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It started with a plant. Plant needed a pot. Pot needed a shelf. Shelf needed a drill. Drill deposit needed a Spanish bank account.

10:03. Branch smells like printer heat.
“¿Cita?” the greeter asks.
“No. But I have intent.”
Ticket B132.

Posters: couples with keys, a man on a scooter, a piggy bank smiling like it knows a secret. Carmen texts: “Need anything?” Me: “A bank account.”

B132 lights. Desk. Perfect eyeliner. Nameplate: Marta. I hand over passport, NIE, padrón, proof of income. She lays them out like evidence.

“Purpose?”
“Salary. Rent. Life.”

Two options: Sin comisiones (online only) or Confort (small fee, extras). Confort sounds like training wheels. I nod.

“Confort incluye seguros,” she says.
“Great.”
“Home, travel, health… y mascota.”

I hear mascota and think tote bag. We reach the signature page. Spain loves signatures; I write mine until the letters look fake. At the bottom:

“Confirm pet. Name? Species?”

“Cat?”
“Gato,” she types. “Name?”

I do not own a cat. My mouth says, “Miles.”
“Edad?”
“Three.”
“Color?”
“Orange.”

She types naranja, hands me a shiny card, says the PIN and policies will arrive by SMS. I leave with a bank account and a cat that doesn’t exist.

Hardware store. I brandish the card like I forged civilization. Rent drill. Buy plant. Buy a second pot because I panic-buy ceramics now.

At home I drill two holes and learn our wall is geological. Shelf ends up slightly crooked. I call it character.

Tea. Bank app. Balance €50. Icons for bills, transfers, a paw print: Tu Plan Mascota: Miles. Tap. Vaccinations, microchip, vet network, grooming discounts. Cartoon cat in sunglasses.

Carmen knocks. She always appears when I make choices. She eyes the shelf. “Torcido pero simpático.” I show her the app.
“You insured a cat,” she says, delighted. “Dental, wellness, everything.”
“Who is Miles?”
“A clerical error.”

“Cancel?” I ask.
“Tal vez,” she shrugs. “Or borrow a cat.”

Ten minutes later we’re on her balcony where the local nobility (cats) hold court. An orange one appears on the wall.
“Naranjito,” she says. “Takes sardines. Avoids drama.”

I explain, in formal Spanish, his new coverage under an alias. He yawns. Carmen opens a tin. Negotiations improve. We take three photos: indifferent, sniffing finger, vaguely legal. I upload one. App asks if Miles enjoys tuna treats. I click sí like I’ve built a life from nouns.

Ping: “Bienvenido, Miles.”

We return the drill. Deposit lands: Ingreso recibido. I nearly hug the hardware man. I do hug Carmen. She asks if Miles likes rosemary. “He’s open-minded,” I say.

Back home, Naranjito—Miles—inspects the shelf, passes judgment, sits on the sill like a small traffic cone. I transfer €10 to utilities just because I can. The plant leans left. I rotate the pot and pretend that fixes physics.

New ping: “¿Deseas añadir un perro?” Would I like to add a dog. Absolutely not.

Next morning Marta calls: “Confirmación de la mascota. ¿Microchip?”
“En trámite,” I say.
“Perfecto,” she says. Spain’s favourite lie.

Carmen says the policy will make us better people. “You’ll take him to the vet when he loses to a cactus,” she says. “He loses weekly.”

Will the paperwork tolerate borrowed orange forever? Unclear. For now the app shows a healthy cat named Miles and a human with a functioning bank account. The shelf holds. The plant tries. Utilities got their €10 without drama. Progress.

If anyone asks how Spain is going: I’m solvent, the shelf is brave, and my cat is hypothetical but fully insured.

After the flamenco heel incident I thought I’d go low-risk for a few days. No classes, no dinners, no situations where my bad Spanish could end in an ambulance call. Just groceries. A list with four things on it — pan, leche, queso, tomate — because that’s what I could spell without checking.

The walk to Mercadona is maybe seven minutes if you go straight. I didn’t. I passed the bakery with the shelves of things I still can’t name, watched an old man feeding pigeons outside the tobacconist, and remembered too late that it was already edging towards midday heat. By the time I got through the automatic doors, I was slightly dizzy from sun and the smell of those oranges they stack right inside the entrance.

Bread was easy. Milk too — though the milk aisle here is like a maths problem, all different caps and labels, some cartons fresh, some that don’t expire until the next presidential term. Cheese, I went for Manchego because I recognised it and didn’t want another mystery in the fridge. Tomatoes — fine. Stacked so neatly I thought about touching one just to see if the pyramid collapsed, but I restrained myself.

Then the fish counter. Spain’s fish counters look like the sea came in and organised itself by species. Dorada lined up like they were about to be judged, mackerel still staring, piles of squid, trays of pink stuff under clingfilm. The label said huevas de pescado. I clocked “huevas” — eggs. Safe enough, I thought. Maybe like caviar paste, something to spread on bread. I said yes.

The woman wrapped it, printed a label — €4.80 — and slid it over without any hint I’d made a questionable choice. I walked around with it in my basket like I’d just passed a secret Spanish shopping exam.

At home I unwrapped it and the smell hit before I’d even got the paper fully open. Not bad, just dense. Like the air near the port when the fishing boats come in. Not a paste, not even soft. Solid roe sacs, the kind you cure in salt in Murcia (salazón) or slice thin for ensalada murciana. I found recipes online, all of which made it sound simple. I didn’t trust them.

So I took it next door to Carmen. She wears house slippers outside, has a balcony full of plants in repurposed olive tins, and smells faintly of fried garlic at all hours. She opened the paper, smiled like Christmas had come early, and explained — slowly — how she’d slice it, add olive oil, maybe tomato. Then she asked if she could keep it. I said of course, pretending that had been my plan the whole time.

The rest of my haul was fine. Bread, milk, Manchego, tomatoes. I even remembered to get bin bags. But I’ve made a mental note: don’t improvise at the deli counter unless you’ve got the vocabulary to ask follow-up questions. Next time I’ll just point and say ¿me puede ayudar con esto? before nodding at something mysterious. Or I’ll take Carmen with me, and she can get straight to the good stuff.

