Wow, that's the first time I've ever been fired.

Actually, I was "let go", part of the "restructuring" of the Spanish Centre, according to Javier, the director of the centre, who so obligingly explained the situation to me.

Unfortunately for me, I've only been working here for two months, and so am not even eligible to be given notice. Nope. Instead, a little after arriving and— immediately—being sent upstairs to collate textbooks in the closet for the second day in a row, my manager Victoria gave a soft little knock on the door and informed me that today was my last day. "uh, you know. As you can see we're not very busy. uh, you're going to Spain, and uh, so we'll no longer be needing you."

Right. And, uh, what the fuck am I supposed to do for the next five weeks? I am aware that employers are not obliged to give notice to employees who have been working for less than 3 months, however, two weeks notice would have been the least of common courtesy, and the very same I would have given them had I been given the chance. In fact, it was for precisely this reason that I hadn't officially notified them about my imminent departure to Spain: because I suspected I may be premeturely let go.

Still waiting to see if they'll pay me for Family Day, or if I'm the latest casualty of Dalton McGuinty's ill-fated statutory holiday.

gray days; lonely nights

I had intended to stay at home until the end of June or July working and saving some ‘start-up funds’ with which to move back to Spain. But I found myself in bed—so to speak—after another fruitful, but solitary, day reading and studying some Spanish, thinking: why am I here? I’m just working a ‘Joe’ job to throw some cash together, so it’s definitely not for my career. Especially since the dickheads over at the Spanish centre recently cut my Friday shift, so unless it keeps snowing like it has, and aside from the few days a month that I organize John’s billing, I’m now working only two evenings a week: hardly a lucrative situation, even if I’m not paying rent. I don’t go out much and only rarely get together with friends. The weather sucks. Shoveling snow is terrible, back-breaking work—it’s only fun when a) you don’t have to drive the truck and can get drunk in the passenger seat and b) there are fewer than 10cm of snow (then you can just push it out of the way). Last but not least: Amanda’s in Las Palmas, not here: so what the hell am I doing? This is stupid.

So, I bought a plane ticket to the Canaries for April 5. Screw putting my life on hold, even if it is only for a few months. Because that’s what I feel like I’m doing. Sure, there have been some concrete advantages to returning home, but I think I’ve exhausted those and it’s time to get the show on the road.

Amanda and I have talked about it a bit, and I think we’ve both come to the conclusion that we might of ‘shit it’ in terms of our planning this year. We really didn’t accomplish quite as much as we’d thought by uprooting ourselves from Valencia and going off traveling without a specific timeframe or any concrete plan to go back to afterwards, so that, I’ve found myself back in Toronto thinking, gee, I could have gone to Cuba in August and traveled in Canada in September, and have returned to Valencia by October and been teaching for the last five months. Hindsight is, as they say, 20/20.

On the plus side, I’ve gotten some things done during my time at home, like get my eyes checked (nearly 20/20) as well as a new prescription so I can put those new glasses on my dad’s insurance before they finally figure out I’m not twelve years old. I've gone to the dentist, got new orthotics (you don’t know how excited I am about this: tendonitis sucks, ill-fitting and ugly orthopedic shoes may be worse), I’ve re-read the first four books of George R.R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire, and plowed through a pile of others, I think I’m back in shape again: shoveling snow and playing hockey four times a week will do that for you, and I’ve found myself mentally prepared to get on with it. Also, if it takes a few months and a few wasted trips to figure out: “oh, I may have had a good thing going there,” it may just be worth it.

I was at Niall’s place last night. In a bit of a similar situation himself, having squandered/invested his time and money moving back and forth between Toronto, Spain, and Vancouver, he finds himself back in the city in a (really nice) new apartment and determined to get a bit of stability and continuity back into his life. Moving around can be disruptive, we agreed. It costs a lot. You don’t put down roots in the same way you would if you'd just stayed in one place. It can be difficult to feel fully invested in the place and the moment your in, knowing you're about to move across the country or to a different continent. There’s also the continual pressure of starting-out: making new friends and reviving old contacts; figuring-out where to buy your meat, your cheese and your Sunday breakfast; buying a new toaster, finding a suitable couch, that starts to wear you down.

So, off I go again to Spain, and I’m going for at least a few years. Amanda and I have agreed to think things through a little better in the future (although I don’t think we’ve done too badly, really!). Our next big decision will be: do we stay in the Canaries or move back to Valencia in September? Amanda’s got a job at a shipping agency and has a contract until June, so I’m going to see how it goes finding work in Las Palmas during the next three months. We’ll see how it compares with living together in Valencia and take it from there. For my part, I’m tempted to return to Valencia because I really liked my job at Casa Americana, it’s on the mainland, we’d already somewhat established ourselves there, have some friends, know some good restaurants…on the other hand, Grand Canary is really nice and Amanda’s friends are there—though I’m not sure if she’s sure that that’s a good thing. One thing I’m sure of though, I’m spending my first week there at the beach!