And Then They Brand The Bulls

Maybe it’s been a little a bit of a lie, but I really hope it doesn’t seem that way. Everything has to be specified and qualified, but before setting forth on this god forsaken pity party, I need you to know - the ‘you’ quantified by an uncertain mass of 'you’s’ that is subjected to the quantity of knowledge that I am about to impart on 'you’. I need you to know that this is Spain, but this is not simply just Spain. In fact, this isn’t really Spain. This is only Madrid. Bearing in mind that it will soon be Portugal, because I am going to Portugal this weekend. What I mean to say, is that this is not simply an account of my time in Madrid. This is the account of an Au Pair in Madrid. An Au Pair in Las Rozas (pronounced Lath Rothass), in a beautiful Spanish accent which I am perfecting. 

The reason I am qualifying this bullshit information, note the phrase 'bullshit’, because that is in fact all I’ve seen in the past three days. Bullshit, so much bull shit. Because, as an au pair living with a family who are perhaps more traditional Spaniards than what you’d expect, I feel a certain obligation to go on family vacations when they come to me and say “would you like to come with us?”. Honestly? My first reaction is: no, no I do not fucking want to go with you. Is this wrong? I’ll leave that up to you to decide. The reason I react like this, is because I live with the most annoying people on Earth. Mila is like a triple A battery, just going going going like she’s stuck in her own socket. Completely deranged with the constant nagging of her children, like a dog tripping on it’s own chain. Julio (pronounced HULIO, gotta watch them Spanish J’s), is the exact opposite. The exact opposite, in fact, to the extent that he can allow his 4 year old daughter to scream at him for at least 8 minutes before even reprehending her at all. Far be it for me to start of a beautiful Spanish story with the worst part of the weekend, and granted children get worse at night, but honestly - it was at this point that I went to the bathroom and cried. 


We left on Friday after the kids got out of school. The drive, was longer than I expected. Much longer. Four hours, in fact. When we got there, I collapsed on the first object they pointed at and said was mine. Some kind of rustic hotel in the middle of buttfuck Spain. While laying in bed, of course comes Mila’s annoying voice - which says “Emma, you know we have to get up very early in the morning. At around quarter past seven." 

"Umm… okay." 


Moving on. I wake up and we have breakfast. I dunno, it was pretty good. I like olive oil just as much as the next person. Another thing about Europeans, you just aren’t given enough emotional space to hate them. You want to hate the situation, you want to bitch and moan and complain but then they just offer you bread with olive oil and tomato and sea salt and you’re just like… *sigh*… fucking europeans, and you suck it up and drink your coffee. 

And then, we proceed to drive to the buttfuck, of buttfuck nowhere Spain. Up a giant winding, dusty rode that starts going onto a cliff and you start seeing bulls everywhere and old crumbling farm houses from God knows when. This isn’t the kind of heritage you find on the East Coast of Canada, unfortunately. This is legitimate heritage that you have to find a place in your heart to respect. 

Oh and I found that place in my heart, after the 16th person I kissed. On both sides of the face, obviously, as is custom here. And I sure did watch those bulls being branded, like a champion I watched them. And I saw some horses, and I saw some chickens, and I saw a hog, and I stepped in shit probably. Damn, I love farm life. We went on off roadin’ adventures in the countryside to spot deer, which I thought weren’t interesting - but it turns out, it is sort of magical to see a herd of deer just chilling in Spain. 

Another plus about this experience was the fact that I had my first Spanish conversation with someone. Who doubted me. WHO DOUBTED ME!? Yeah, it wasn’t much of a conversation. But just the exercise of having it, of toiling through my vocabulary and grammatical failure - it was so exciting. I felt like my brain just punched through some alien wall that it’s been grinding away at. Of course, the hole is very small and I’ll have to keep punching away.. for the rest of my life no doubt. But, however juvenile it may seem, the thought of learning a new language actually has me salivating. 

Imagine Loki conquering Asgard after his staged death. This was it, the moment where everyone would behold his greatness. It was too easy getting rid of his brother and snatching the throne from his father. Soon Loki acquired all the realms, fashioning himself as king and reclaiming what he knew to be his. But, was it really too easy? Soon Loki acquired the taste for something more challenging. Start Ragnarok. He aligned himself with the strongest men in  existence, Doctor Doom and Thanos in his attempt to start the war. Loki also successfully persuaded his children, Jormungardr, Hela and Fenrir to help him.  Everything was almost ready. He had successfully assembled his team, and distracted the heroes into fighting one another. But something was missing. You, the embodiment of Ragnarok, was missing. Well at least for now.

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