Running on from my last post (it’s been a while I know, stay with me people!) I had just celebrated New Year’s (2016!?) with some of my best friends, and somehow had already found myself awaiting an exciting opportunity. The interview I had joked about with Josh and his boss was, unbeknownst to me at the time, the beginning of my hiring process.
Fast-forward a couple of months and a few excited video calls later, I was offered a job at one of Spain’s most exciting start-up companies, and to top it all off, I would be working alongside my best friend, in the heart of the Spanish capital – was this living la vida loca?
Spanish smiles all round!
I reread the email again and again, for fear it was all too good to be true – but it was all there. Dreams of sangria nights and constant sunshine were soon to be a reality! Now was the time to get excited! …and also a bit more organised.
I had lived abroad before, but this jaunt felt different. If given the opportunity, I think everyone should jump at the chance to take on an experience in a different country – there’s nothing quite like exploring what life could be like on different soil, and more often than not you end up discovering more about yourself than anything else.
Erasmus 2013 – the love for Spain grows greater
The prospect of moving my life to Madrid felt different in many ways because, unlike my Erasmus stays, I didn’t know how long I’d be out there for. We could be talking years, not months; the job opportunity I was given was a permanent position, and I had a feeling I would (at long last!) be living out of more than just my 23kg suitcase – I could actually invest in some homeware!
It was different also in the sense that I’d be working. It wasn’t all going to be “Fun in the Sun” (although I had high hopes that a lot of the time it would be), but I was excited, because I would be starting a life out there, somewhere new, making new friends, knowing that I’d have a base and the time to really enjoy the place and all it had to offer – and not by the ticking clock.
Soon to be home…?
By this time, Josh had been living in Madrid for almost a year, and from everything he’d told me, I was itching to leave London behind already. Working at the bank combined with the English winter (if you know, you know) spurred me on even more to make the move, and as soon as I received confirmation, I was ready to go.
The idea of homesickness hadn’t really crossed my mind this time round, as my poor family were used to my coming and going by then.
“Just let us know in time so I can get the beers in and your Mum can stock up the fridge.” I am, afterall, an absolute boozehound with the appetite of a bodybuilder.
Madrid had the advantage of only being a 2.5 hour flight away, something myself and my family could deal with. In fact, on learning of my news, Mum & Dad were overjoyed!
I handed in my notice and started looking for the perfect room in the heart of the capital – I wanted to be right slap bang in the very centre of all Madrid’s madness.
As I mentioned in an earlier post, being from London was exciting, but living in Suburbia, you’re somewhat limited to what activities the city can offer. You really need to be in zone 2 (at least) and have a decent pay packet to really enjoy yourself, while being able to pay bills, save, and not have to put up with THAT commute. Madrid was different. Looking at the prices of rent, I could be living in a flat-share in Sol, literally the most central point of the city, with a nice balcony, a view of the Plaza Mayor, and still have money leftover to have a life, travel, eat out – also I COULD WALK TO WORK.
By some sweet miracle that’s exactly where I ended up.
Late July in Madrid was miserable. The weather was glorious; it was hot, but not quite ‘August hot’ and everyone was in holiday-mode; part of me forgot that I was a working professional and the six-week summer break was no longer applicable. And the reason I was sad was because after months of beers on the balcony, living in a bit of a bubble, and loving every moment of our Sol apartment life together, time at Casa Calle de Atocha was up.
I watched Esaú clear out his things as he packed his suitcase; the semester was over and he would be heading back to his native Mexico the following week, which I was trying very hard not to think about.
“Do you want this?”
“YES.”
“And this?”
“YES.”
“Probably this too, right?”
“GIMME.”
The only good thing to come from his leaving, was that I was going to inherit a few belongings he couldn’t quite fit into his case/those he would have thrown away, had I let him.
Our balcón
Esaú is not like me. He is organised. He is very black and white about some things. Nothing in his wardrobe is over 2 years old. If it doesn’t fit anymore, he throws it out. If the material is old, he throws it out. If something no longer fulfils its use, he doesn’t need it, therefore, that’s right, he throws it out. He is, what I would call, rational.
I, on the other hand, still have a plane ticket from when I went to Bangkok in 2011.
I probably still have most of my old boarding passes. Travel brochures of cities I’ve visited, museum passes, postcards, you name it, I’ve kept it.
“But…why?” Esaú couldn’t quite grasp my reasoning for wanting to hang on to E V E R Y T H I N G.
I would always give him the same answer, which has become a running joke between us. “Keep it for the memories”.
“Sam, it’s an old cinema ticket…”
No ‘maybe’ piles here
Okay, so it seems a bit much I’ll admit, and just to make this clear, I don’t literally hold onto every piece of paper that passes through my hands. In this case, it wasn’t just any old cinema ticket, it was from one of our very first dates together. I explained this to him (blushing a lovely shade of beetroot the whole time) and he gave me a little smile, which partly said “you’re a bit nuts” and partly “that’s quite sweet actually”, or so I’d like to think.
For me, the little things count, and, as insignificant or disposable as they might appear to someone on the surface, perhaps just another proof of purchase, or silly souvenir with googly-eyes; if something holds a certain connection to a specific memory, and reminds me of a time I wish to treasure; a moment I would like to revisit long after it has passed, then it carries a completely different value altogether.
Admittedly, I am a hoarder. I don’t like throwing things away. I am a romantic at heart, a sensitive soul who gets attached to objects all too easily, should they remind me of a certain person, place, or a moment that was special to me. But having moved around so often, it’s times like these, when you’re packing and unpacking, that you have to decide what stays and what goes, and in this case, Esaú had a point.
Just a few collectables (including the cinema ticket of course)
So I’ve learnt from my ways. I no longer keep a hold of as many things and I’ve become a bit more selective with my choice of memorabilia. When all’s said and done, I’ve realised, it is not the object I’m attached to, but rather, the moment I associate it with.
