Can you believe exactly one year ago I was dreaming about this out loud: moving to Spain, speaking Spanish, eating tapas, drinking café bombón and dancing all the time. Hola! I’m here! Valencia, the city I lived and studied in twelve years ago. Home, again. I knew it then and I know it still: this is my vibe. The culture, language, people, food, music, lifestyle. You name it, I come home to it. I wear it like a glitter dress fitting me like a glove, baby.
What excites me even more: travel Joke is back! I consist of (at least) two different Jokes: homegirl who loves to stay in her cosy crab shell of a comfort zone and the adventurous traveler, who runs away from anything that smells even slightly of routine. This is the Joke who quits her job after one day, because she knows there are better things out there. The one who goes out by herself, because she feels like dressing up and dancing at a flower power party. And there’s a whole new city out there, filled with potential new friends.
It’s been good. It’s all been worth it. Changing my flight for this job, getting a cold on the plane, non stop sneezing for days. Going to work after a night of near to no sleep, knowing 22.2.22 would have something in store. It sure did! Not in the shape of a dreamy new work place (quite the opposite), but as a sweet new friend who loves dancing as much as I do. And of course, the start of a fresh life chapter.
It’s been five days now since I sneezed my way from the airport to my new home, arriving late at night (or late afternoon, for the Spanish), unpacking while sipping on rosé and pinching myself: is this real? After one day of setting my alarm I’ve given up and am riding the Spanish time wave. Lunch at 4, dinner at 10, party at 1. I even went back to a club I used to go to all the time during my Erasmus here. All mini-mes, dancing wildly to reggaeton. And me as the club mom, dancing even harder.
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