There’s something about stepping off a plane with no return ticket that feels equally thrilling and dumb. I thought I’d have a grand epiphany the moment my feet touched Spanish soil—some cinematic, life-altering realization that I had made the right decision. Instead, I got smacked in the face by the heat, tripped over my own suitcase, and immediately started sweating like I was being interrogated for a crime I didn’t commit.
People love to talk about the magic of moving abroad. The reinvention, the adventure, the personal growth. Nobody talks about how you will immediately forget how to function as a person the second you arrive. I’d barely made it through customs before realizing I had no idea what I was actually doing here.
Valencia looked exactly like it did in all the glossy photos I’d stared at before booking my flight, but now that I was standing in the middle of it, jet-lagged and confused, it occurred to me that maybe—just maybe—I should have thought this through a little more.
I dragged my luggage outside and attempted to look like I knew where I was going. I did not. I’d assumed my apartment would be easy to find. Google Maps said it was a “quick 15-minute walk,” which was a cruel lie because what it actually was, was a 45-minute death march over cobblestone streets while I questioned every choice I’ve ever made. The handle of my suitcase promptly broke somewhere around minute twelve, forcing me to carry it like some kind of punishment. The only thing missing was a dramatic rainstorm to complete the scene.
By the time I reached my new home, I was already one bad interaction away from a breakdown. I was supposed to meet my landlord, José, at 10 a.m. for the keys. It was now 10:07, and José was nowhere to be found. Fine. No big deal. People run late. I could be patient.
By 10:30, I was starting to take it personally.
By 10:50, I was contemplating my ability to live on the streets.
At 11:15, just as I was reaching new levels of despair, José strolled up, smiling, sipping an espresso, and looking like he had never once in his life experienced the emotion of being in a hurry.
“Tranquila,” he said, clapping me on the back like I was being dramatic. Then, without further explanation, he handed me my keys, gave me a ten-second tour of the apartment, and vanished back into the world, leaving me standing in my new home, disoriented, dehydrated, and possibly scammed.
I wish I could say I spent the rest of the day settling in, but in a spectacular display of incompetence, I locked myself out within the first six hours. It wasn’t even a good story—I stepped outside to throw away some trash, the door clicked shut behind me, and suddenly, I was barefoot in the hallway, holding an empty yogurt container and realizing I was exactly the kind of person who shouldn’t be allowed to move to another country unsupervised.
It turns out, trying to explain to a Spanish locksmith why you’re an idiot is not the easiest conversation to have when your vocabulary consists of whatever you vaguely remember from high school. After a long, deeply embarrassing game of charades, he nodded like he’d seen my type before, opened my door in under two minutes, and charged me 120 euros for the privilege of learning this lesson the hard way.
The day wasn’t over yet. I needed coffee, and I figured surely this was something I could accomplish without catastrophe. Wrong.
I walked into a café, sat down like a person who belonged there, and confidently asked for “un café.” The waiter returned with a shot glass-sized espresso so strong that I briefly left my own body. I stared at it, wondering how the hell I was supposed to make this last longer than twelve seconds. Meanwhile, a man at the next table casually ordered something called a “café con leche,” which seemed more my speed. I flagged the waiter down and repeated his order.
Except I did not say “café con leche.” I said “café con hielo.”
Which is not coffee with milk. It’s coffee with ice. As in, an espresso. And a separate glass. Of ice.
I sat there, looking at my two separate items, unsure how to proceed. Was I supposed to pour the coffee over the ice? Was I meant to drink them separately, like some kind of experimental art piece? Did I just sit there in shame and accept that I had failed at something as simple as ordering a drink?
As I was contemplating my next move, a pigeon landed on my table.
I know pigeons. I’ve seen pigeons. But the pigeons in Spain operate at a different level. They do not care about you. They have no fear. This one made direct eye contact, reached out with its disgusting little pigeon foot, and stole an entire sugar packet from my saucer.
Then it flew away.
I had just been mugged by a bird.
A man at the next table, watching the entire event unfold, nodded approvingly, like I had finally been properly initiated into Spanish life.
It’s been less than 48 hours. I have already lost money, pride, and a fight against wildlife. But somehow, despite all of this, I feel a weird sense of excitement. Everything here is new, unpredictable, slightly chaotic. And maybe that’s the point. Maybe the whole thrill of moving somewhere new is in not knowing what the hell you’re doing, but figuring it out anyway.
Or maybe I just need to go take a nap and try again tomorrow.