In the end, are all these little trinkets and keepsakes worth, well, just that – the sake of keeping?
As I pondered over this great debate, Esaú continued to sort through the remainder of his things. It was interesting to observe the thought-process behind someone-else’s packing, especially when their method was so different, and from my perspective, cut-throat. A small voice in the back of my head wondered what had happened to all the tickets he must have gone through on his various trips in the past year alone *sigh* ‘What a collection there could have been’
His process was very thorough, efficient, and managed without distraction (impressive, considering I always get in the way, whether intentionally or not).
But something was off.
He had paused. There was a moment of lapse in his concentration; a glitch in the matrix.
His wardrobe looked really sad. Only a bundled-up duvet remained, lonely on its shelf. All of his possessions had been snatched from where they used to hang happily at home, now neatly tucked away, bound inside the almost-ready suitcase. All of his things that is, save for one or rather two items.
Sadness
“How long have you had those boots?”
He was stood over and staring poignantly at the pair of leather booties, which had made their way out of the wardrobe but not quite into the suitcase. Slightly scuffed, and a little worn in, these boots would probably be considered ‘past-it’ in Esaú’s book, but by my standards, I think they still had a lot of life left in them yet.
He always takes extremely good care of his belongings, including this particular pair of boots. They were frequently cleaned, polished and treated with the tender love and care they deserved. So why would he throw them? Well, they didn’t look like new, and they’d been around for longer than a couple of years. They were, I had supposed, about to get the boot.
GET IT?
THE BOOT.
But no.
And actually, this is what’s curious. After adopting Esaú’s way of thinking and attempting to ‘cut back’ as it were on my addictive nature of collecting bits and bobs, I felt two things:
Freer. There is no guilt now when throwing away decidedly unnecessary items. Disposing of an entrance band does not mean I won’t remember enjoying the gig.
The pickier I am with the things I keep, the greater their sentimental value becomes.
Which was exactly what was running through my boyfriend’s head in that very moment.
These were not just a pair of shoes. They told a story. His story.
“You know, you don’t have to throw them…”
“It’s just…they’ve been everywhere with me.”
His little face said it all. The boots had gotten the green light. They would live to see another day, and I was certain, many more countries.
These boots had trekked pretty much all over Europe; endured puddles in London, the Dublin terrain during winter, and the bar crawls in Paris. The soles had undergone many a city tour, they’d seen Prague, Budapest and even Singapore. They’d been on trains, planes, and tuk-tuks; survived the snow-filled streets of Toronto (their origin) and the immense humidity of bustling Bangkok. They’d been trodden on by fellow tourists, they’d had to run to catch domestic and international flights and they’d been loyal when the weather was less so; they’d travelled three continents and had stayed faithful throughout it all.
For this reason precisely, they wouldn’t make it into the case.
Instead, they would be doing what they do best, and taking him on the long flight home, accompanying him on what was to be another adventure.
Ayutthaya, Thailand
London
Prague
Paris
Madrid
Budapest
Singapore
With this decision finalized, the suitcase was zipped up and the padlock firmly secured. Everything that needed to be, was stowed away safely. Including, I had noticed, every single gift I’d given him. Every token I’d bought him from a trip I’d been on, be it a shot glass or a tiny seashell; a colourful magnet or a novelty keyring – they’d all been carefully packed away first. It warmed the cockles of my heart.
We’re all big softies really.
Whether we openly admit it or not, I am pretty sure everyone keeps ‘silly little things’ purely for their sentimental value.
This couldn’t be more true than when you’re in a long-distance relationship.
When your person is no longer there, at least not physically, a lot of what you have left when they’ve gone, is the comfort of their memory.
Unfortunately we couldn’t keep our flat decor for the memories
A week went by, and it came time for Esaú (and his boots) to make their way home. Things just didn’t feel the same once he’d gone. My room was bare, the small balcony was now far too big and to be completely honest, I couldn’t help but feel like my heart had a great big fat hole in it.
Going from seeing someone everyday to not at all can make you miss every little thing about them, those aspects that you had become so familiar with before, and also, let’s face it, those you had taken for granted. For this reason alone, I was happy I’d saved those tickets, the silly snapchat videos, the trinkets from our days out together, and it goes without saying, every sweet and thoughtful gift he had given me during our time together. Because, until we would see each other again, these collectables would make the distance that little bit less painful, and help keep our memories very much alive, comforting me in the fact that there would be more like that to come.
Don’t tell, but I also kept his old metrocard when he left.
London. Blighty. The Big Smoke. And the place I will always call home.
As much as I whine and moan (comes with the territory) about the horrendous weather, traffic, doom, gloom and to top it all off, the extortionate cost of living we have to endure, I will always love my city. It can be grey, gritty and at times not the friendliest of places, but it has that certain special something that no other city has; there is just none other quite like it.
Living in the ‘burbs for most of my life meant that the illusion of going ‘up-town’ was still very much a thing – we were a 25 minute train-ride away, so it was close, but we still reaped the benefits of town tranquility that comes with bordering the Kentish countryside.
Coming home for Easter and Christmas during my university days was always fun, and going into the city for the day (or boozy night-out) was always a thrill.
Working in London left me with mixed feelings.
For the love of God please DO NOT STAND ON THE LEFT
As mentioned in my previous post, the daily commute had gotten me down a tad, and going out for a couple of post-work drinkies was becoming less and less enjoyable because of this rat-race lifestyle.
The trudge from Southeast London to East London everyday (put into perspective is no matter of distance at all), added at least a couple of extra hours onto my working day, and as a result, I took to looking for distractions, so the week would go by quicker, as sad as it sounds.
Again, I wasn’t the only one.
“I’m off to Pompey this weekend for a flat reunion, then next weekend I’m going out-out with the lot from home, then the week after we have team drinks, so I think I’m all good for this month. And of course in between that we have our lovely weekly catch-ups (booze-ups).”
