Part 3: Toledo & Beyond!

Made with Sora

So after a gruelling coach journey. Changing at both Paris and London. I arrived back in Liverpool.

Armed with a jarg tefl certificate, and no classroom experience

I now had to find a job. I applied to numerous places, and at this point, South Korea was still very much an option. Although the desire to work there and be away from potentially the best thing that ever happened to me was dwindling with every message and phone call.

So, my search became narrowed down to places not too far away from France. I interviewed online with a few schools, and I was very close to going to Bulgaria. So much so that I taught myself the Cyrillic alphabet with the help of a phone app in just an afternoon.

It wasn't too far away and the money was pretty pitiful. The city looked amazing on top of a hill: Plovdiv. I was all set to go when I received another offer from Spain, an academy in Toledo. The Principal of the school who interviewed me seemed down to earth, and I got a good vibe from her.

It was closer to France and the wages were better. It was a no-brainer.

I wasn't the only teacher starting that Summer. There were a few of the schools taking on in Toledo at that time, and so I was put in touch with a guy from Ireland. After a brief chat we agreed to move in together. Probably not the wisest thing to do, but rents aren't cheap, and so sharing appeared to be the best option.

There was definitely a clash of personalities, and he was in a different school. He didn't seem to enjoy it much either. I was finding it pretty stressful myself as it was a three-month trial before any offer of a permanent contract would be made.

So here I was in my first proper teaching job. Teaching children from seven years old and adults up to 80. Thankfully not in the same class. Some lessons went well. Some not so well.

I found handling teens the most difficult. As I'd find out on my flight home six months later, when I happened to sit next to another teacher on the plane, my rookie error was in trying to be their friend. I was advised to start off as a dictator. I actually think Hitler was referenced, but I feel his methods might be a little too harsh for a bunch of Spanish kids.

Outside of work, my social life was great. There was a very strong Irish contingent in Toledo, mostly working in the same school as my housemate. Although said housemate. Also Irish, was teetotal. I know! Probably why we didn't get on. After not too long, he left the school. I think, sacked. Possibly quit.

His replacement at the school replaced my flatmate too. Would you believe it, another Yorkshire lad? We got on great, despite his love of bouldering.

And he liked a pint. On the night of my 40th birthday, as I lay semi-conscious outside the Irish pub while some young Spanish kids took the piss, this lad stepped up and protected my honour. Basically offered them out and they shit it.

It wasn't all positive, though. He was from Yorkshire, so obviously a tight cunt. And I was a lazy cunt. After a night out, when he was prepared to walk back to the house I’d insist on a taxi. And he'd equally insist he wasn't paying, but would happily jump in. He did get his round in though, which is something.

As you probably guessed by now, my social life, like most Brits, revolves around alcohol.

At 14, I was getting adults to buy me bottles of cider from the offy. At 15 I got busted for selling cans of Skol Lager in school for 30p a can (I'm not sure whether that was school policy, or they were just punishing me for selling sheep piss). I was never a businessman. I'd robbed them from my dad's stash. He never drank beer, so he didn't miss it, so at least it was all profit. No overheads.

At 16, I was downing quarter bottles of vodka in less than 10 seconds. I think five seconds was my record; outside the offy near the Station Pub in Meols one Saturday night. This is not something I'm proud of, but it's how I grew up.

Maybe I would be proud if I'd had a Guinness Book of Records adjudicator with me to record that astonishing feat.

Anyway, we fast forward to the New Year period and my now officially designated partner joins me in Toledo for the holidays.

This was probably the first ignored red flag of the relationship. There was a couple of evenings on the run-up to New Year, where she didn't want to go out but insisted I did. And so I would. Just for one or two (in my head, that was one or two gallons. In hers, one or two cañas - essentially halves).

This came to a head on New Year's Eve when we went into the center of the old town for the festivities. They were selling small plastic cups of lager. Two euros each. I decided after the first one, and queueing for the privilege, that I wasn't going to be ripped off any longer. So I asked her to wait.

I walked a little down the hill and bought what I believe the Americans call two 40 oz bottles of beer. I put them in a plastic bag and returned to the missus. She was completely oblivious until I pulled out that first bottle, but the horror in her eyes when I did was palpable.

I guess until that point she'd not realised how much I drank. Or more to the point, quite how much I'd cut down since leaving in the UK.

I think that was one of only about two or three fights we had in the entire relationship. And by fight I mean a disapproving look, followed by a lecture of how drinking so much was bad for me.

When I said earlier about ignored red flags I meant for both of us in terms of being on the same page. Not that she was a bad person. Just a clash of cultures, generations and upbringings.

She’s Muslim. And at the time I was atheist. We’re talking about a girl whose favourite beverage was Coca-Cola, but had the willpower to only drink it about three times a year because she was aware of how bad it was for you.

A woman who when we did go out for a drink, would have at most half a glass of red wine, be rat-arsed and turn into the weirdest, most annoyingly affectionate person ever. Kinda like I was after drinking a pint of home-made 140 proof rum in the Fram on The Song of Norway when I was 20 years old with whatever other spirits anyone else in the room had decided to put in my glass. (Lots of references there you won’t get - and maybe that’s for another blog on another day).

After New Year, she went back to France to continue her Masters. And I was soon to learn that my 3 month trial at the academy wasn’t going to be extended. I was to be let go.

I must have had some savings, my rent sorted, and perhaps my last pay packet from the job as I didn’t immediately pack up and go home. I applied for a few schools in Toledo, but wasn’t having much luck. Then a friend gave my number to another school who were looking for a new Native English Teacher. The Principal called me. And called me. And called me. Eventually given my lack of opportunities in Toledo, I answered the call.

During the interview, somehow my French Teacher girlfriend was mentioned, which made the woman abnormally excited. She was looking to teach French in the school too, and this was the perfect opportunity.

If I could get my girlfriend to work for her, then she’d get exactly the same terms that I was on. She also claimed she had a friend in the townhall that could handle all the paperwork necessary.

I mentioned this to my girlfriend who seemed almost as excited as the Principal. Fast forward a few weeks and we’d shacked up in a lovely little flat 30 minutes drive from Toledo in a small village called Torrijos. Only a two-minute walk from the school.

Unfortunately my boss’s promise of coming through with the paperwork was premature. And one of us had to work under the table. The job was okay, but not having health insurance was a big worry for my girlfriend.

We decided to take matters into our own hands and go to the immigration office ourselves. They had one thing to say. “You have a French student visa, you shouldn’t even be here.” That’s as far as they took it thankfully.

So almost a year to the day we first got together, we decided to get married. I’d never wanted to get married. I still don’t. The concept of inviting the church and government into your relationship seems at best pointless. At worst the most unromantic thing you could ever wish to do. Fun-fact: The words for Handcuffs in Spanish is the same word they use for spouse.

At this point in time I could no longer imagine my life without this woman in it. And pre-Brexit the only way we could stay in the same country was to make our union legally binding.

It didn’t feel romantic. But it felt real.