It was either join a flamenco class or cry into a bowl of microwaved arroz tres delicias again. I figured movement would help. Or at least distract from the ongoing saga of “Aerielle and the Accidental Business Registration.” (Still active, by the way. I keep getting letters. One of them was damp. Unrelated? Unclear.)

I arrived at the studio wearing trainers, which apparently is like showing up to a black-tie gala in Crocs. Everyone else had shoes that looked like instruments. They clicked and clacked and screamed olé just by existing. My shoes squeaked.

The teacher was a woman named Paloma who radiated judgment and wore a shawl like it was a weapon. She spoke only in rhythm. Every sentence ended with a clap. I loved her immediately. She hated me on sight.

We began with basic movements. I say “basic” the way people say “just a little wasabi.” Within five minutes I had stomped wrong, clapped off-beat, and stepped directly into something that was apparently sacred flamenco floor space. Paloma gasped like I’d insulted her grandmother.

There was a moment—brief, pure—where I almost found the rhythm. My hips betrayed me, my arms obeyed. I stomped once, hard, and caught the eye of a woman in the mirror. We nodded. Sisters. Then I spun.

And my elbow hit someone in the face.

Now, I want to be clear. I didn’t mean to. I was trying to create drama with my arms the way Paloma showed us. But instead of “duende” I achieved “collision.” A clean shot to the nose of an innocent bystander named Luis. He had simply come to pick up his girlfriend.

He went down. Someone screamed. Paloma shouted “¡OLÉ!” in confusion.

There was blood. A small amount. Enough to be memorable.

I apologised in three tenses and five languages. Luis was gracious, if slightly concussed. His girlfriend never spoke to me. She just handed him a tissue and glared like I was a political ideology she opposed.

Paloma told me, through clenched teeth, that I had a “free spirit” and perhaps should “explore that somewhere else.”

I limped home with one shoe slightly melted from a misplaced stomp on a studio light. Flamenco, I decided, was not my calling. But it did clarify something.

Movement is good. Direction is helpful. But aimless flailing in an unfamiliar room can be dangerous for everyone involved. Which, now that I think about it, sums up my entire experience in Spain so far.

Also, I may have to pay for the light. I received a note that might be an invoice or a poem. Possibly both.

I agreed to go out with him because he had good teeth and a slow way of speaking Spanish that made me feel like maybe I wasn’t losing the plot completely. Plus, he made paella for dogs as a side business. Not a metaphor. Actual paella. For dogs. That should have been the warning sign.

We met at this pretentious little tapas place near the port that served olives with foam and had a live violinist playing Coldplay. He arrived late, kissed both my cheeks, and immediately launched into a monologue about glass curtains. I didn’t know what that meant. I thought it was maybe a band? Or a metaphor for emotional fragility?

But no. Turns out he installs them. Like, for a living. Specializes in those sliding, frameless panels that keep the view but block out wind. He showed me a photo of one mid-monologue, and I had to admit: it looked kind of amazing. All sleek and modern. Like something you’d have if you were emotionally stable enough to own matching coasters. Glass curtains Javea — that’s literally what he typed into my phone when I asked what the hell I was looking at.

He also said the installation process was “very sensual,” which made me choke on a pickled anchovy.

At some point between the anchovy choking and the third unsolicited tirade about thermal insulation, I realized this date wasn’t going to be salvaged. But I was already two glasses into some surprisingly aggressive cava, and I wasn’t about to pay €7.50 for artisan bread and leave early. So I stayed.

He told me about his divorce (graphic), his cats (plural, shaved), and his belief that paella should only ever be eaten while barefoot (unconfirmed, possibly a fetish).

I nodded a lot. I learned about wind resistance ratings. I said “interesting” so many times I briefly forgot what it meant.

Later, when I was walking home alone, slightly drunk and wondering how I’d gone from adventurous expat to laminated-glass agony aunt, I passed a building with those same glass panels. And okay — yes — they did look beautiful. Like the apartment was wearing sunglasses. I stood there for maybe two minutes staring at them until a child asked me if I was lost.

I said yes.

Which, honestly, is probably the most accurate thing I’ve said since I got here.

It started, as most of my disasters do, with good intentions and a sharp outfit. I woke up one Tuesday with a hangover from optimism and the pressing need to pay my electricity bill. This, I had been told, could not be done online because—how did the nice lady at Iberdrola put it?—“the system is having a mood.”

So I took my passport, a crumpled piece of paper with some numbers on it, and the burning conviction that I was now a functioning adult. Off I went.

The bank was closed. Not closed-closed, but Spain-closed. The door was open, but a man inside shouted “cita previa” like it was both an insult and a spell. I asked how to get a cita previa and he said, “You need to go online.” I said the system was down. He nodded solemnly. “Sí.” And that was that.

After three failed attempts to pay in cash, card, emoji, and maybe tears, someone told me about a government building where “you can sort things out.” That’s the level of information I function on now: vague promises of redemption from people who vanish before you can ask follow-ups.

The building looked like the DMV if the DMV had given up. Everyone had a number. Mine was 841. They were on 22. At one point, a man named Javier tried to sell me a toaster. I don’t know if he worked there.

Hours later, a woman with magnificent eyebrows called my number. I explained I needed to pay a bill. She typed for twenty minutes, asked for ID, and said, “You are now autónoma.”

I blinked. “I’m what now?”

“Autónoma. You have a business now.”

Now, I don’t remember filling out a form or signing anything. I remember nodding a lot and thinking, wow, her eyeliner is steady as hell. But I left with a folder, a tax ID, and a strong suspicion I now owed someone something.

That night, I googled “autónoma Spain” and cried into my tortilla. The good news is I might be eligible for deductions. The bad news is I now have to invoice myself for toast.

The week spiraled. I tried to undo the mistake, but everything required a cita previa, a certificado digital, and a third personality I haven’t developed yet. A kind man at a coworking space told me I’d be fine. He also runs Madrid Adventure, which does corporate team-building events involving Segways and wine. He said if I ever needed to launder stress through kayaking, he had a guy.

So now I’m an entrepreneur. A self-employed foreigner with no clients, no income, and a developing caffeine addiction. If you know anyone who needs sarcastic commentary or has questions about sudden unintended sole proprietorships, I’m your girl.

