It’s always sad to say goodbye. Hell, it’s hard even when you’re on holiday in Ibiza or Santorini. You’re having so much fun, partying like an animal, learning the culture or simply having a delicious meal while looking out at the view from the restaurant’s window. Well, saying goodbye to a year here in Montreal is going to be tough, to the extent that I don’t want to say goodbye, but rather “See you soon”. I’ve made such good friends, met interesting people, grown as a woman, learned to deal with everything life throws at me… I even consider some of these friends my family, because, well, they are.
There have been countless times that I’ve considered transferring here. I know I’m happier here than back home. In this short period of time I’ve lived, loved and cried, and I know that going back is going to be hard. I also know that it will take me a while to get used to the changes that happened while I was away from home: I will be welcoming a new cousin into the family, coping with a family member that passed away, supporting my mother in her new job and taking care of my little sisters. One of the harder things about leaving is meeting so many interesting, caring and curious people so close to the day of my departure. It’s like having Nutella on the edge on your mouth: you taste it, you want more, but you can’t have it because you are leaving. I just hope I get to see them again, soon.
While transferring here would be great, and I’m dying to do it, deep down I know that I shouldn’t. My gut tells me I have to go back, I have to face my true reality. You see, an exchange is like a dream, you have fun, you enjoy yourself, you evade whatever is going on back home… but like any dream, you eventually wake up, wishing the dream was just a little bit longer. I can’t explain it so everyone understands, but the bottom line is: I have to go back. It’s not something I want, as I would much rather live here, but I know that the right choice is to get on that plane.
They say that sometimes the right decision is often the hard one. Don’t get me wrong, I love my country. Out of all the countries I’ve lived in, Spain is still my first pick (Canada is #2, chill). Nonetheless, I belong to the generation of kids that were constantly on the move, that never had a place called “home.” I consider myself Spanish; I speak their language, I read their books, I understand them, but I’m not like them. Ironically enough, I’m more like the stereotypical idea of a Spanish girl than to an actual one. Maybe this is due to being educated in international schools around the world, where the only thing you had to hold on to from your culture was what others thought of it.
I love my country and my city. A “caña” (beer) or “clara” (beer with lemon Fanta or sprinkled water) in a terrace in the Plaza Mayor, the Chinese and Moroccan rooms in the Royal Palace, the Hawaian bar in Plaza Santa Ana, the numerous bars in Huertas street, the Opera house standing tall and proud, the busy Gran Vía with it’s stores and boutiques, the delicious restaurants in the gay neighbourhood of Chueca. It’ll be nice to go back and see my three favorite places in Madrid: Retiro Park, Sol Square and Cuesta San Vicente. They have so much history and life, such beautiful views and amazing atmospheres. I’m excited to go back to the place where I can feel the warmth of the sun on my skin, the buzzing of people , walking from one place to the next, smiling, talking, being loud, or simply moving along.
On the other side of the spectrum, there’s Montreal. A city that never stops even when winter wants it to. Struggling going up to the top of Mont Royal, realising how out of shape you are, but at the same time being glad you forced yourself to do so once you’re up there looking down at the city. Crossing the Y intersection, with people brightening up your day, whether it’s with a “free hugs” poster, samosas (didn’t know what they were until I moved here) or dancing like crazy to music from their iPods. I’m going to miss the baristas at Second Cup on Milton, who where there to brighten up my day whenever I needed Chaï Tea. I’m going to miss playing in the snow, the squirrels on campus, McKibbins’ Irish whiskey, 6th floor McLennan, and even the long lines at Tim Hortons.
I’m also going to miss Old Port, eating fatty beaver tails and just looking out into the distance, even when it’s cold. Mile End, with it’s restaurants and nice cafes. The vast parks in Westmount and the cute apartments in the Plateau, the ones with the spiral staircases. The “Bonjour, Hi” welcome you hear the moment you walk into any store, cafe or business, which is sadly endangered. Going down a flight of stairs to find yourself in one of the largest underground city in the world (and getting lost in it). Brunch at Eggspectations, where they serve you your money’s worth. Crossing glances with the cute guy while trying to study; trying to find a book, and struggling so much you wonder if you are dyslexic.
I’m going to miss this wonderful city and the people that live here. Nevertheless, I have to go back. Not that I will last long there, as I’m not the sort of person to stay in one place for a long period of time, but I still have to catch that plane. It hurts me inside, but I’ll come to visit, or at least I’ll try. In any case, I’ve already made future plans with certain people here, so if I don’t see them again in Montreal, I’ll see them in another part of the world. The craziness will still go on.
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