Desperately Unemployed

Twelve days are gone since I came back home for the first time in almost three years and things haven't changed much, not yet. Some say that two weeks of doing nothing are fine and I shouldn't complain too much, given that there are people who spend months, if not weeks, as job hunters without finding one.

However, I can't help feeling annoyed for being so helpless and, at times, useless. If you are looking for a demanding, or even picky, type of person when it comes to job seeking, here I am; available 24/7 and... for free!

Returning to the old lifestyle resulted shocking enough, but somehow I managed to survive the first critical week (a bit depressed though). Now I find myself in a second phase of adaptation; looking for means of survival.

Bangkok, similar to any other capitals, isn't the place where you (or me, in this case) can live happily ever after if there's no stability in your professional life. Everything costs you quite an amount of money. It seems that during my absence the inflation rate has increased considerably. Bangkok isn't a cheap place to enjoy like I thought it once was anymore.

I need LIFE. I need to do something and live my life the way the urban bourgeoisie does. I want to hang out with friends after work, drinking and gossiping about our bosses or whatever that might slip into our mind. There's so much I'm desperately wanting to do, about which I can keep on ranting to make a list of three-metre long to show the world how energetic and self-motivated I am.

All this digression might just be a result of me being jobless for too long, according to my standard, of course, or me being too worried about my future. Whatever it is, I know that I can't stay like this anymore.

Perhaps it's high time I went out (again!?) to find something to do, even if that means I'll have to kick somebody's arse to takeover his/her position. It's a world of survival anyway. ;-)

Te Dejo Madrid

Al final ha llegado el momento. La hora de despedida a todos mis mejores amigos. Aunque es muy problable que nos crucemos otra vez en algún punto de nuestro camino, la despedida nunca ha sido la cosa que se me da bien.

Simplemente quiero recordar a mis mejores amigos, a los que he tenido suerte de conocer y con los que he podido pasar buenos y malos momentos, que os quiero mucho y siempre me acordaré de vosotros.

Aunque, esta vez sí, me toca dejar Madrid para seguir adelante, pero me llevaré lo mejor que mi estancia me ha ofrecido, la amistad.

Mil besos,
Mod

Mirar Hacia Atrás

La primera memoria que tuve sobre España era la tierra rojiza y árida que se extendía infinitivamente hacia el horizonte. Estaba volando en algún punto entre Valencia y Madrid y me dije "¿Este es España? No parece Europa. No hay muchos árboles verdes. Mmmm, no es nada como esperaba".

Al aterrizar el avión, a través de la ventanilla, veía cómo los edificios de ladrillos naranja me daba la bienvenida y me dije "Hasta los edificios tiene el mismo color que la tierra. ¿Sobreviviré aquí?"

Las primeras comidas en el colegio Africa me daban miedo. No conocía a nadie, menos a un tailandés que estaba a punto de irse. No se me daba muy bien socializar con la gente. No me atrevía a saludar a otros becarios, también recién llegados.

La primera persona a la que me presenté en el comedor era Dixie, una filipina muy maja. Y con ella, iba conociendo a más gente, tanto interesante como no, hasta a todos los que habitaban el colegio.

En las primeras semanas, sentado en el escritorio, observaba el calendario anual que había dibujado en mi libreta pensando "¿Qué estaría haciendo en mayo 2005?", "¿En 2006 mi español alcanzaría al nivel que aspiro?", "¿Qué tipo de clases tendré en ese cuatrimestre?" y "¿En qué pensaría el último día de mi estancia en España?".

Las primeras clases me hacían sentir como si fuera otra vez un niño pequeño. Sentía el mismo miedo de lo que podría pasar en la clase, de las posibles preguntas que me harían los profesores, de los compañeros de clase que no me hacían caso. Me pregunté "¿Cómo seríamos nosotros cuando termináramos este curso?" y me contesté "Muy diferentes que ahora llegaríamos a ser. Siempre es así."

Al pasar el tiempo, conocía la ciudad cada vez mejor y me sentía cada vez más a gusto. Fue como si me hubiera aceptado con todo su corazón. No me di cuenta desde cuando me había enamorado de Madrid. No fue un flechazo, sino un amor que tardaba en llegar. Mejor así.

Dicen que el tiempo pasa volando y es verdad. Siempre aguardaba mi futuro regreso a mi tierra, mirando hacia adelante, hacia lo que sería de mí al pasar el tiempo, hacia lo que me esperaba y... de repente aquí estoy... mirando hacia atrás, con toda la nostalgía, que es feliz y triste a la vez.

The Day I Exploded

One of the notorious habits of the Spaniards that I can never live with is the lack of service mind and customer orientation. Prove? Just pop up in some souvenir shops, boutiques, banks, hospitals or restaurants and you'll discover the truth. You may get a 50-50 percent chance of being ignored. Some salespersons show an obvious sign of upset while being called for some assistance. Of course, they prefer standing at the counter chatting with their colleagues than attending us and getting a comission. For some family-run small business, should any problem arise, they won't give a damn. Buy it or leave it.

I have been tolerating this tragic truth for almost 3 full years until now, the day I blew a fuse in Banco Santander over a simple matter that didn't actually matter. The day before yesterday I popped off to the bank to close my account and was asked by a male staff to come back the next day since the bank needed 24 hours to have my money readily prepared. And so I did.

Yesterday at midday, I returned to the branch and a girl in charged told me the bank could only give me some large denomination notes, but the rest of my savings must be paid in 20-euro notes... Ok, I can live with that, never mind, it's money anyway...

So she closed my account and told me to get the money at the counter. When I approached, the nerdy-looking staff looked at the screen and reiterated that since I hadn't informed the bank 24 hours before closing the account, it was impossible for the bank to arrange for well-prepared notes... Me cago en la leche!

That marked the historic point where I, for the first time in 3 fucking years, exploded in anger because of an unexpectedly ineffective service.

After a barrage of criticism, I filled in a complaint form (for the first time in my life!) that was supposed to be sent to a governmental office resposible for the matter. The assistant manager tried to calm me down and finally got me several notes of larger value. At that I was satisfied.

While I was leaving the bank, I saw the branch manager, the assistant manager and the guy whom I talked to the day before in the meeting room. Of course, he had screwed up and must face the consequence. Well, at least my efforts wouldn't go in vain. I couldn't help but wondering how they work here in Spain? Why there's always some kind of miscommunication or, from time to time, no communication at all? I believe that the problem stems from an individual's bad habit that will eventually, without any proper training or correction, affect the working structure of an organization.

All in all, most companies/shops tend to offer their services they way they like, not the way the customers prefer. And that is ONE BIG OBSTACLE for them to gain the upper hand in the international market.