The Spanish love to take their time. I had one prospective job take close to three months to finally whither and die on me. Others simply never ripened on the vine. I had thought I’d turned a corner last week when I was asked to an interview only days after submitting an application, and offered a job before the interview was over. Alas, the haste with which this job progressed continued, right through to the offer evaporating in the dry Spanish air before anything was put to paper.
On Tuesday, I re-arranged my travel plan for the east of Spain, and drove halfway across the country to a job interview in Barcelona. I was offered a job before the interview was over—seemed to justify the diversion—and subsequently spent the next few days on a high, secure in the knowledge that I could now start to plan for a life of at least two or three years in Spain, learning Spanish, retracing this quick-stop route at a slower pace, perhaps even convincing my parents to visit and taking them to my favourite spots here in the years to come.
My travel through Valencia, Alicante, Cuenca and Granada was unhurried and enjoyable, because I had a job offer tucked under my arm, and I could stay focused on what I was there to see, rather than worrying about applying for more jobs or contacting prospects to hassle them one more time for an answer. Now, I was simply going to get on the plane home, spend a month (maybe two) traveling around saying my farewells whilst I waited for the paperwork to be processed, and then I’d be back here.
This morning, that all came crashing down. The company who had offered me the job reneged on the offer, deciding that maybe they weren’t prepared to wait that length of time for me to get my permits etc in order after all. Needless to say, I’m pretty gutted. Living and working in Spain, and Barcelona of all places, was something I’d been able to easily picture myself doing for a number of years. There’s little to no chance of anything coming through for me now. Whilst I’m still waiting to hear about a few different jobs, I think given my experience to date, Satan will be complaining about the chill in the air before I get any correspondence from them.
I guess it’s never wise to start cheering until there’s ink on paper, and some of that ink is a signature from your future boss. The good thing about these guys, is that they had the spine to actually tell me the situation had changed—the ones I’ve applied for so far in Madrid (with the exception of one) don’t even bother doing that. Rude bastards.
Anyway, suffice to say today has been something of a let down, which is making it difficult to fully appreciate the wonders of the Muslim south.
It’s too late now to try and do something to change my situation. I can’t return to Madrid and start cold-calling places as I search for work (not that this would produce a result either, mind you), nor is it worth trying to dress up my site a little more, or perhaps push to get it finished off. With only three days to my departure, there’s nothing more I can do but go through the motions of leaving.
I try to force myself through the routines of each day in the hope they will distract me from the looming departure, but it only works sometimes. Every once in a while the knowledge I’ll return home in a few days gets quite depressing—I’m just not ready to go back.
Three months had seemed to be plenty of time when I came here, but now I’m wishing there was more.