It’s been a week since I landed in Madrid, so it’s probably high time I showed up to share my current state of affairs.
The Crossing was pretty smooth, as the spell I had been weaving for months had assured. I went through passport control in Portugal, a country not exactly famous for militar rigidity, and very luckily, the policeman who interviewed me with the kooky Iberian accent was having another problem with somebody from Southern Asia who had lots of irregularities. Like a red hot air balloon, I breezed through the halls of Lisbon’s airport and caught my connection flight to Spain, where no Customs whatsoever was waiting for me.
My el-cheapo PVC bag was torn, and I made a complaint at the Barajas arrivals lobby. Very efficiently, unlike anything else in Brazil, they replaced me with a polyester Samsonite. Shining red. Life’s good when you master The Secret.
Madrid is an extremely developped city, unlike anywhere I have physically been to, even Sao Paulo and Buenos Aires. The Metro reaches about everywhere, facilities are close at hand even in my working-class district, and once you go through all the paperwork, you have access to all social security services for free. I have rights to integral medical assistance, for instance, but alas not to a legal job. I’m dying to get the chance to study in Escuela Superior de Canto, a prestigious classical singing school renowned worldwide and also sponsoured by the Government. I’ll check it tonight. Let’s see.
Madrilean people certainly don’t make me feel like an alien. There is a feeling of cosmopolitanism, hospitality, and curiosity on me everywhere I go, but the most starkling characteristic of the natives is certainly that they feel so fucking good about themselves all the time. They have a lot to teach us across the Atlantic, I can tell. They care for their youth, their public venues, their neighbourhood, their common future and common features. And they despise worriness. I’ll be learning new character traits here, I’m sure.
Fortunately, I arrived here with a good man to look after my first days. Jose took a brief one-week holiday to stay with me, take me to places, get me registered for social security, introduce me to his friends, and buy stuff with me. The feeling of gratitude has obviously taken over me, and I don’t want to cut the lucky streak, so I’ll keep tuned to the waves that bring me so many blessings.
Now I need to look forward to the next stage of settling down—finding a job, even if illegal, getting involved with my career again, making my own friends. Because I certainly didn’t came here to be somebody else’s dependent housewife.
We still don’t have Internet in the flat, so I don’t have enough access to Tribe to know how you are doing, but I hope you are doing terrific, and keeping the vibes positive all the time!
I miss Sampa, and I miss all of you. I have never been so happy.
The Crossing was pretty smooth, as the spell I had been weaving for months had assured. I went through passport control in Portugal, a country not exactly famous for militar rigidity, and very luckily, the policeman who interviewed me with the kooky Iberian accent was having another problem with somebody from Southern Asia who had lots of irregularities. Like a red hot air balloon, I breezed through the halls of Lisbon’s airport and caught my connection flight to Spain, where no Customs whatsoever was waiting for me.
My el-cheapo PVC bag was torn, and I made a complaint at the Barajas arrivals lobby. Very efficiently, unlike anything else in Brazil, they replaced me with a polyester Samsonite. Shining red. Life’s good when you master The Secret.
Madrid is an extremely developped city, unlike anywhere I have physically been to, even Sao Paulo and Buenos Aires. The Metro reaches about everywhere, facilities are close at hand even in my working-class district, and once you go through all the paperwork, you have access to all social security services for free. I have rights to integral medical assistance, for instance, but alas not to a legal job. I’m dying to get the chance to study in Escuela Superior de Canto, a prestigious classical singing school renowned worldwide and also sponsoured by the Government. I’ll check it tonight. Let’s see.
Madrilean people certainly don’t make me feel like an alien. There is a feeling of cosmopolitanism, hospitality, and curiosity on me everywhere I go, but the most starkling characteristic of the natives is certainly that they feel so fucking good about themselves all the time. They have a lot to teach us across the Atlantic, I can tell. They care for their youth, their public venues, their neighbourhood, their common future and common features. And they despise worriness. I’ll be learning new character traits here, I’m sure.
Fortunately, I arrived here with a good man to look after my first days. Jose took a brief one-week holiday to stay with me, take me to places, get me registered for social security, introduce me to his friends, and buy stuff with me. The feeling of gratitude has obviously taken over me, and I don’t want to cut the lucky streak, so I’ll keep tuned to the waves that bring me so many blessings.
Now I need to look forward to the next stage of settling down—finding a job, even if illegal, getting involved with my career again, making my own friends. Because I certainly didn’t came here to be somebody else’s dependent housewife.
We still don’t have Internet in the flat, so I don’t have enough access to Tribe to know how you are doing, but I hope you are doing terrific, and keeping the vibes positive all the time!
I miss Sampa, and I miss all of you. I have never been so happy.
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