The Small Town Effect

I live in a small farming village. Out of 10,000 people I am one of 6 asians, and the only Filipina. Right now I'll put a disclaimer that 97% of the people in this town are good. They work hard and are polite. I've gained a lot of friends in this town. My neighbors treat me like family and bring me to family gatherings. I love living here, and it has been one of the best experiences in my life. In fact, I begged the junta to let me stay here one more year, and they rejected me - twice.

On the other hand, I feel like it's only proper to talk about the other side of the coin, especially for English teachers coming here. Not to scare anyone, only to be mentally prepared for the inevitable. I'm lucky because I haven't been persecuted much. But it has happened.

If you're black or asian, speak English, and are unused to lots of staring, you'd better have a thick skin to live in a small town. Xenophobia rears its ugly head once in a while. What one has to understand is many people in my town can't travel often outside of Spain. They don't have money, or their work or school schedule doesn't allow much of it. With the new generation, a number of them have traveled, and some have developed a ravenous need to see more of the world.

I've been lucky in that the worst incidents have only been verbal harassment by stupid teenagers, including them yelling “China!” or “Konichiwa!”, or a few store owners having no patience for a Canadian struggling to understand their way-too-rapid Spanish.

With speaking English, some of the reactions I get from the locals are funny. Most are quite happy to hear me speak it, but some react with giggles or stares. It's usually their discomfort and not a fault of mine, although I end up feeling uncomfortable, too. I find my native tongue is a great weapon, though. I remember two particular incidents where the harassment was really annoying, and I unleashed a flurry of English swearing, which dumbfounded them.

I think traveling and going out alone have taught me how to handle myself when harassment happens.

 

If I had to give advice, I'd say the first thing to do is to walk away if someone says something. During my first month or two in Villacarrillo, I'd hear the odd comment but would ignore it and continue on my merry way. As soon as word got out about my purpose in living there, it basically stopped. Once you surpass the hard times, the only people left around you are the good souls.

Que bicho raro – dating in rural Spain

In the darkness of 3 a.m., I felt something scurrying along my arm. In a half-daze I grabbed at it, only to feel sharp cuts across my palm. I jumped out of bed, turned on the light, and found a cockroach with huge razor-antlers scurrying across the sheets. After annihilating it with my slipper, I stared at it, my heart beating rapidly. First I was shocked, then I felt bummed out. This disgusting insect had seen more action in my bed than any man in the past year – which is a strange thought to have when a large insect is lying dead in the middle of your bedroom. Somehow, though, this very strange occurrence had become metaphoric. Probably because dating in Spain – or lackthereof, in my case, has been coming up in conversation lately.

While on vacation with 6 women, all hovering around 40, they were shocked to find out I hadn't had any for a year. Not that they had found the best solutions either. One was in love with a married man, who was spewing the typical line, “I'm trying to work things out with my wife” yet meanwhile coming over for a weekly humpfest. Another found out that her husband has had a lover on the side for two years. Another was in a sexless relationship. Another was having no luck finding a man in a large city. Another was married with two kids, but meeting up with her lover during vacations – including during ours in Cádiz. Based on their reactions, they seemed to think that any sex (their solution) was better than waiting a year or more for a great guy and a great relationship (my hope).

It's not that I haven't tested the waters. I am extroverted, but when you want to flirt with someone who speaks another language, it's deflating to conjure up a simple line -“¿Como conociste a Carlos?” 'How do you know Carlos?' - only to be met with a look of confusion and a blunt “¿Qué?”

There have been a few whom I was interested in or who seemed interested in me. But they were either too young (Hovering around 20? Step aside, son.) or taken; what makes a guy with a girlfriend or wife think I'm going to mess with that?

A few locals have explained it to me as such: men don't ask women out formally for a date. Rather, it's a friendly, “Want to grab a coffee / drink sometime?” However, I respond with an enthusiastic yes, and then.....nothing. My friends tell me that I have to remind the guy: “How about that coffee?” Which I do. (I have to say, having to remind a guy about our get-together takes the romance out – why did they forget in the first place?) With one guy, we had drinks a couple of times together, but afterwards ...nothing.

It's frustrating. In Canada, my girlfriends attempted to teach me the “rules” of dating: don't ask a guy out, wait for him to ask you, make sure he pays, use dating sites, blah blah blah. Now that I'm in Spain, I have to learn ANOTHER set of rules? I'm in my mid-thirties; do I really have to go through that all over again? My secret dream is to be able to put on a great dress, waltz into a room, bat my eyelashes a few times and have a swarm of men hand over their number. BUT THAT'S NOT GONNA HAPPEN.

I want to give up, to bury my head in the sand. In a land where wild passion abounds, where people freely curse and express their love outwardly, I feel like casting mine to the side. As I stare at the squished cockroach, my overdramatic self can't help but wonder if it's a symbol of my love life.