Also, I still haven’t paid the electricity bill. Apparently, I need to open a new account. With a different ID. Under a different name. Maybe Dolores the cat will co-sign.

It started, like many bad decisions in Spain, with enthusiasm and cheap wine.

Marisol — my neighbor, landlord, and occasional life coach — had insisted I join her and her friends for “proper tapas.” The real deal. Not the tourist stuff.
“Tonight,” she said, “you eat like a local.”

In hindsight, I should have asked which locals. The ones with iron stomachs, apparently.

We met at a place in a side alley I swear wasn’t there the day before. No sign, no menu, no lighting — just a faint smell of fried seafood and what I can only describe as damp optimism.

Inside were six plastic tables, one elderly man playing cards with himself, and a television bolted high in the corner playing muted bullfighting highlights from 1997.

“This,” Marisol whispered, “is where the magic happens.”

Round one: pulpo a la gallega.

Slices of octopus on boiled potatoes, sprinkled with paprika and sea salt. Delicious. Mildly rubbery, but in a good way. I nodded confidently, like someone who eats octopus all the time.

Round two: callos.

I looked at the plate. It looked back.
“Is this—”
“Tripe!” Marisol announced. “Very traditional.”

Yes. Very traditional. Very… stomach lining.

I took a bite. It had the texture of wet corduroy soaked in beef broth. I smiled anyway. Nobody likes a foreigner who winces.

Round three was where things started to slide sideways.

Huevos rotos con morcilla.
Fried eggs smashed over black pudding, swimming in oil.

“I don’t think it’s meant to glisten that much,” I whispered to Marisol. She shrugged.

“You’ll be fine. Builds character.”

At this point, I should mention that the house red was served in recycled Fanta bottles. Nobody explained why.

Round four — the Russian roulette moment.

A plate arrived that looked innocent enough: croquetas.
Golden, crispy, harmless. Comfort food.

I bit into one.

Immediately, I knew something was wrong.

Now — croquetas in Spain come filled with ham, chicken, or sometimes fish. This one? I would later learn, through unfortunate Google searches, was filled with bacalao cheeks.
Salted cod cheeks.
The consistency of warm toothpaste.
And overwhelmingly… fishy. Like being punched in the sinuses by Poseidon himself.

I smiled. I nodded. I chased it with wine.

Marisol beamed. “See? You are local now.”

I felt my intestines prepare for war.

The next morning, I was a broken woman. My stomach sounded like two angry cats trapped in a washing machine. My bathroom and I developed a deep, personal relationship.

At one point, I hallucinated the croqueta coming back to taunt me.

I texted Marisol:

You tried to kill me.

She replied:

You survived. You are ready for snails next week.

Snails. Of course.

I may not know how this chapter of my Spanish life ends, but I know it won’t be on an empty stomach. Or a stable one.

I first met Miles at a charity brunch in Jávea. The word charity is doing a lot of heavy lifting here — it was really just fifty British people drinking too much cava at 11am while vaguely pretending to care about orphaned donkeys somewhere inland. You know the vibe.

Miles stood out immediately. Mostly because his tan was so unnatural it was almost violent. The man was orange. Not even sunburnt-orange — more like an overripe satsuma that had been lacquered for durability.

“You’re Aerielle, right? Carlotta’s friend?”
Friend is an interesting word for someone who pays you under the table to babysit florists and drunks. But sure.

“That’s me.”

Miles did this thing where he shook your hand but with both hands, as if trying to trap you into a business deal you hadn’t agreed to yet. “Miles Fairweather. Estate agent. Property consultant. Relocation specialist. Lifestyle facilitator.”
The longer his title got, the less legal it sounded.

We chatted. Well — he chatted, I nodded. He’d been in Spain for 12 years, previously in Marbella, which he described as “cutthroat” with the same gleam people have when they mean scammy.

“I tell my clients the truth, though,” he said, sipping his third mimosa. “Unlike the cowboys. You want honesty in property? You come to me.”

I didn’t have the energy to point out that no one who says you want honesty? is ever being honest.

He leaned in. “Actually, I’m looking for someone like you, Aerielle. You speak languages, you understand the clientele.”
I absolutely do not.
“You have an eye for interiors.”
Only because I watch too much Netflix.
“And you’re, well, you’re British. The clients love that. They trust us.”

Us. Oh God.

Within a week, I found myself sitting in Miles’s office-slash-converted-garage in Moraira. It smelled faintly of old printer ink and desperation.

“All you need to do,” he explained, “is meet the clients at the villa viewings. Smile. Charm. Point out the best bits. We do the paperwork.”

“What if they ask me anything legal?”

“Just say that’s something Miles can help you with later. Works every time.”

Simple enough.

My first clients were a couple from Surrey looking for “an authentic Spanish experience but with modern comforts” — the eternal contradiction.

The villa was lovely. Five bedrooms, infinity pool, some highly questionable marble statues scattered across the garden.

“Does it get noisy here in the summer?” the wife asked.

I smiled. “Not really, no.”
(It overlooks the main road to Benidorm. You can practically hear the hen parties from here.)

“Are there any issues with the paperwork?” the husband asked.

I smiled again. “That’s something Miles can help you with later.”

By the time they made an offer, I felt like a criminal. Miles, of course, called it excellent synergy.

A few days later, over drinks, I asked Miles if the villa actually had all its licenses.

He laughed. “Aerielle, listen. Spain’s not like back home. Here, it’s a little… flexible.”

Flexible.

If I ever get arrested, my gravestone will read: She was flexible.

You’d think after the German tourists incident, I’d have learned to stop saying yes to things I’m wildly unqualified for. You’d think.

But Spain does this thing to your brain. The sun, the wine, the general absence of consequence — it softens your grip on reality. And so, standing outside a café in Moraira, holding a rather average café con leche, I found myself nodding vigorously as a woman called Carlotta offered me a job as a wedding planner.

Carlotta had teeth like piano keys and sunglasses bigger than her face. She ran some kind of event planning agency — although whether it was fully legal, I’m still not sure — and had mistaken my vague mumbling about “doing events back in England” as professional experience.

By “doing events” I had meant: I once organized my friend Zoe’s hen do. We got drunk on Prosecco in a caravan park near Margate. But Carlotta didn’t ask for details.

