6. 'Skin and Bones' (Part III): Between Texas and Indiana, a Journey Through La Mancha

I had just been relocated from the South in Texas to the mid-eastern states, what they call the mid-east. And so, the Indiana advisory office, which also handles the states of Michigan, Kentucky and Ohio, got in touch to offer me new interviews. I accepted, and by May 3 I already had the representative of the Indiana Department of Education on my screen, along with the visa officer. The questions were quick and easy to answer. The funny part was that I joined fifteen minutes late — fifteen minutes late to a job interview! I was red as a strawberry, my shirt in disarray and my jacket flung on the couch. I was already sure they would kick me out of the program, but far from it: they were running short on teachers and that was not the plan. It turned out I had a connection problem with the link they had sent me. At that moment the famous ‘Houston, we have a problem‘ flashed through my head like lightning. Luckily, Houston went by the name of Pere, a colleague from the Telegram group whom I messaged and who rushed to my rescue, offering me a shortcut through a backup link that turned out to be my salvation. I came out of the meeting with very good feelings, though I didn't trust them one bit — I had felt the same about Austin, and look what happened: I nearly wasted away to skin and bones from the heartbreak.

I was red as a strawberry, my shirt in disarray and my jacket flung on the couch.

Three days later the Indiana advisor was congratulating me on having been selected in that interview of just fifteen minutes. A double win, I thought. So now I was going into the ‘reserve’, like the military, which meant that from that moment on I was at the disposal of the districts that had requested teachers matching my profile. One of them would ultimately set the coordinates of my destination — whichever one I chose.

That was precisely one of the advantages this new advisory office had over the Texas one: if the school or the district making us the offer didn't win us over, we could turn it down, as long as we hadn't already gone through with the interview. If you accepted it and then turned down the position, you would automatically be nominated to leave the house of this big brother show, which might as well have been called ‘SuperPPVVientes‘ or ‘PPVVip‘.

you would automatically be nominated to leave the house of this big brother show, which might as well have been called ‘SuperPPVVientes‘ or ‘PPVVip‘.

So I started studying the geography of these states a bit: plenty of green, mighty rivers and even vast lakes. Preference-wise, I first took an interest in the city of Indianapolis in Indiana; but then I discovered, diving around the web, that Cincinnati, in the state of Ohio, was far more recommendable from a musical and cultural standpoint. I found out it ranked number 50 on a list of the best American cities, which, for a country with exactly fifty states, wasn't bad at all: you had to say it was the best city in Ohio. Likewise, the value for money of both groceries and rentals wasn't too steep, it was fairly safe, had good healthcare and enjoyed a climate that actually followed the seasons. From that moment on, ‘Cincy’ became my new Austin. 

you had to say it was the best city in its Ohio.

Between May 8 and 9, emails and calls started raining down on me for interviews from different districts in Indiana: Vincennes, Versailles; and even in Kentucky: Hodgenville. But all of them were far from any metropolis and pretty close to what you could consider a small village. It came to about three offers in just two days. They were ideal if you were after the bucolic, pastoral life of the countryside, but I needed a more urban destination; after all, I was coming from an island and wanted a change. However, after those two days of maximum excitement, everything suddenly came to a halt, and a little over a month went by without any further news from the United States.

As June reached its halfway point, I could see that the chances of a big city were so slim, and the time left to get everything ready so short, that I began to lose the excitement and the resolve with which I had held on until then. My eagerness to embark on the adventure suddenly collapsed and I went into a tailspin. I felt weary from how long and slow the whole process was, and frustrated by the destinations they kept proposing. The program's philosophy preached coming without many expectations, with a big open mind and without too many comparisons. Accepting whatever you were given, within certain standards, to be the ambassadors of our language and culture in a new world, where teaching Spanish would be the banner of our odyssey. And yes, it was all very lovely and sounded great, but at that stage of the process, after going through every bump in the road imaginable, I had developed a set of red lines I was no longer willing to cross.

