If I have learned anything in Spain, it’s to not believe anything until it’s signed, sealed and delivered. Or, in the Junta de Andalucia’s case, signed, stamped and hand-delivered. But even without that piece of paper giving me a job back, I know the chances are less than a finding a Spanish vegetarian. I’m out of a job come the end of the month.
I did expect this all along, and I’m ready for something new. Really. I mean it. But it’s hard walking into my school, ticking off days, cleaning out my endless papers and lesson plans knowing that my days are numbered. No “Hola, Bicho Medio Gato Saborilla” greetings in the morning, no more having my tostada ready and waiting when I eat at the bar down the street.
I’ve been telling my coworkers and classmates little by little so as not to overwhelm myself or cry or both. Most expected me to come back, and I’ve gotten a lot of sympathetic looks which remind that, even when I feel distraught and worthless, I’m appreciated.
In the meantime, I’ve been exhausting every trámite possible to stay here. I keep running into brick walls head-on, really, but I’ll keep going until I get something. Forty-three CVs and counting…desearme suerte!!