The Importance of Being Bad

What Moving to Spain Taught Me and My Ego

In the cab at Barcelona’s Plaza Ingles, the driver screamed. Behind us, cars blasted their horns, sped around the congested circle of the city’s center. I tried to repeat the address of my destination, voice quivering, but my mouth couldn’t stretch around the soft curves of Catalan. The driver flung his hands and motioned get out. No, I said. Tears fell, hot, fast, embarrassing. Please, I begged in panicked English. 

Photo by Isaac Quesada on Unsplash

What had I done? Given up a good life, my life—a rent-controlled apartment one block from the beach, closer-than-family friends, my first position teaching high school English, its decent salary—to move to a foreign country where I had no job or support. Even the language was a stranger in my mouth. 

As the cab driver kept yelling, I reached into my pocket and pulled out my crumbled, sweaty boarding pass. With shaky hands, I wrote the address of where I needed to go. 

As the car sped off, my new city blurred outside the window. The thought c…