The thing is, just when I had taken it for granted that it would be better to try my luck the following year, the bell rang: I got a message from Newport, a district in the north of the state of Kentucky that geographically belonged to Cincinnati (Ohio), since all you had to do was cross the three hundred meters of bridge over the river that separated the district from the big city. I accepted the video call with my future new principal and breezed through the thirty minutes. It was my seventh interview, and this time I recorded the conversation on my phone simply to analyze it and laugh at whatever slips and blunders I might have made — in an English, no less, whose grammar had once again stayed behind in the books. Such are the little tricks you weave for yourself as you learn to prepare for this kind of test. It was Tuesday, June 13, and against all superstition, it was the day I got the definitive ‘okay‘: the ‘green light’ that made the adventure official. 

I recorded the conversation on my phone simply to analyze it and laugh at whatever slips and blunders I might have made — in an English, no less, whose grammar had once again stayed behind in the books.

Everything in my head was wobbling again, everything was changing once more, and «it was time to eat my words». Where there had been plans to stay, now it was all a rush to leave: searching for flights, exchanging dollars, renting out the house, selling the car, packing up my belongings — which were not few — saying goodbye to family and friends, wrapping up the last of the paperwork... shall I go on? In short, I tried to leave everything as neatly tied up as possible so I could depart in peace and spare myself headaches and other heartaches. I don't think I've ever done so much in so little time.

Meanwhile, back in Spain, the school year was coming to an end and my much-needed vacation promised to shrink to just one month — a heart-stopping one at that. So if July was just peeking around the corner, August would find me already in the new country. But first came the trip to the embassy in Madrid to apply for the American visa: one of the key pieces of the puzzle.

You had to go there with a prior appointment, and although at first they usually scheduled it for quite late, if you kept insisting — calling or checking their website with more than mere persistence — you would end up finding a good date. Considering that the visa took about nine days to reach your home, and that by early August it had to be in 'Comanche territory,' it was wise to grab an early appointment. In my case I managed to move it up from July 27 to July 11, and days later from the 11th to July 5; but I had to leave Menorca a day earlier if I wanted to reach the embassy in time. It was a real jigsaw of appointments and departures and arrivals of planes, buses and trains, hard to fit together. Even so, everything fell into place — or we made it fall into place: I took off successfully on the 4th of July itself, to be back home the very next day.

It was a real jigsaw of appointments and departures and arrivals of planes, buses and trains, hard to fit together. Even so, everything fell into place — or we made it fall into place.

Miraculously, I managed to spend the night of that 4th of July at the home of my friend Plácido, a teacher from Granada who lived with his wife and son near Madrid, in a small hamlet of La Mancha called Miguel Esteban, between El Toboso and Alcázar de San Juan. I remember that day fondly, like a cool oasis in the middle of the desert of my odyssey. It was like a pause within the great whirlwind I was caught in. So as soon as I landed at Barajas Terminal 4, I caught a bus that took me to Atocha station, and from there a train to Alcázar de San Juan. It was about an hour and a half of travel, where the ochre, jungle-like landscape of cables, signal posts and rusted rails mingled with the fresh concrete of bridges under construction and train cars corroded by the loneliness of time. Before long we were entering the quiet vineyards of the imperturbable Manchegan countryside, where, far off in the distance, the timid shadow of a stray tree accompanied, in a shy and chimerical way, the silhouettes of an ingenious knight who, in the company of his squire, watched that train roll by.

where the ochre, jungle-like landscape of cables, signal posts and rusted rails mingled with the fresh concrete of bridges under construction and train cars corroded by the loneliness of time.

When I reached my destination, Plácido was waiting at the station, sheltered from a recalcitrant sun that melted even thought itself. He showed me the charms of his village with home, wine and lodging. In the pool we quenched our thirst, toasting with vermouth, laughter and other tales. And from that encounter I dedicated a few verses to him, with my most heartfelt gratitude: 

He took me to the lagoons of Los Charcones, 

heading toward the four windmills, 

which, sturdy and slender upon a hill, 

combed the air that renewed my breath.

Passing by the lagoons of El Charcón...

... toward the windmills of Miguel Esteban.

He showed me the charms of his village with home, wine and lodging. In the pool we quenched our thirst, toasting with vermouth, laughter and other tales.

– ‘Skin and Bones‘ (Part IV): Embassy and Farewell Party. Coming Saturday, December 16, 2023 (final chapter of this series).