Porgeous and I were always trying to make the most of our weekends (and general space outside of working hours), because:
It gave us something to look forward to, and
Frankly if we didn’t, my life would have just been spreadsheets and staring at the back of a stranger’s head on the train.
We were are young, we finally had a bit of extra dosh to enjoy, and we were determined to find the time to do so. So we did. And what fun we had.
Did someone say happy hour?
Hangout
As we were welcomed into the week with Mojito Mondays, Tequila Fridays ushered us into the weekend with a not so gentle push, and lots of chat of Italian days in the sun and the trifles of London-living so far. A few Fridays of the month, we’d meet up with our fabulous Clare after work, another Modena darling, who had a flair for languages and the unbelievable skill of making a chilled cocktail or two turn into tequila debauchery and an unintentional Zoo Bar fiesta. I couldn’t (still can’t) say no to the girl.
The working week was long, but Chiquitos opened its doors to us (almost) every Friday, with it’s ridiculously tasty garlic bread, latino vibes and strong (the best kind) mixers. It provided as a welcoming refuge from the reality of the adult lives we were now living. A couple of drinks in and we’d already be talking about the places we used to go, the people we’d met on the way and how much we were in love with the continental way of doing things. Oh, how we wished for sunshine and longed for Europop-trash blaring on our radios once more!
A few colourful beverages later and we were falling over ourselves laughing, it was just like our pre-drinks back in the day, only we’d swapped our backdrop for Friday night Leicester Square, which was now AT FULL BUZZ. It was around this time that I’d check my phone and realise how close to 12 it was, which normally meant me having to hastily leave then and there to catch the very last train home.
“You can stay at mine Sam, my Grandma’s house is like a twenty minute walk from here”
She said this every time, and every time I’d find myself waking up in Baker St the next morning, gossiping with Clare over a sugary cuppa and chuckling over laughs we’d all had in Chiquitos the night before. And I loved it. London can be so fun when you don’t have to make like Cinderella and flee the bar before midnight.
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As surprising as it might sound, I also enjoyed London in the daytime! Weekends are gold-dust. I don’t think this is just applicable to my working life at the time, but in general. Whatever the job, wherever you are – Free time is ME time. For myself, it was a good opportunity to spend some time with the family, who I only saw during the week when I was crabby/stuffing my face with a cereal bar as I hurried to get out the door. It was also a good excuse to enjoy the city outside of the rush hour. And when it wasn’t raining, it was a rather pleasant place to be.
For instance, one of my favourite spots in the city, despite being an obvious choice for tourists, is Covent Garden. Lined with street performers and crowds giving it the old OOOOH AHHHH, it may come as a surprise that this busy patch of London is actually right up my street – and it stands for everything I love. In the spring/summer at least. Windy streets leading up to the open piazza, a beautifully restored market, and a multitude of delightful (some extremely fancy) restaurants and bars, that on a sunny day, extend their invitation further by placing alluring seats outside. Just irresistible. Anything al fresco on a half-decent day and I’m sold.
And that was just one of many pretty places in the city I liked to frequent. Exploring eateries mainly; that was my weekends covered. During the week, in between reading my books on the train and drinking umpteen cups of tea at the office (not a complaint, remember, there’s no team without tea), I set my Wednesdays aside for a midweek Italian meal with the Tripod. Georgina and Lacy are my two oldest and best friends, and even though all three of us have taken very different vocational paths in life, (animals, hospitals, banks), it has made our friendship all the more interesting.
Welcome to Neal’s Yard, Covent Garden, adding a splash of colour to the often monochromatic London.
I would arrive at our favourite local eatery, La Cantina, umbrella normally in hand, to find Georgina sat at our table (we were regulars), ready for confirmation to order the bottle of Rose. A nod from the door indicated YES. Lacy also worked in the city, and we would normally arrive around the same time, ready to update Georgina on the state of the rail service that day. She in turn would share with us an outlandish but one hundred percent true story about her working day, involving angry kittens, scratches, and on one particularly crazy day, snakes.
We would update each other on our weeks, how it was all going, but not just that; we’d discuss our aspirations, our long and short-term goals, and how, or rather what we were doing in terms of reaching them. We would build each other up, celebrate each others successes, those achievements big and small, and provide the laughs and pick me ups (and obviously tea too) when things weren’t going so well.
I do remember one Wednesday in particular, and we’d all had just about enough. This tripod meeting was essential. Tomaso, the manager at the time, made sure we had our table, and at this point, he didn’t even have to ask. Either he knew us too well, or our faces said it all. Two minutes after we’d taken our seats, the Rosé found her place at the table too.
The first sip helped release stress which had accumulated throughout the day, and after taking our turns to rant it out, we shared our concerns, offered suggestions, and munched over what could be done to make things better. The food was fantastic, and came second only to the company, which was always first-class. We usually chatted for going on twenty minutes, all the while holding onto our menus, pretending we were going to order something other than our usual choice. Mussels to start, followed by a deceiving serving of spaghetti ai gamberetti , another bottle of rosé, and of course, a helpful portion of homemade tiramisu.
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Dinner down the local Italian every week with a couple of old friends may sound tediously conventional to some – on the contrary, these evenings were anything but. There were cackles, insanely descriptive and animated storytelling and the odd cheeky reference to days of Yore (aka primary school). These nights gave me such pleasure, especially when the working week made it more difficult to fit in gym nights, and quick pints, let alone a meaningful dinner out with friends.
We’d gotten onto the topic of my life’s purpose.
“What do you want to do then Sammy?”
“I really miss living abroad.”
“Are you thinking of leaving the UK again?”
“Yes.”
Every time I said it out aloud, the possibility became more real, and the girls only spurred me on to try and turn the idea into an actual plan. My problem was that I was more theory than practice.
