It is September 2002. I am 23. I haven't been abroad for over 8 years and I've never flown alone. On the plane, I decide to disguard the red wine due to its stark similarity to vinegar, and observe the lightening flashes in the clouds as we fly through a French storm.
I arrive in Spain at Valencia airport. Everything goes smoothly and I walk out of the arrivals gate to see my mother. Or, at least, a very drunk version of my mother who is swaying slightly. I would later learn that she'd rather over done the sampling of some "Agua de Valencia". She had moved to Valencia 6 weeks before hand to enter the last third of her life in a culture that suited her far better than England. The sunshine, the way of life, generally being nocturnal. My brother began plans to buy a flat in Valencia for her to live in.
I had never been to Spain before. I was half expecting a hot desert, flamenco and perhaps a donkey, but was surprised to see they had cars, roads, and general civilization. I stayed with my mother (and we continued to sample the various cocktails and potions of the region) for a week. I almost died from over-consumption of homemade Sangria. On the Tuesday, I ventured (with about two words of Spanish) up to Barcelona (not realising that it was in a region called Catalunya and that Spanish was in fact the second language) and spent a day in the hot sunshine, stunned by the beauty of the city and the glorious September weather. Whilst sitting on a tour bus, my nose turning red and being effortlessly and tragically English, I made the decision to move to Spain one day.
I returned to London and continued to be a rather carefree young thing, now unable to drink anything remotely resembling red wine (due to the Sangria) and settling for Bucks Fizz, seeing my friends and attending rehearsals for the musical of the season (Sweeney Todd).
My mother came home for Christmas. She was about 2 stone thinner and looked terribly ill. We knew something was very wrong. Nevertheless my brother proceeded to buy the flat in Valencia, and she returned shortly after the new year. However, within a month we were told she had terminal lung cancer and a 5% chance of living beyond a year. The doctors gave her 6 months. As a family we spent the first weekend in February enjoying Valencia together, something she wouldn't be able to do once the chemotherapy began. She went twice more when there were breaks in her treatment, in June and September, but the 4 of us were never there together again. However, my family's link with Valencia was set, and is set, in stone.
My mother died on 9th February 2004. Six weeks later, on Mother's Day, we scattered her ashes in the Mediterranean Sea at Malvarrosa beach, Valencia, and looked to the future. Amidst everything there was to do, and feel, and survive, I never lost site of my decision to move to Spain.
It is October 10th 2006. The taxi has dropped me at the rather dodgy looking hostel near Las Ramblas in Barcelona. I have dumped my case in my room, and I am walking towards Port Vell. The sun is shining. My TEFL (Teaching English as a Foreign Language) course begins in 6 days in a Catalan town nearby. Once I qualify, I can teach English anywhere in the world (well, except war zones and countries that don't like women). Later that night, I lie in my bunk, eyes wide open, listening to the objectionable snoring of an old Argentinian woman who had been singing me folk songs all evening. The sheets are like cardboard. I think about my comfortable flat in London - the big bed, the cuddly duvet, my sofa, my privacy. And I smile. Because I'm free. And this is an adventure. The cuddly duvet can wait. "The danger of an adventure is worth a thousand days of ease and comfort" - Paulo Coelho
I qualified in late November and moved to Madrid on 3rd January 2007. I wanted to have this year or two years abroad, learning Spanish and seeing new things and having my freedom (with two pairs of trousers and a handful of tops) before launching into a career that requires all or nothing. I cannot act here. That will have to wait. But I can write. So I am. Two months later I can understand what people are saying. I have made several friends and my work continues to fascinate me. I'm planning to move to the south of Spain for the next academic year in an attempt to keep warm! Madrid is freezing. In 10 days time, I will be with my brother and sister in Valencia again, for the festival of "Las Fallas de San Jose" (19th March) and to remember my mother on Mother's Day.
My first student, Alberto. I tell him my name. Alison Winter. He says to me, "I call you Senorita Invierno".
I am Senorita Invierno.
For someone continually trying to escape winter, it seems ironic. No?
Malvarrosa, Valencia
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