“Perfect! You can assist on Saturday, yes?” she said, taking my silence as agreement. “Destination wedding! Big villa! Very exclusive!” She clapped. “The British like you.”

I think it was the “the British like you” that made me say yes. As if being British automatically qualified me to coordinate my own people. Like a sheepdog for expats.

The villa was obscene. One of those whitewashed cliffside monstrosities with too many infinity pools and entirely too few safety railings. The couple getting married were called Olivia and Tristian — of course they were — and they had flown in 100 of their closest friends to drink rosé and pretend they weren’t cheating on each other.

Carlotta had given me three tasks:

1. Make sure the florist delivered.
2. Keep the father of the bride sober until at least 5pm.
3. Don’t let the saxophonist wander off again.

I failed at all three.

The florist, a man called Paco, arrived two hours late and with peonies instead of ranunculus. I googled both words and made up a story about how peonies were more symbolic in Mediterranean cultures. The bride cried anyway.

The father of the bride, an absolute unit named Clive, was already on his fourth gin when I arrived. He offered me one. I said no. He called me a “killjoy” and I somehow ended up holding his hip flask all afternoon, like an idiot custodian of bad decisions.

As for the saxophonist — Rodrigo — he was missing entirely. Someone later found him swimming naked off the rocks with the mother of the groom. Honestly, by Spanish standards, it barely registered.

The ceremony, miraculously, happened. A drone flew overhead, filming the happy couple as they exchanged vows while squinting into the blinding sun. A small child vomited into a planter. The celebrant — a British expat priest who looked like he moonlighted as a magician — forgot half the names.

Everyone said it was “magical.” That’s what rich people say when something nearly catastrophic happens but doesn’t quite ruin the photographs.

At midnight, Carlotta handed me an envelope of cash and kissed both my cheeks.

“You see? You’re natural for this!” she smiled. “Next month, Ibiza?”

I smiled back. “Of course.”

Because apparently I have a problem.

Day one, I downloaded five apps. Duolingo. Babbel. A suspicious one with a parrot in sunglasses. I was ready. I was motivated. I was an ambitious, language-hungry goddess with a dream and a whiteboard.

Day two, I forgot the word for “hello.”

It all started because I was tired of ordering coffee like a nervous mime. You know the move—smile, point vaguely, throw in a “gracias” like you’re apologizing for existing. I wanted to speak like a local. Sound confident. Maybe even flirt with my barista instead of accidentally calling him grandma (true story).

So I gave myself a goal. Seven days. Just enough time, I figured, to become conversational. Or at least mildly less humiliating to be around.

Spoiler: I did not become conversational.

What I did do was tell a cab driver I had three nipples. That was day three. I meant to say “I’m staying near the church.” What came out was something closer to “I birth the holy onion of my body.” He didn’t blink. Just nodded, like yeah, classic American.

By day four, I’d started inventing words when I couldn’t remember the real ones. Spanish-ish. Spanglish-adjacent. I told a pharmacist I had “bee thunder in my leg” and she gave me ibuprofen and a tiny look of concern.

The thing no one tells you about learning a language is that it makes you forget your own. I started saying “¿cómo se dice…?” in English conversations. At one point, I answered a Zoom call with “sí, señora.” It was my boss.

Day five, I tried to practice at a local market. Bad idea. Very bad. I asked for bananas and somehow proposed to the fruit vendor’s mother. She cried. I cried. We hugged. I still don’t know if we’re engaged.

On day six, a kind older woman stopped me in the street and gave me unsolicited pronunciation tips. I thanked her. She hugged me too. Spaniards hug a lot. Either that or I’m giving off “lost orphan” vibes and people are adopting me emotionally.

By the end of the week, I wasn’t fluent. I was bruised, emotionally tender, and carrying three different pocket dictionaries like some kind of panicked librarian.

But something weird happened.

I went to my usual café. Ordered a cortado. Forgot the word halfway through but said it anyway, messed up and all. The barista smiled. Repeated the order back correctly. Gave me a free cookie.

Progress.

Tiny, crumb-shaped progress.

I still don’t know if he likes me or just pities the walking grammatical disaster I’ve become. But either way, I’m showing up tomorrow. I’m going to say thank you. I’m going to mispronounce it. And I’m going to do it loud and proud, with absolutely no idea what I’m saying.

That’s growth.

Making friends as an adult is already a nightmare. Making friends in a foreign country, where your grasp of the language is questionable at best and your social skills have been worn down by years of selective introversion? Impossible. 

But I was determined. 

Spain is a country built on socializing. People have entire friend groups they’ve known since birth. They talk for hours. They gather, they drink, they eat, they function as a unit of unbreakable human connection. 

Meanwhile, I had spent three days straight talking only to my barista, and he was starting to look concerned. 

So, I did what every lonely expat does: I signed up for a Meetup event. 

It seemed innocent enough. Just a casual drinks night for locals and newcomers. A low-pressure environment. A normal, healthy social decision. 

It was not. 

The Beginning: How I Thought I Was Making Normal Friends 

I arrived fashionably late, which in Spain means I was still the first one there. The bar was small, dimly lit, the kind of place that looked like it had hosted both casual tapas and international smuggling deals. 

A few other people trickled in—some Spanish, some expats, some giving off the energy of people who had been here too long and now refused to leave. 

I introduced myself, had a glass of wine, made some small talk. I was doing it. Socializing. Engaging. Assimilating. 

Then I met Javier. 

Javier had long hair, an unsettlingly calm voice, and the type of presence that made you think he either worked in tech or was part of an underground movement. 

He introduced himself, asked where I was from, then casually said: 

“You seem open-minded. Would you like to come to a gathering?” 

Now. 

A normal person would ask what kind of gathering. 

A normal person would hesitate before blindly agreeing to a vague invitation from a man they had just met. 

I am not a normal person. 

I said yes. 

The ‘Gathering’ That Was Definitely Not a Normal Gathering 

Two nights later, I found myself walking down an unfamiliar street, following a pin location Javier had sent me. 

The red flag? The pin did not lead to a bar, a house, or any recognizable venue. 

The pin led to a door with no sign, a buzzer, and the distinct feeling that I was about to enter a situation that would either expand my worldview or require me to flee the country. 

I buzzed. 

A woman opened the door without a word, looked me up and down, and gestured for me to enter. 