Fed up with London, I had previously booked a ticket to visit Ali, my girl from Galicia, who was currently studying for a Masters in Barcelona. Since I’d started my Canary Wharf career I’d not had a holiday, save for a sweet weekend away in Pompey, and I felt like it was needed. A break – from work, the grey surroundings, and my own ranting; and also an opportunity to see what life might be like should I choose to go ahead with my **dream**.
Carry-on case packed, out-of-office email set, off I went to Barca.
When I came back, it had been decided. The job search had actively begun, and Spain was the destination once more.
I’d found my motivation.
And to think, four days in the sunshine was all it took.
November 4th 2015: Of all the days when it’s pissing it down and there’s a strike, my umbrella decides to suddenly break, and crumple, with my head trapped inside GOOD MORNING
This is an extract from ‘Life of Sam’ during the post-graduation chapter. Going on from my last blog post, I had returned from Erasmus, I had s t r u g g l e d through the everlasting sentence that was final year and somehow had come out on the other end, all be it scarred (from essay writing), but in tact (corner shop wine) and ready to be unleashed on the working world; language degree in hand, LinkedIn profile shiny and updated.
After going through a little bit of a funny limbo period (mini-breakdown), believe it or not, I finally joined the 9-5 army.
Through some kind of miracle (a good network and lots of optimism), I had found myself employed, and not just in any old position, but in one working for a global investment bank – I had my foot in the door of the finance sector. Plot twist, am i right?
Those of you who knew me before my stint in Canary Wharf will know that numbers were not exactly my forte (think calculation lady meme) and money, well, it was an interest – but mainly when it came down to spending it. Still true. On telling my friends that I was to start a new job they congratulated me with glee, and on discovering the position, they reacted with slight confusion, a look that said ‘but…why finance?’ and finally the old ‘fair enough’ acceptance nod.
Bright-eyed and bushy tailed
I myself was R E A D Y to work and to take on all the things that came with it (a wage, mainly); nevertheless, I did start to feel a small pang of self-doubt running up to my first day, and I must admit that I did arrive an hour early for my orientation session – overly keen or extremely nervous, you decide.
Being shown to my assigned floor, I was led through the open office, past various teams belonging to different departments. It felt corporate and intimidating and basically everything I wasn’t familiar with, and suddenly I felt like a child pretending to be an adult, wearing grown-up work clothes which didn’t quite fit right.
Oh my God they’re going to know I’m a phoney aren’t they? They’ll know I nearly failed maths A-level; this is a nightmare – quick how do I get back to the lifts, before I introduce myself to people I will definitely have to hide from for the rest of my working days?!
Anxiety it seems was a big factor for me that morning.
As it turns out, I needn’t have worried so much. And everytime I find myself in a similar situation, i.e. embarking on something new, I try to remind myself of how I felt that very morning, and how it all seems so silly now, in retrospect.
I was actually incredibly lucky to have been part of the team I was assigned to. Everyone was down-to-Earth, we had each other’s backs with tasks, and the thing I enjoyed the most was, we had a laugh. Lots of them in fact. Also we had a lovely Friday morning tradition of going downstairs for breakfast together, which I do really miss (I ended up with maple syrup on my keyboard once but I don’t think anyone found out, so it’s all good). Being part of this little unit made a world of difference, and the work I was doing itself was new, mostly unfamiliar, but actually very interesting.
Playground
Fast forward a few months to when I wrote that status. It was a rainy day, and the weather matched my mood entirely. I was more confident in my work-space and had more or less gathered what went where and who did what (also when the best time to take lunch was to avoid the herds), and yet, something was not quite right.
I had an itch.
My Dad used to work uptown back in the day, and was a regular commuter – he warned me of being trapped by the city when I was younger.
“What do you mean trapped??”
“Sam, I’m telling you, you’ve got to get out there, don’t get stuck. I used to work in the city and I’d see the same faces, on the same train, every morning, every evening, same carriages – same seat sometimes. I left London for a while after that and came back to a city job 10 years later.
There they were – same train, same carriage, same seats. Older faces”
I thought he was exaggerating slightly, and being a tad melodramatic, but there you go.
Wasn’t til that day I got caught up (quite literally) in my umbrella, that I understood what he really meant. I liked my job and I didn’t really have much of a plan before starting it, but by GOD I HATED THE JOURNEY. I HATED IT SO DAMN MUCH.
Day to day
Everyday was the same, the same grey day, the same waiting for the SouthEastern train that was ALWAYS delayed and that was more than likely missing 3 of it’s original 8 carriages. I would pick up a copy of the Metro everyday, and wait at the same point on the platform, which I knew now for certain, was where the train doors belonging to the fourth carriage would open. I would board and find the most convenient seat available (not too close to the doors that you end up with a bag in your face, or the jealous stares of fellow commuters; and not too far down the carriage that you became trapped when it came time to get off). I would get to my desk exactly 30 minutes before I was required to start, and would return home almost two hours after leaving it in the evening. This was not through choice – London’s transport system had well and truly screwed me over, and I was done, SO done.
The commuting started to feel like work itself – everyone was very professional and elegant in their suits and shiny shoes, until it came to train-time and the rules of etiquette no longer applied. In addition to the delays and constant broken promises (LIIIIIESS) delivered by SouthEastern, we also had to endure the barging, sweaty pits, aggressive nudging, elbows to the face, and absolute worst; pushing IN FRONT OF ME IN THE LINE- WHAT KIND OF MONSTER DISRESPECTS THE QUEUING SYSTEM?!
Tolerating this day to day got me riled; it didn’t take long before I decided some things just weren’t worth it. I started hanging around Canary Wharf after work, just to avoid getting on the busiest train home – when I got bored of that, I started going up to central to entertain myself for a few hours before taking the safe and stress-free train home (there was even the possibility of nabbing a seat!) I didn’t want to start spending too much on clothes or make-up I didn’t need any more of (staff had started to recognize me in the local Zara), and so one evening I found myself in a bookstore on my way to Charring Cross. It was so calm – a hidden cove of peace away from the turmoil that was my daily route home.
