The rule for making a wish
After several weeks of baby steps forward, what could’ve been a major wish coming true, evaporated suddenly, revealing itself to be yet another illusion, and punishing me for failing to observe the only rule for making a wish.
I gave up on Spain back around Easter, realising at last there was absolutely no chance I could convince a potential employer to hire me from the other side of the world. I resigned myself to spending the next 6 months at least, working in a fairly dreary environment on a project that really challenges my belief in the value of my job. My attention was again turning to Latin America, and I was beginning to revisit the mountains of research I had been doing about the place before I suddenly diverted my attention to Spain about twelve months ago. I was beginning to dream of my travels “anywhere south of Mexico's northern border” once more, of Mayan, Aztec and Incan ruins, expansive forests, unusual wildlife, and vast wilderness.
Then, in typical Spanish style, I got an email from a Spanish company asking me to contact them to make an appointment for a job interview. The company sounded familiar but they were not one I had applied to since my return to Australia in December. After a bit of digging, I found they were one of the companies I had applied to about a year ago. I found it amusing they were only now contacting me for an interview, but decided to humour myself, if not them, and responded that I was now back in Australia, and required a work permit to work for them. They decided (surprisingly quickly) to not proceed with my application.
It piqued my interest again though, and once again I started browsing the jobs being offered on infojobs, and in a very short time, had once again started my hopeless routine of sending applications through. With the vast majority, it took only a few days for them to change to “descartado”, discarded. The text displayed in bold red for added emphasis. None of this surprised me though. I wasn’t expecting to get a nibble, let alone a bight.
Then, about a month ago, I got a positive response from a little agency down near Valencia. After a few discussions on Skype, things began to suddenly progress towards discussion of start dates, work permits, and salary expectations. It seemed fitting to be a candidate for a job near Valencia, as during the entire time in Spain, that was the only place where I truly unwound, because I was under the impression—false as it turned out—that I had secured a job and so was able to enjoy my time there.
I kept reminding myself I’d been down this road before, I’d so far not progressed any further than previous efforts and it could all fall down again. Yet, as each of those barriers failed to stymie progress and I suddenly found myself exploring new ground, a little voice in the back of my head was telling me that maybe this one was it.
I did my best not to mention it, to keep it under wraps this time as, on the occasions I was in Spain and given cause for hope, I had told everyone who would listen, and ended up with egg on my face and a sinking feeling in my stomach. This time, it felt different. It didn’t matter what obstacles came up, the prospective employer didn’t seem to be discouraged, and they kept pressing towards sponsoring me to go back to Spain to work for them.
Eventually, I couldn’t help myself, and I began to let a few people in on the secret. At first a few close colleagues, then family, then extended family and colleagues. I genuinely felt I had the job in the bag. At around the time I lost my self-discipline and started talking about the prospect freely again, and imagining myself there, the illusion evaporated like a mirage. My work permit was going to take a minimum of nine months, and that was Spanish bureaucracy at its most efficient and speedy. Too long for them to wait, given they could kinda meet their business needs from the local pool, even if they weren’t able to get “someone of my standard”.
So once again I found myself seated on the canvass. Alas, I had forgot the rule for making a wish. Don’t tell anyone, or it won’t come true.
This time I think I’ve learned the lesson for real. The temptation to apply for jobs in Spain is still there, but the compulsion to do so has waned. One day I’ll get back there, maybe even be able to work there. Next time, I’ll keep the wish a secret until it’s been borne out.