I was once a Journalist in Spain.
The day after finishing college, I had zero plans for my life. So I moved to Madrid.
After bumming around for a month, and nearly out of money, I phoned a business school who happened to be partnered with a business magazine on the hunt for an American Correspondent.
A few days later, the publisher offered a not-so-lucrative contract to report at press conferences hosted by British companies, along with writing about Spanish businesses operating in the US. I even helped craft reviews about books I never read.
Despite barely being able to pay my rent, I got the opportunity to train under some of the most patient, compassionate professionals I had ever met. They taught me everything they knew about journalism. They bought me drinks and coached me on talking to Spanish women. The only thing they demanded in return was to abandon all fear of putting myself out there in my job and unsuccessful dating life, and to teach them all the bad words I knew in English.
You can see some of my published work below.
I was once assigned to interview a Basque separatist leader
One of my assignments involved going to País Vasco to interview the CEO of Columbia Sportswear. My editor also had the crazy idea to have me interview one of the local leaders of ETA–the Basque separatist movement that often bombed trains to further their cause for an independent Basque state. Apparently they have no beef with Americans.
In the end, they couldn’t reach him. Lucky for me, it was San Fermin and Pamplona was a somewhat short bus ride away. So I decided to strap on some white garb and red bandanas to run with toros.
Looking back, I would have much rather taken my chances with a local separatist leader than a stampede of angry bulls.
*For the record: I am ignorant to the conflict between ETA and the Spanish government, and have no opinions to share about either.
I was once jumped by a
Madrileño gang
One time I was out late with some friends playing fútbol with a cardboard box on an empty street. I made a quick turn to “score a goal” and bumped into what I thought was a defender.
Gloved hands wrapped around my head and neck. I felt the cool touch of metal on my throat. I looked around and saw all of my friends being held on the ground by dudes with knives. We were being mugged by a local gang.
The photo to the right shows the broken-nosed, chipped-tooth, concussed aftermath. What it doesn’t show is me tripping over my shoelaces and face-planting down a flight of tiled subway stairs while pursuing the thieves to get my stuff back.
Thankfully, I make better decisions today – I always triple-knot my laces.