Down to the grind
Having still been a recent graduate, supposedly I should have been in a job which required the skills my degree entailed, and even though I felt okay in my position and very happy and grateful in terms of the experience on my CV, part of me felt a little twang of disappointment as I browsed the ‘Foreign Language’ section of the bookshop. The Spanish section called out to me, and proved hard to leave. Half an hour later and twenty or so pounds shorter, I bobbed along to the station – being a huge book worm at heart, and having the opportunity to go back to what I loved studying just gave me that extra spring in my step. I’ll stop being cheesy in the next paragraph. Apologies.
Reading, not from a tablet/mobile phone/kindle/digital thingymajig, but from a good old hardback, paper page turner, combined with a stable set of earphones, is without a doubt the best way to escape the reality of your morning commute (also the number one reason for almost missing your stop). I was engrossed in these new books I had recently picked up, and no longer felt the gloom that hovered over me at the beginning of every working day, or at least, not as much. I had really missed reading in Spanish, and I was a little bummed that getting through the first few passages proved more difficult than it should’ve been.
I was, it would seem, out of practice. It made me question a few things.
“How could this happen? I can speak Spanish. I was there only five months ago (a pre-results getaway to the good ole South). Have I lost it? Wait. What am I doing?”
I shared my thoughts with Porgeous on one of our Monday mojito nights (the cocktail deals and cheap calamari were too good to refuse, it literally got us through til Wednesday).
“I miss Erasmus. It is just so grey here.” *sips crushed sugar from the bottom of mojito* “Sam can we go back? Do you remember those cocktails in Modena?” *both pause for a moment and sigh* “Carys told me she went to the beach last month – OCTOBER.”
Beaming banking babes
With a few of our nearest and dearest friends living abroad, we were both suffering from extreme FOMO, and jealousy – we were not living our best lives in the sun, nor using our languages while doing it. It seemed to become a running theme; loving the London lifestyle and finally having money to enjoy, well, life; but also constantly reminiscing about the Mediterranean times that were and having those sweet memories be cut short because we had to run for the last train home.
We took a last swig at the icy remnants of our mojitos before wrapping up in ALL of the layers, bracing ourselves for the outside. We waddled towards the station arm in arm, battling against the wind, before parting ways with a big hug and a sigh.
‘Same time next week?’
‘Of COURSE’
On the train home a few things kept running through my mind. Like they always do on a weeknight journey home.
‘Oh god I really hope I’ll get home soon. Okay it’s fine, at this rate after I’ve showered, gotten into pjs (and maybe nibbled on a bit of leftover dins) I should be in bed by 11. 11.30 max. Ooh that’s late… Well it’s not midnight, I’ll be fine. I didn’t drink too much… hmm, better drink loads of water before bed, I don’t want a headache in the morning…’
Then I paused.
What was wrong with me. I hated this feeling. I couldn’t even enjoy a few drinks after work with my friend.
And it seems that Porgeous was sharing my sentiments too.
NEW WHATSAPP MESSAGE RECEIVED.
‘On the tube but it’s delayed and someone definitely just let off a stinker in this carriage. I wish we could have cocktails every night. I miss our Erasmus lives.’
The tally so far stood as following: Laptops broken: 1 (we’re not counting all the other years okay). Mama noodles packets ravaged: 55. Cups of tea: stopped counting. Glasses of morning wine: didn’t bother trying to count. All-nighters spent with head in a book (on table): more than is acceptable.
And one more thing. A degree.
After four years of:
“Oh my god I think this coursework might be the actual cause of my sudden and untimely death”
(tragic)…and
“I sat on the library floor from 3-6 am and very nearly ordered a Dominoes to the main entrance” (a majestic thing to witness, and yes, I’ve seen it with my own eyes),
also not forgetting the classic…
“What do you mean ‘Did I turn the page?!”
I had finally graduated alongside some of my nearest and dearest; WE HAD DONE IT.
Stepping up in the world (literally hehe)
My friends and I were finally ready (eek!) to join the world of post-Higher Education employment. In other words it was time to find a nice suit, stop waking up at noon and start publicising our current working status (very available) to the job market; aka armed and ready with a good bachelors degree, big dreams, a well-rounded skills set and plenty of ambition.
And so here begins the trials and tribulations of the search for a door to wedge (with brute force) my foot in.
This is not a story (or rant, don’t worry) about how it is just IMPOSSIBLE for a recent graduate to find employment right after finishing university, nor is this a tale of woe. In case you’re wondering I did find a good job and I didn’t have to wait too long to join the 9-5 community/daily grind/hustle of the real world, that is not to say it didn’t feel like
f o r e v e r.
When the going gets tough, the tough drink wine, lots of wine
Studying languages, I have always found myself in an environment where the more you know the better; okay so that goes without saying.
What I mean is, the more you expose yourself to a new culture, the more you allow yourself to be taken in by a language, the more you let it take over and become part of yourself, the better. Once you have that down, don’t stop there! Don’t ever stop. Keep learning more languages and more and more. Take the time, really master the language; languagES, and let them take you where you want to be – let them open doors for you!
I still believe in this, and for the most part it’s true. The nature of my degree imposed on me a mindset that what I possess is valuable, and every response to ‘I study languages’ was usually met with expressions of
‘Wow really? You’ll find a job no problem’
‘Everyone’s after language graduates, there’s a HUGE demand for bilingual employees these days’
‘How do you say 2 beers please in Spanish?’
Okay the last one was my Dad, and he already knew the answer to that one anyway -_-
This cheeky chap needs no dictionary!