At this point, I could have turned around. I could have left. But no. I had committed. I was going to make friends, even if it meant accidentally joining a cult. 

Inside? Candles. No overhead lights. A group of people seated in a semi-circle, drinking wine, speaking in hushed voices like they were discussing world domination. 

Javier spotted me, smiled, and waved me over. Like this was normal. 

I sat down. 

Someone handed me a glass of something dark and suspiciously herbal. 

I took a sip. 

It was not wine. 

The Moment I Realized I Had Made a Terrible Mistake 

The conversation was not about normal things. 

No one asked about work. No one made small talk. Instead, they were deep into a discussion about energy fields, ancient symbols, and “unlocking the true potential of the human mind.” 

At one point, a man named Raúl leaned forward and asked, “What is your relationship with the moon?” 

I did not have an answer for that. 

So I did what any sane person would do. 

I lied. 

“I… appreciate it?” 

He nodded, like that was the exact right answer. 

Javier touched my arm and said, “I knew you would understand.” 

Understand what? 

WHAT DID I UNDERSTAND? 

The Escape Plan That Almost Didn’t Happen 

At some point, someone pulled out a book. It looked old. Heavy. The kind of book that, if placed on a table, would make an ominous thud. 

They turned to a page covered in symbols and diagrams. 

Javier pointed to one and looked at me. “What do you feel when you see this?” 

I stared at it. 

I felt like I had been awake for too long. 

I felt like I needed to go home immediately. 

I felt like I was about to be sacrificed to a celestial entity. 

So I did what anyone trapped in a secret meeting they did not sign up for would do. 

I clutched my stomach, made a small distressed noise, and whispered: 

“I think I ate bad shrimp.” 

Silence. 

Everyone looked at me. 

Then, slowly, Javier nodded. “Yes. Shrimp can block the mind’s receptivity.” 

I nodded. What. The. Hell. Does. That. Mean. 

“I should go,” I said, clutching my stomach dramatically. “To… cleanse.” 

More nods. They all understood. 

I stood up, thanked them—**thanked them, like I had just had a wonderful evening instead of a near-religious experience I did not consent to—**and slowly backed out of the room. 

Processing What Happened 

I walked home at a brisk, traumatized pace. I did not look back. 

When I got home, I googled “Valencia secret society?” Nothing. 

I still don’t know what I walked into. 

I have not heard from Javier since. 

I have many questions, but one thing is certain: 

I still don’t have any real friends. 

There are two types of people who do yoga: the ones who glow with inner peace, bend like human pretzels, and sip green tea after class while discussing mindfulness, and then there’s me—a person whose body was not designed to fold in half and whose brain only understands chaos. 

But I live in Spain now. A new life, a new me, a new commitment to being the kind of person who does healthy things instead of just saying she will. 

So when my friend suggested a yoga class at a fancy studio in the city, I thought, Yes. This is my moment. 

It was not my moment. 

Phase One: False Hope and Denial 

It started well enough. The studio smelled like eucalyptus. Everyone was calm, barefoot, and radiating that unsettling level of serenity that makes you wonder if they’re part of a cult. 

The instructor, a woman with cheekbones so sharp they could cut glass, welcomed us in Spanish with a voice that sounded like she was permanently on the verge of a deep, spiritual sigh. 

I nodded along as if I understood anything she was saying. 

Then I saw the mats. 

Thin. Too thin. Not even a hint of cushioning. A prison cot has more padding than these mats. 

This was my first warning. I ignored it. 

Phase Two: The Immediate Physical Betrayal 

Five minutes in, I was sweating. 

Ten minutes in, I was rethinking my entire existence. 

Fifteen minutes in, I was trying to make a mental list of which friendships in my life were toxic, because whoever convinced me to do this was now my enemy. 

Meanwhile, the rest of the class was gracefully transitioning from pose to pose like elegant, whispering swans. I was violently shaking in downward dog, wondering if my arms were going to give out and send me face-first into the hardwood floor. 

Then came warrior pose. 

Now, on paper, warrior pose seems simple. Feet apart, arms out, looking majestic. In reality, it’s a squat disguised as a power stance, and my thighs were not on board. 

I could feel my muscles screaming in betrayal. 

The instructor floated over, her peaceful aura directly mocking my suffering. She pressed down on my back, gently correcting my posture. 

Everything cracked. 

Not in a good way. In a “this is how people die” way. 

She nodded approvingly. “Sí, muy bien.” 

It was not bien. 

Phase Three: The Moment I Considered Faking an Injury 

Halfway through the class, we moved to something called ‘crow pose.’ 

If you don’t know what crow pose is, it’s essentially a cruel joke disguised as a yoga move. 

You balance your entire body on your hands, with your knees on your elbows, defying both gravity and common sense. 

I watched the woman next to me float into the pose like it was nothing. 

I attempted it. 

What happened next can only be described as a controlled crash. 

I got halfway up before realizing my arms had the structural integrity of cooked spaghetti. My knees slipped, my balance disappeared, and I collapsed forward in slow motion. 

And because the universe hates me, I fell directly onto my water bottle, which let out a sad little squeak as I crushed it beneath me. 

The entire class heard it. 

I lay there, face down on my mat, contemplating whether or not I should just stay there forever. 

Phase Four: The Spiritual Defeat 

Finally, we reached shavasana—the part where you just lie down and pretend to be peaceful. 

The instructor dimmed the lights. Soft music played. Everyone was breathing deeply, floating in their own personal Zen. 

I was trying not to cry. 

My body was broken. My soul was shattered. My water bottle was dead. 

And yet, somehow, I knew that the worst part of all of this was that I would do it again. 

Because that’s the thing about yoga. It doesn’t care that you’re terrible at it. It just waits for you to return, weaker, humbler, still lying to yourself that next time will be different. 

So, anyway.

I signed up for yoga to find inner peace.

What I found was a deep hatred for my own lack of flexibility and an instructor who looked like she knew all my secrets. 

I’m going back next week. 

I don’t know why. 

This was not supposed to happen. 

I left my apartment with good intentions. Just a quick drink, maybe two, like a responsible person who has a healthy relationship with alcohol and decision-making. I had planned for an early night. A calm, quiet, sophisticated evening. 

