TEFLees in Spain

Anyway, so regardless of this unwarranted look-on-bright-side attitude, I was, if anything, bored. All I had for company now was a half empty pack of Marlboro Lights, a cell phone with no minutes, and a waning buzz. It was in this moment that another thought popped into my head: having the station to myself had started conjuring up scenes from Home Alone, and I wondered for a split second what type of shenanigans I could get up to in the three and a half hours until it reopened. This is my house – I have to protect it! But this epiphany passed as soon as it came, and it was quickly obvious that no matter how optimistic I wanted to be, there was really nothing fun or exciting about spending the night inside the metro.

Heart beating once again with nervous adrenaline, it occurred to me that if the gate shut on a timer, maybe the lights would turn off, too. There was no doubt in my mind - it was time to pull myself together and find my way to freedom. So, with all other plans exhausted and no alternate answers in the idea box, I started sprinting around the station in search of an emergency exit. This was, after all, an emergency. Luckily for me, it didn’t take more than a couple solid metro laps before happening upon a set of double doors with a green sign reading: salida de emergencia. And then, thanking the lord with silent gratitude that the Spanish had actually prepared for such a situation, I braced myself for the sounding alarm, and busted through.

Met once more with still silence, I took a deep breath, let the cool air of what appeared to be a mineshaft-type corridor freshen my senses, and followed the hallway to its end. Or rather, to its dead end, I should say. Keeping within the spirit of my exponentially growing misfortunes, this miracle exit - this oasis in my desert of an abandoned metro station - was punctuated with a perfectly normal set of stairs – running straight into the ceiling!

As I stood stroking my chin in awe of this architectural cluster-fuck, I couldn’t help but laugh. We’d always joked that there are no rules or reasoning in this country, and this seemed to be Spain’s jeering way of joking back. I couldn’t really help from feeling like Ed Norton in Fight Club - hitting bottom. His name is Robert Paulson. His name is Robert Paulson…

Anyway, when I finally snapped out of this daydream/nightmare, I came to find that while my mind was wandering, my body had been leaning on a lever – quite a large lever, conveniently enough – with another sign reading: Tirar para abrir la puerta. And without blinking, I was on that lever with all my weight, giggling with involuntary childish glee as I watched the ceiling creak open; a great yawning metal mouth in la plaza de lavapies.

Wasting little time in premature celebration, I waited until the crack was just wide enough to squeeze through, and, crouched on all fours, crawled out into the night like a countertop cockroach and punched the free air with a fistful of victorious triumph. A group of terrified Spaniards were lucky enough to witness this event as well, and while they stood staring in shock, I brushed myself off, let out a heavy sigh of relief, gave them a half-smile and shrug, and blurted out the only word appropriate enough to summarize my thoughts on this ordeal: “Joder!”

Well, I thought, with a wipe of the hands, my mouth suddenly watering for whiskey, now where’d that damn Frenchman run off to?