My point however is, I was under the rather foolish illusion (WAS I REALLY THE ONLY ONE?) that by becoming a graduate with language skills, the doors, or most of them, would not exactly swoosh open at my presence, but not be as difficult as they were to budge; the options would be plentiful, and more importantly attainable, and the idea of a bilingual candidate would excite an employer, maybe even as much as seeing ‘Expert knowledge of Microsoft Excel’ on a CV.
To be fair leaving the Uni bubble (and eating cold Dom’s pizza for breakfast) was a huge lesson in itself.
…Apparently it’s now all about on-the-go coffee, ‘I don’t have time for Coco-Pops’ and granola honey goji berry vitamin whatever yoghurt from EAT/Starbucks/anywhere that charges a fiver for breakfast a la express.
Fact is, there were many other individuals with the same thought-process and skill-set as myself. Competition in London was also a factor I didn’t really give much pre-thought to. And unlike some of my companions at University, on different courses, I didn’t have a trade as such. I was interested in translation (and still very much so) but as the interviews became more frequent and the follow-up emails less so (if, at all) I started to become somewhat disheartened, and there was definitely a sense of
‘Do I not have that much to offer afterall?’
Which was probably the worst thing to contemplate.
Me thinking about future prospects and exciting career opportunities and probably (definitely) celebratory cake and booze
On returning home to suburbia I found myself in a bit of pattern; or funk, to be more specific. On a high from graduation, I was determined to do something with my degree, and invest all my time into searching for that first job, the first foot on the ladder of employment; to make the first connection to the big wide world. Illusions aside, I had been fairly proactive and practical about the whole thing (I was shocked at my behaviour too) and became literally attached to my phone (not just for the dank memes); constantly connected to my inbox and spamming every opportunity of interest there was on LinkedIn, Indeed, Monster; and every other dependable source. I was invited to a number of interviews to places I genuinely would have liked the chance to work at, but in most cases, unfortunately, ‘it just wasn’t meant to be’.
At first it was only a little knock of reality to my self-esteem, which drove me even more in interviews, and the more I went to, the more confidence I actually gained. The process is pretty similar in most cases, and there are only so many questions they can ask you right? WRONG
“If you could be a type of pasta what would you be?”
**painful British silence of more than 5 seconds**
“The one that looks like the bow-tie?”
**sends self into exile with new found hate for Farfalle**
Kay that was a bit different but even with that particular interview, I walked out unperturbed. Bemused somewhat, but overall unperturbed. Without sounding like every life guru out there with one published book and obnoxious YouTube channel, the key is confidence and to forget the nerves, and also to NOT TAKE IT PERSONALLY. Something in which I still have room for improvement.
I will admit the constant rejection did become a little demoralising and a lot demotivating. My family and friends were a great support and viewed my struggle for employment with a lot more understanding than I did;
“You’ll find something soon”
“Maybe you just didn’t fit their profile”
“It’s always difficult at the beginning”
These phrases that frustrated me so much at the time, I look back on now with a sense of gratitude, because even if it was just to keep me motivated at the time, it worked, as they all turned out to be true. And why did I feel that I deserved the right to be hired, just for being a graduate? It’s not just something that happens by itself, and competition is fierce. It really is a reality that looking for a job is a job in itself; and you do have to give it your all.
Making Mum and Dad proud (I also didn’t trip up on stage that day so that’s an achievement I’d like to be recognised)
So I gradually got over it like an adult (by eating every Cornetto in the freezer and pretending I was too busy to go to the pub – it was a sad time) and tried to find what it was that made me •·.·´¯`·.·•SPECIAL•·.·´¯`·.·•
**VOM**
Looking back at my degree I tried to identify skills which could be applicable to the job positions I was coming across, and it was then that the market started to give me a bit more of a chance. Once this discovery was made (took me long enough) I went to work in finding… well, work and I gradually got the hang of the whole employment malarky. Turns out being on my four year course had taught me a lot more things, and provided me with a lot more skills than language acquisition (and that by the way is a lot harder than dos cervezahs por favah) – turns out theres a few things that are very applicable to an array of sectors. TURNS OUT I GOT A FEW TRICKS UP MY SLEEVE.
Those sneaky language lovin lot in Park Building.
Here’s to all the crazy teachers who restored our faith in life after every horrific speaking exam, and family and friends who kept us going for four years, along with the dream, and yes, why not the reality, that the world can be our oyster if we really want it to be.
Moving in with people you’ve never met is a bit risky to say the least. Finding individuals who will put up with your messy kitchen routine, shower ballads and constant burping can be difficult, but I considered myself lucky last year with all the flatmates I had, who didn’t seemed to mind too much when I blared out ‘Bootylicious’ full blast or made the whole flat stink of curry.
Leaving Granada was the best thing to happen to my Spanish. Don’t get me wrong, I had improved since arriving six months prior, and so had my confidence, but University life there was, in all honesty, just not happening for me. To put it bluntly I learnt more Spanish over coffee with friends than I did inside the classroom. “You’re not really one for studying are you? It seems like networking’s more your thing.” Networking. I’ll go with that Dad.
Before leaving Spain I had tried to find accommodation ASAP, and after the Casa de Big Problemas fiasco I was extremely reluctant to be put through another housing nightmare; also I had a grand total of five days in England before flying to Italy, and didn’t want to wind up sleeping on a park bench. Thankfully, through Erasmus FaceBook groups I was contacted by two Spanish friends, who lived to fiesta, knew how to cook tortilla, and were in need of a flatmate. SOLD!
Wuapas
I was excited to move but at the same time dreaded it. Spain was much more than I ever expected, and I just didn’t know if Italy was going to live up to it. Leaving Granada felt like I was leaving the best party early, while all my friends stayed on to drink more sangria and speak better Spanish.
“Damn it my Italian is so poor. I should’ve pie-d it off altogether”
“Well with 6 credits from first semester I’ve definitely failed the year, BRILLIANT”
“Oh God what if they don’t turn up to the bus station and I’m left all alone with 2 heavy suitcases and nowhere to go?!”