Cut to 4 AM, and I am standing on a beach I do not recognize, barefoot, holding a plastic cup of questionable liquid, listening to a man named Paco explain how he once almost got arrested for trying to steal a goat. 

Somewhere, along the way, I lost control of the narrative. 

The Beginning: A Simple Plan, A Fatal Mistake 

It started at a small bar near my apartment. The kind with wobbly chairs, loud locals who have known each other for decades, and a bartender who looks at you like he already knows you’re about to make really bad decisions. 

I met up with a friend, who introduced me to their friend, who introduced me to their cousin, who introduced me to someone whose name I immediately forgot but who seemed very enthusiastic about everything. 

We ordered one drink. And then, somewhere between one drink and three drinks, someone said the most dangerous phrase in the Spanish language: 

“We should go somewhere else.” 

This is where things started to go wrong. 

The Middle: The Time Vortex of Spanish Nightlife 

In Spain, there is no such thing as “just one more.” One drink becomes a bottle. A bottle becomes “Let’s go meet up with some people.” Meeting up with some people becomes “Let’s go to a place I know.” 

And suddenly, you are walking down a street you’ve never seen before, following a group of people who seem to know where they’re going, even though you absolutely do not. 

At some point, we ended up in a car. 

Who was driving? Unclear. 
Where were we going? Also unclear. 
Why did I get in the car? Excellent question. 

I do remember that someone passed me a bottle of something strong enough to legally be considered a weapon, and I drank it because peer pressure is real and I make terrible choices. 

The next thing I knew, we were in a different town. 

The Realization: This Is Not My City 

I stepped out of the car, looked around, and realized this was not Valencia. 

“This isn’t Valencia,” I said. 

“No,” someone agreed, as if this was perfectly normal. 

“Where are we?” I asked. 

A shrug. No one seemed concerned. 

I checked Google Maps. It told me I was 45 minutes away from my apartment. I checked my wallet. It told me I had spent an amount of money I was not emotionally prepared to acknowledge. 

At some point, we ended up on a beach. There were more drinks. More conversations with people I had just met but who I was now emotionally attached to. Someone started playing guitar. Someone else was arguing loudly about the meaning of life. 

And then, Paco. 

Paco and the Goat Heist 

Paco was someone’s uncle, though I’m still not sure whose. He was about sixty, wearing a hat that looked like it had seen some things, and drinking out of a flask that I strongly suspect was filled with something homemade and illegal. 

At some point, Paco decided we were close enough to hear the story of the time he almost got arrested for stealing a goat. 

To be clear, he did not actually steal the goat. He was trying to rescue the goat, which, according to him, was being “emotionally neglected” by its owner. 

“I told them,” he said, shaking his head, “this is not theft. This is liberation.” 

Apparently, the police did not agree. 

We all nodded, because what else do you do when a drunk man tells you about a failed goat heist at 4 AM? 

The Walk of Shame (But Make It International) 

Eventually, I had to accept reality. It was almost sunrise. I was not in my city. I had no idea how to get home. 

The group, still full of energy like vampires who do not experience exhaustion, invited me to keep going. 

I considered it. I thought about my responsibilities, my dignity, my need to function as a human being the next day. 

And then I made the only smart decision I had made all night. 

I ordered an obscenely expensive taxi and dragged myself home like a defeated warrior returning from battle. 

By the time I got into bed, the sun was fully up, my body was 40% alcohol, 10% regret, and 50% pure exhaustion, and my phone had a text from my friend that just said: 

“Where did you go?” 

I still don’t know the answer. 

Some people move to Spain and immediately integrate into the culture. They learn to roll their Rs, drink vermouth at lunchtime, and develop an opinion on where to get the best jamón ibérico. 

I am not one of those people. 

I thought I was. I thought I could be. I thought, “You know what? I live here now. I should cook like a local.” 

So I picked something simple. Something basic. Something that required only three ingredients and absolutely no special skills. 

Tortilla de patatas. 

Eggs. Potatoes. Onion. 

What could go wrong? 

I don’t even know where to begin. 

The Market: Where It All Started to Unravel 

I walked into the market with confidence. I was going to make a tortilla from scratch, like a real Spanish grandmother. I was going to buy the best potatoes, the freshest eggs, the kind of onions that old men at the vegetable stalls nod approvingly at. 

Instead, I stood in front of a pyramid of potatoes, panicking. 

Because guess what? There are too many types of potatoes. 

I picked some at random, hoping for the best. The egg stall was worse. The vendor asked me something in Spanish, and instead of responding like a normal human, I panicked and just said, “Sí.” 

Sí to what? I don’t know. Sí to expensive, unnecessary organic eggs? Sí to admitting I have no idea what I’m doing? Sí to being scammed? Probably all of the above. 

By the time I left the market, I had spent more money than necessary, forgotten to buy olive oil, and was already questioning my life. 

And I hadn’t even started cooking yet. 

The Cooking Process: A Rapid Descent Into Chaos 

Back home, I laid everything out like I was about to be on MasterChef. I put on music. I told myself this was going to be a peaceful experience. 

It was not. 

Step 1: The Potatoes—An Immediate Disaster 

I had read that you’re supposed to cube the potatoes, not slice them, so I started cutting. Immediately, they were the wrong size. Some were normal cubes. Others were abominations. 

I tried to fix it. I made it worse. 

Still, I pressed on. I heated up way too much olive oil in a pan, added the potatoes, and within seconds—they were sticking. I stirred, I shook the pan, I pleaded with them to behave. Nothing worked. 

Meanwhile, the onions were burning. 

I yanked the pan off the stove, nearly dropping half the potatoes on the floor. The whole thing looked wrong. 

I should have stopped there. But no. 

Step 2: The Eggs—The Moment I Knew I Was in Trouble 

This part should have been easy. Crack the eggs into a bowl, whisk them, mix with the potatoes, pour it back into the pan. Basic. Simple. Foolproof. 

I cracked the eggs directly into the potatoes. 

I don’t know why. I think my brain just checked out. The second the first egg hit the still-hot pan, it cooked instantly. 

Now I wasn’t making tortilla. I was making a scrambled egg and potato crime scene. 

Panic set in. I tried to mix it. It turned into an unholy, lumpy mess. 

