of Education. Greenwood, 1986.
Hoerder, Dirk. Cultures in Contact: World Migrations in the Second Millennium. Duke University Press, 2002.
Núñez Seixas, Xosé M. Emigrantes, caciques e indianos: O influxo sociopolítico da emigración transoceánica en Galicia (1900–1930). Edicións Xerais de Galicia, 1992.
Trillo, Carlos. Galicia: A Sentimental Nation. Galaxia, 2001.
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Ángela-Jo Touza-Medina, M.A., LL.M., is a global nonprofit and social impact consultant, workforce strategy and DEIB advocate, as well as a recognised immigrant integration facilitator. She is the author of A Single Mother by Choice: A Journal for Solo Moms and founder of LiveGalicia, a platform supporting digital nomads, foreign residents, and returning Galicians as they build lives rooted in community and belonging. With over twenty years of experience guiding organisations and community-driven initiatives, her work sits at the intersection of equity, migration, and organisational resilience.