I am living in Spain. I do not speak Spanish.
Why am I living in Spain? Facebook, obviously.
As my graduation from college (university to you Europeans) loomed, I kept being asked the same question; now what? The prospect of looking for a “grown-up” job in this tumbling economy made me exhausted, and I hadn’t even filled out one application.So I did what anyone self respecting Generation Y-er would do: I went online. More specifically, I went on Facebook.
There I saw pictures of a vague acquaintance; sitting on a beach, in front of a cathedral, eating gelato on a scooter with a cute boy holding a puppy—ok, maybe not that one. What was she doing in Europe? Was she an ambassador? Dating a prince? Fabulously wealthy? Then I saw the answer. The next picture- her on a beach, all smiles, hugging three bright-eyed impossibly adorable children. The caption “my little kiddies”. Bingo. Light-bulb moment. She was an Aupair. Then, a brighter light-bulb flashed; if she could do it, why not me? I made up my mind there then. I would escape to the promised land by doing what I liked to do anyways, watch kids. I popped on over to my good friend Google and typed in “Aupair jobs”. Within the afternoon I had put my person up for hire to the highest bidder.
Now, mamma don’t raise no fools. I had seen The Nanny Diaries- or at least the first half an hour before realizing Scarlett Johannsen’s attempt at acting made me want to punch her in her rather ample ta-ta’s- and I knew the risks. The most frightening of which was being sold as an indentured servant to some overly manicured cougar who expected me to wax her car as well as her legs. Though in hindsight I should have been more worried about being a Russian sex-slave a-la Taken.
In the coming months each request for employment I received I cast a cloud of doubt as to the full-proofness of my full-proof plan. Six kids, twin baby boys in the middle of the Scottish farmland? You had to be kidding me, I mean I love kids but the thought of sheering sheep with a baby on each hip in no way sounded fabulous and European. Then, like a ray of beautiful Spanish light shining through a sheep sheering shit storm— there was Charo.
Single mom in the South of Spain looking for a fun-loving girl to help one 9 year-old boy with his English and act as his big sister.
Holy hell, I was going to Spain.
Santi, Me, and Charo. My little Spanish family.
Listening to: Sleigh Bells, Tell em’