I could have accepted defeat. But I didn’t. 

I decided to flip it. 

Step 3: The Flip—A Catastrophe in Three Acts 

Real Spaniards flip their tortilla with grace. They do this thing where they place a plate over the pan, invert it, and slide the tortilla back in. I had watched at least five YouTube videos of this process. It looked easy. 

I grabbed the biggest plate I had, put it over the pan, and took a deep breath. 

Then—chaos. 

1. The plate was too big. 

2. I hesitated mid-flip, which is the worst possible thing you can do. 

3. Half the tortilla came out. The other half did not. 

Now, I was holding a plate covered in raw egg and semi-cooked potato, and the rest of it was glued to the pan like a regrettable tattoo. 

I should have stopped. I should have thrown the whole thing in the bin and gone to a bar for a proper tortilla. 

But I kept going. I tried to reassemble it. 

By the time I got the thing back into the pan, it no longer resembled food. 

A Deeply Personal Shame 

I stared at my creation. It was gray. It was lumpy. It had weirdly crispy edges and a middle that was still suspiciously liquid. 

I took a bite. 

It tasted… of regret. 

Somehow, I had both overcooked and undercooked it at the same time. 

I chewed. I swallowed. I hated myself. 

And then, because I refuse to waste food, I ate the whole thing. 

Did I feel accomplished? No. 
Did I feel full? Yes, but not in a good way. 

Lessons Learned 

1. Some things should be left to the experts. 

2. I am not Spanish enough for this. 

3. The pre-made tortilla at the grocery store costs €2 and is delicious. 

I am never doing this again. 

I don’t nap. I never have. I come from a culture that associates mid-day sleeping with either toddlers or people on the brink of a breakdown. But Spain? Spain says sleep whenever you want, wherever you want, with zero shame, because life is a long dinner and you need to pace yourself. 

And honestly? That sounded magical. The idea of just clocking out of reality for a few hours in the middle of the day, like a computer rebooting, felt like the missing piece in my chaotic attempt at adjusting to life here. 

So I tried it. I fully committed. 

And I am here to tell you: siestas are not naps. Siestas are portals. You do not rest during a siesta. You vanish. Time ceases to exist. Reality bends. You wake up with no memories of the life you lived before you closed your eyes. 

Let me explain. 

The Preparation 

I had done my research. Spaniards don’t just nap. They orchestrate naps. There is a whole setup involved. 

Step one: eat a big lunch. This was the easy part because every meal here is a five-act opera. I had a comically large plate of rice, an unnecessary second helping of bread, and wine because Spain encourages terrible decisions before noon. 

Step two: make your nap cave. Spaniards take siesta darkness seriously. I shut the blinds, turned off my phone, and mentally prepared to disappear from the world. 

Step three: set an alarm. I told myself one hour. One responsible, adult hour. Enough to feel refreshed, not enough to wake up as a different person in a new decade. 

I closed my eyes. I surrendered. 

The Aftermath 

I woke up in hell. 

First of all, it was dark. But not normal dark. Apocalyptic, end-of-days dark. My first thought was I have slept until next winter. My second thought was I don’t remember who I am. 

I sat up too fast, which was a mistake, because my body refused to re-enter consciousness at the same speed my brain was demanding. I felt like I had been in a coma for seventeen years. My limbs weren’t responding properly. My mouth was dry like I had spent the last four hours fighting for my life in a desert. 

I reached for my phone. I had 17 missed messages. No, wait—some of these were from yesterday. Had I slept for a whole day? What YEAR was it? 

The confusion was so real that for a full thirty seconds, I was genuinely unsure which country I was in. I could have woken up in an abandoned hotel room in Prague with no passport and a cryptic note written on my hand and it would have felt just as reasonable as what was happening. 

I stumbled out of bed and into the living room, where my phone immediately pinged with a message: 

“Are you okay??” 

Oh no. That’s never a good text. 

I checked the time. 7:30. 

AM?? PM?? WHICH SEVEN THIRTY IS THIS?? 

I yanked open the blinds like a panicked vampire trying to figure out if I was about to die from sunlight. Outside, the sky was that weird, unclear color where it could be early evening or the very end of the world. 

I needed an anchor. Something that would tell me what reality I had woken up into. 

The street. The street would have answers. 

I peered down at the sidewalk, hoping for clues. There were people casually walking around. Okay, good. It wasn’t the apocalypse. But were they heading to dinner? Or just starting their day? 

Then I saw it. 

A man in a suit. Holding a beer. Casually drinking on the sidewalk. 

I exhaled. Ah. Spain. It was evening. I was not a time traveler. I had just been completely obliterated by my own nap. 

The Lesson Learned 

I have never felt the same after that siesta. 

I don’t know what it is about them, but they are different here. They hit like medically induced comas. They bend space-time. They transport you to a place where alarms don’t matter and your organs briefly forget their responsibilities. 

And the worst part? I woke up MORE tired. How? How does that happen? 

Siestas are not rest. They are spiritual experiences that you may not return from. 

And yet—somehow, against all logic—I know I’ll do it again 

At this point, I feel like I need to file some kind of official report. Maybe go to the police, explain that I am being specifically targeted by a feathered psychopath with a personal vendetta. 

Because this was not my first run-in with The Pigeon. 

The first time, I wrote it off as bad luck. A freak incident. A random act of street crime, committed by a particularly confident bird who saw an opportunity and took it. But now? Now, it’s a pattern. 

Now, I know it’s war. 

The History of Violence 

Our first encounter had been outside a café, where he stole an entire sugar packet from my saucer and flew off into the sunset like some kind of winged outlaw. I thought that was the end of it. I assumed he had better things to do. Bigger crimes to commit. 

But I was wrong. 

He remembered me. 

And this time, he came back for blood. 

The Second Attack 

I was sitting in a plaza, minding my own business, eating a croissant and trying to appear calm, collected, like a woman who belongs in Spain. I had my sunglasses on. I was drinking a coffee that I had correctly ordered for once. I was at peace. 

And then I felt it. 

The shift in the air. The eerie silence before disaster. 

I turned my head slowly. And there he was. 

Same pigeon. Same beady, dead-eyed stare. Perched on the edge of the fountain, watching me. Waiting. 

