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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. 

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. 

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.