“What if they hate me because I can’t speak Spanish?”
“WHY AM I DOING THIS?!”
These were just some thoughts that meant I didn’t sleep well the night before my flight to Bologna (in fact, I passed out so hard on the plane, that I only woke up when the wheels hit the tarmac on the other side). Waiting for Cristina and Alicia at Modena Bus Station was a nervous experience, but when we found each other I decided not to let my anxiety and doubts get the better of me; after all, making a tit out of oneself in adequate Spanish is probably better than remaining mute to the people you’ll be living with.
After being shown our lovely flat, a renovated bunker-style apartment, with tiled floors and wooden beams, I was introduced to the city (in my eyes, a town, but I’m not going to argue with the Italians). We stopped for a coffee since it was raining outside (typical Brit bringing the weather with me, soz) and whilst having a chat with them I realised the stress I felt before was unnecessary and pathetic.
Cris is a gregarious Andalusian girl, who loves tomatoes, drinking cerve’itas and of course, worships el sol. She loves the fact I stayed in the south of Spain, scolds me for not having visited her beautiful home-town of Seville, and is one of the main reasons why I’ve subconsciously taken to speaking in an Andaluz accent.
Ali is a hilarious Galician girl, who loves The Simpsons, loves seafood even more, and absolutely detests coconuts. She never ceases to amaze me with ridiculously accurate impressions, is constantly listening to English songs I just have not heard of, and is my partner in crime when it comes to procrastination (aka ‘coffee (beer) break?’).
cerve’itas
fiesteras
tonterías
locas
Too often the fear of being misunderstood or unintentionally causing insult/offence to the other person prevents us from communicating with those who do not share our mother tongue. They are foreigners, not aliens, and can still appreciate when someone not of their native language tries to communicate, even if it’s poorly done. Living with these girls, I couldn’t afford to be shy, introvert and unwilling to speak a language other than my own. And thank God I wasn’t. Being with my flatmates played a huge part of my Erasmus experience in Italy – I couldn’t have wished for better friends to share it with. And thank goodness they didn’t mind when I made mistakes; my botched translation of The Lord of The Rings as ‘Señoras del Ano’ made for a constant source of flat banter.
For those of you with little or no Spanish, I essentially admitted to being a fan of movie series “Women of the bumhole”.
I retreated home for Christmas last year, welcomed by Lidl’s weekly stock of mince pies – I went from being homesick to almost physically sick; I tried explaining to Mum that they also eat food in Spain, but that didn’t seem to deter her from fattening me up like the honorary Christmas Turkey. Despite not being back in a while, my break at home was short and sweet, much to the family’s dismay (everyone enjoys my ability to clear the entire fridge contents, as well as my inability to not knock over everything in sight).
Christmas Tree Troll
Feliz Navidad – Granada, Spain
Dad had suggested I stay longer than the ten days planned, to get over being the Brit misfit, but I’d reached the point of no return. I need to do this, or I’ll always be stuck. Also it was my year abroad. There was no way I was going to not take advantage of that for New Year’s Eve. So ten days later and six kilos heavier, I boarded that plane, Málaga-bound, with a box of (by then, crumbled) mince pies – apparently I hadn’t been put off completely – and a new attitude.
My dad’s sound advice: “If you’re going back, stop stressing. They can’t tell you off for trying can they? Don’t let it ruin your last month there. Enjoy yourself.” And my ever-growing appreciation for the andaluz way of life impelled a change in my mentality.
“I have about six weeks left here, I want to be fluent, I want to eat tapas and I don’t want to care when people don’t understand me. I want to see things I haven’t seen before, I want to see Spanish things and I want to do Spanish things.”
So I started saying yes, or ‘sí’ to more things.
OLÉ – Salobreña, Spain
From the moment I disembarked the plane in Málaga I withheld the urge to revert back to my enemy, the comfort zone, and proceeded to the ALSA ticket office outside, making an enquiry in Spanish about times of buses to Granada. I don’t know if she noticed my accent was off or not, I didn’t notice myself, because after all, who cares? I asked a question and got my answer. Silly little things like that. Why did that ever bother me?
The sad thing is, it used to scare me.
Getting back to Casa de Monos was a bit like returning to Uni halls before everyone had gotten back from holidays; a few of us in the building had decided to stay over the New Year period, so a big NYE dinner was organised by lovely Flat 5 Izquierda, which involved lots of pasta, champers, wine, not enough chairs, and a long table of drunk foreigners, myself included.
After the lovely meal I went to get changed; my friend Chris was dapper in a suit and bowtie, so obviously I felt a sparkly gold sequinned dress and new high heels was appropriate/not OTT at all/well if you can’t go all out for NYE when CAN you?!
Feliz Año Nuevo
4 Izquierda Homegirl <3
I met everyone at the flat before leaving, and we all tottered out (okay just myself and a few of the girls), making our way towards Plaza del Carmen, outside the town hall. Which, by the way, was RAMMO. I can’t express how packed it was. And weirdly we seemed to be the only non-Spanish group. As part of tradition, some of us had brought 12 grapes along, the Spanish custom being to eat a grape for each chime of the bell during the countdown to midnight. I did not remember this unfortunately, although I did remember the champers. Fortunately.
There were masses of crowds, live music, and a lot of loud conversations. To this day I maintain that whoever was in charge had missed the countdown, because as far as I was aware, there was a fuzzy mumble over speakers in the square, and then everyone began simultaneously screaming and hugging each other. There were also fireworks amidst this madness. Some friends were chucking grapes down their throats, or at each other, while the rest struggled to get all their plastic glasses under the same bottle of trickling champagne (that would be myself included, again). Everyone was having a raucous old time, Jacob even managed to catch the flying cork of a champagne bottle which had popped somewhere in the crowd; I still can’t believe it, and I still keep hold of it for luck!
