There’s a point in every expat’s life when they realize they have no social life and have two choices: be alone forever or say yes to literally everything until someone adopts you. I went with option two.
It started harmlessly. A casual “hey, we’re getting drinks later” from a woman I met in a language exchange group. She was cool, effortlessly Spanish, the kind of person who can wear a scarf in warm weather without looking like an idiot. Obviously, I said yes. I wasn’t about to turn down a real-life social invitation that didn’t involve a networking event or a forced team-building exercise.
What I did not realize is that “getting drinks” in Spain does not mean having one drink. It means entering a time vortex where you blink and suddenly it’s 4 AM and you’re at a different bar with a man named Raul explaining the economic collapse of 2008 in very passionate Spanish while a stranger hands you a shot of something that smells like regret.
Somewhere between drink three and drink question mark, I was invited to a beach day. Which sounded wholesome, responsible, normal. A nice, relaxing day in the sun.
It was not.
The Beach Day That Became a Weekend That Became a Situation
I showed up in a modest swimsuit and SPF 50, fully prepared for a quiet day of reading and pretending I wasn’t eavesdropping on nearby conversations. What I got was a cooler full of beer, a portable speaker blasting reggaeton, and a group of people who clearly had no intention of ever leaving.
At some point, someone suggested “going to a friend’s house for a bit.” I, in my infinite wisdom, said yes.
Cut to me, on a train to a town I’ve never heard of, with a group of people whose last names I don’t know, clutching a half-eaten bocadillo and wondering if I’m about to be trafficked.
I was not.
Instead, I spent an entire weekend living in a house that technically belonged to a man named Luis but functionally belonged to whoever showed up with alcohol and a willingness to sleep on a couch. At one point, I woke up to a dog licking my face, a conversation about astrology happening at full volume, and the distinct smell of something burning in the kitchen.
I did not ask questions. I just went with it.
By the time I made it back to Valencia, I was deeply dehydrated, possibly sunburnt, and somehow roped into plans for the following weekend.
The Incident at the Baptism
At this point, I was saying yes to anything. It was a reflex. So when a girl I barely knew invited me to “a little family thing”, I thought sure, why not, maybe it’s a dinner, maybe it’s a birthday, maybe it’s a way to get free food without having to go grocery shopping.
It was a baptism.
Not just any baptism. A full Catholic, deeply religious, suit-and-tie, multiple-generations-in-attendance baptism. And I—an underdressed, very much not Catholic, mildly hungover foreigner—was somehow front row.
To this day, I do not know why I was seated next to the grandmother.
I do not know why I was expected to hold a candle at one point.
I do not know why, when they passed around the baby, they let me hold him like I was a distant cousin who flew in for the occasion.
I have never felt more unqualified for a moment in my life.
The post-baptism lunch lasted seven hours. At some point, I was emotionally adopted by an old woman named Marisol, who informed me that I was “too thin” and needed to come to her house for “real food.”
I have not yet figured out how to escape.
Paella, Poor Choices, and the Threat of Arrest
Somewhere in this haze of yeses, I ended up at a paella cook-off. Again, I did not ask questions. I showed up expecting to watch people cook, maybe eat some rice, and go home at a reasonable hour.
Incorrect.
I was immediately handed a glass of wine and a cutting board and told to start chopping vegetables.
“I don’t know how to make paella,” I said.
“You’ll learn,” they said.
Spoiler: I did not learn.
What I did learn is that paella is taken very seriously in Valencia. This was not just a fun little cooking event. This was a competition, with judges, and an entry fee, and some very strict rules that I was absolutely violating.
At some point, an argument broke out because one team had added an ingredient they weren’t supposed to. I was absolutely not qualified to be involved in this discussion, and yet, somehow, I was.
People were yelling. Someone’s uncle was pointing aggressively at a pot of rice. A woman named Pilar was gesturing wildly while shouting about authenticity.
I do not remember exactly what was said, but I do know that someone muttered the words “we could go to jail for this.”
And that was my cue to slowly back away and pretend I did not exist.
The Aftermath
I had started this whole thing with the goal of making friends. What I had gained was:
- A very confusing weekend in a stranger’s beach house.
- A Spanish grandmother who now expects me to show up for dinner at least once a week.
- A deep understanding of how not to cook paella.
- A mild fear of the local police, who may or may not be looking for me.
I would love to say I learned my lesson. I did not. I am already scheduled to go on a “quick trip” next weekend that I suspect will not be quick at all.
And honestly? I wouldn’t have it any other way.