I should have left. A smarter person would have left. But no. I stayed. Because I refused to live in fear. 

That was my mistake. 

Because before I could react, he launched. 

This was not a casual, opportunistic swoop. This was an aerial ambush. A full-scale, wings-out, beak-first assassination attempt. 

I flailed. I made a noise I have never made before in my life. A mix between a scream, a gasp, and the final breath of a dying Victorian woman. 

He did not care. 

He landed on my table. He grabbed my croissant like it was legally his. And then—the final insult—he made direct eye contact with me before taking off. 

DIRECT. EYE. CONTACT. 

Like he needed me to know. Like he wanted me to understand who was in control here. 

It was not me. 

The Aftermath 

I sat there, in shock, half a croissant lighter. A man at the next table, who had witnessed everything, slowly nodded. 

“Es tuyo ahora,” he said. 

It’s his now. 

And honestly? He was right. I accept defeat. 

I don’t know when The Pigeon will strike again. But I do know this: he’s out there. Watching. Waiting. 

And I am no longer safe. 

Somewhere around mid-June I decided I was being boring and should start saying yes to things. All things. Didn’t think it through, just did it. I thought I’d get a few coffee invitations, maybe a trip to the beach. I didn’t picture being in a stranger’s kitchen at 3 a.m. trying to explain in bad Spanish why I’d just drunk something bright green.

First “yes” was after a language exchange. We’d been talking about how British people panic if you make eye contact for more than two seconds, and then someone said “we’re getting drinks, you coming?” I said yes before remembering drinks in Valencia aren’t one or two and home by midnight. They’re three bars, endless cañas, the odd agua de Valencia (cava, gin, orange juice — sounds cute, drinks like a lawsuit). At some point I was explaining the 2008 financial crash to a man called Raúl who claimed he’d invented a better sandwich. Don’t ask.

The next yes was “beach day.” I turned up with SPF 50 and a sensible swimsuit. The others had a cooler full of beer and a speaker. The beer won. By the time the sun dipped we were on a train to a town I’d never heard of, eating bocadillos that belonged to other people, and I was mentally running through my kidnap survival plan. No kidnap — just someone’s cousin’s house, couches full of strangers, a dog that slept on my arm like it owned me.

Back in Valencia, still peeling from the sun, I got “come to a family thing.” I pictured six people around a table. It was a baptism. Catholic. Full suits. The kind where you don’t leave before midnight. I got put in the front row next to the grandmother, holding a candle, then holding the baby, then being handed a plate of jamón. Seven hours later I was the adopted foreigner of the day and being told by Marisol, an older woman with the authority of a general, that I was too thin and should come for dinner on Thursdays. I’ve been twice.

Somewhere in there I said yes to a paella competition, thinking it meant eating paella. I had wine in one hand and a cutting board in the other before I knew it. Valencia takes paella personally — strict rules about ingredients, techniques, the size of the paellera. Pilar, who I’d met twenty minutes earlier, told me she’d throw me in the Turia river if I stirred it wrong. There were judges. An entry fee. An argument about rabbit meat so intense I thought someone might call the police.

By week three I was sleeping at odd hours, saying yes to things before I knew what they were. A “quick drink” turned into dancing in a bar the size of a wardrobe in El Carmen, where I think the barman was also the DJ and maybe the landlord. A “walk” was actually a hike up to the Castillo de Sagunto in the middle of the day with no water and a lecture about Roman history from a man who may or may not work there.

I kept going. Because once you start, it’s hard to stop. And because somewhere between the beach dogs, the baptisms, and the threat of being arrested for culinary crimes, I started feeling like maybe this was the quickest way to actually belong here.

The last yes was to “help out at an event.” I thought they meant stacking chairs. I ended up on a microphone, introducing acts in Spanish I couldn’t fully pronounce, misnaming a band from Castellón in front of two hundred people. They cheered anyway.

I’ve taken a week off now. My phone’s full of messages I’m not answering yet. I can still smell smoke from the paella day on one of my jackets. And I think Marisol is serious about dinner this Thursday.

I got off the plane at Valencia Airport with the idea that something life-changing might hit me. A cinematic moment. Instead, the warm air came at me like an open oven door. The suitcase made it twelve minutes before the handle gave up, and I found myself dragging it over cobblestones wondering why I hadn’t just taken the metro.

Google Maps had promised fifteen minutes on foot. It turned into forty-five, broken up by me stopping to read street signs and pretending I was admiring the buildings. The Metrovalencia Line 3 or 5 would have taken me straight from the airport to Xàtiva or Colón for a couple of euros. Even a €20 taxi would have been kinder than that walk. Routes are here: https://www.metrovalencia.es/

I was due to meet the landlord, José, at ten o’clock. At ten past I wasn’t concerned. By half past, I was a little less sure. When he finally arrived at a quarter past eleven, he was immaculate, carrying an espresso, and seemed surprised that I’d been waiting. He handed over the keys, waved at a few rooms, and disappeared.

The lock-out happened later the same day. I’d stepped into the hall barefoot to throw away a yoghurt pot, the door closed behind me, and that was it. My Spanish wasn’t up to explaining it to the locksmith, so we ended up doing a mixture of pointing and guessing until he let me back in. Two minutes of work. €120 bill. I’ve since learned it’s normal for emergency call-outs, though cheaper if you arrange it through a local ferretería in daylight hours.

The next morning I tried coffee. I asked for un café, which turned out to be a short, strong espresso. The man at the next table ordered café con leche, so I tried to follow his lead and somehow ended up asking for café con hielo — espresso with a separate glass of ice. Apparently you pour one into the other yourself.

For reference: Café solo — espresso. Café con leche — coffee with milk. Café con hielo — espresso with ice, popular in summer. Cortado — espresso with a splash of milk.

A pigeon landed on my table before I’d finished, looked at me, took a sugar packet, and left. Nobody in the café reacted, which made me think this was a regular thing.

Two days in, I’d broken a suitcase, paid for an expensive lesson in key management, ordered the wrong coffee, and lost to a bird. But I’d also worked out that the metro is easy, the old town is a maze best done without luggage, and cafés here expect you to know the rules.

I didn’t come here for perfect days. I came to get slightly lost until I found my way. Tomorrow I’ll see if I can get the coffee order right. If not, there’s always a nap.