I went to work, took the train home, cooked a quick meal, siesta-ed for hours, woke up, read a book aggressively, slept. Repeat. Between those mundane tasks I would crave for something I couldn’t afford.
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I don’t usually doubt myself, but when I do, it hits me hard.
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“Why would you come to Spain when you can't even speak our language?” asked my 11-year old student, in straight, aggressive español.
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Thanks to our dedication, hardwork, and sheer dumb luck, we found exactly what we were looking for: a 2-bedroom in the heart of Madrid.
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