Plaza del Carmen, minus crowds, fireworks and chaos
As crowds began to disperse (WHERE’S THE FIESTA AT?), we got our group together and walked along the Paseo de los Tristes, stopping by the car park near the bridge for a mini ‘botellón’, Spanish for pre-drink, only they don’t do it to binge, shocker! After copious amounts of tinto were washed down, we headed upwards (with the hills of the Albaicín it is an almost vertical journey) to Camborio, not before stopping at the bridge for a moment to find out group straggler’s whereabouts (F.Y.I this is you, Carys). I remember having a lovely time, receiving a free glass of (more) champagne, a new year hat, or some kind of souvenir, and dancing till my shoes left my feet (literally they were so sore I am never wearing heels out the same day I buy them again. Ever.) I also cringely remember completely losing my footing on the way out, and tumbling in spectacular fashion, contents of bag spilling across the cobble-stoned street. I got up with what dignity I had left (none), realised I didn’t care, and walked to the taxi rank.
It was 7am when I arrived back at my cave of a bedroom (the shutter was down and no alarm was being set). I woke up in the afternoon, decided I wanted to make the room stop spinning/drink all the water in the world/go for a Chinese, but mainly the last one, so rounded up the troops and expressed how much a good oriental meal complete with many prawn crackers would solve all our hangover problems right now.
Throwback of me and Cartman NYE before
Home or away, seems I’m still that English girl who craves Chinese food after a night out, but I’m not sorry for it. I had a good time with good friends, and a night to remember, which definitely cost me less than the New Years Eve prior to that (no doubt it was great, but left me more than £100 out of pocket and queuing outside Charing Cross McDonald’s for a Big Mac). That is a good start to the year in my eyes (not counting the hangover), and I was looking forward to making more memories before leaving for Italy.
As destiny would have it, on returning to Granada, I messaged Sole, and she replied on New Year’s, saying how she was back at home, in Ronda.
Valentine’s Day last year, my heart was left broken. Granada had me completely enamoured, under its bewitching charm and in a state of enraptured stupor. The city, it’s people, and of course, the tapas, had me so fazed I sometimes (more like every day spent there) forgot what I was supposed to be doing (talk to any Erasmus student and this seems to be the norm). Uni had been tough, yes ** don’t worry this is a rant-free zone** but I had reached a point (FINALMENTE) where I actually felt not even Spanish, but Andaluza. Whether Granada approved or not, I considered myself an honorary Andalusian, not a tourist. The city had an overwhelming power to make me feel I just needed to be part of it. This sounds incredibly cliché and perhaps portrays me as a little obsessed, but it is what it is. Go there and you’ll find out.
Town stroll with my Irish girl
Vista
For me, the transformation from being naïve foreigner to feeling like “THIS IS HOME” was incredible. Outside of classes I realised what was helping me most to improve language (and therefore mood); making a genuine effort to integrate.
Trying to attain a clear Castilian accent was dropped for liberally slurring words – aka my attempt at speaking andaluz, although at times I’m pretty certain I did not have a clue what I was trying to get across. Staring became less of an annoyance and more a way of life. It’s just people being curious I guess. When you live in such a vibrant place why wouldn’t you want to look at the things around you? Uncertainty over how to approach social situations within a different culture was overcome by abandoning that innate British feeling of awkwardness. Want something? Go and get it. Problem? Sort it out, or get over it.
Stop worrying. Relajate.
Andalusia is loud, open, unique and alive in character, all admirable traits its people also possess. A selection of whom, if it weren’t for their kindness, friendship, and patience, my Erasmus stay would not have been as enjoyable as it was.
Sole had been on the Erasmus programme in Rome the year before, and knew the whole deal with being the newcomer; taking pity on ‘la pobre’/the poor girl, she taught me that it is okay to make mistakes and that ‘people stare because they’re stupid. Stare back.’ Okay so maybe people should be a bit less obvious with their curiosity…Preach! Being a student of the ‘Facultad de Medicina’ in Granada, she was into fundraisers (they all go on a big holiday at the end of term), which meant serious socialising. I tagged along to a few, which consequently meant drinking enough sangría to become fluent. And you know what, I think it worked. Eventually. I can’t thank this girl enough for being so welcoming, and giving me the chance to understand what it really means to be Spanish, to be andaluz.
Pásame la botella
Learning the lingo
Through friends of friends I also had luck in finding an intercambio partner, Cristina, who was studying education at Granada. To my surprise, she and her group of friends had found difficulty in coming across a native English speaker to practice their language with, which is weird, because a few English people I knew had had the exact opposite problem “SPANIARDS? WHERE DO YOU FIND THEM?”
Going for un café and tapas with them was a novelty at first.
‘Okay more of them are joining. Cool, this is good. Making friends. Oh my god. They’ve started speaking to each other. Woah. That’s fast . What did she say? Okay nope yeah didn’t get that. Okay she’s repeating what she said. Yep. Got it. That definitely was NOT Spanish. Okay coffee is here, good. I don’t drink coffee. Smile. Look like you’re part of the conversation. MUY BIEN’
The more I met up with them, the quicker they clocked on when I just wasn’t comprehending, and respect to them, they actually strived to make me understand, and speak, and learn how to roll my bloody R’s. Which is apparently my go-to for making Spaniards laugh.
Yes, I am certain this is only supposed to serve one
By Christmas I was drinking coffee every morning, I was often late to class (okay fine I have always been THAT person), and there was nothing better than tostada andaluz to start the day – I will have my toast drenched in olive oil, covered in tomato pulp and sprinkled with salt, por favor. Being in the ‘queue’ at the Mercadona delicatessen no longer struck me with a chilling fear and I just did not care that everyone at my perfect gym was so tanned-toned-fit’n’ready; ONE DAY I SWEAR. UN DÍA. Instead I did my thing like los andaluces; ate some tapas, enjoyed what was around me, shouted for my order and learned to say yes more.
