By Maddie Wharton
Deciding to live abroad was easy for me. I’ve been in love with Spain for as long as I can remember. For my eighth Halloween, I dressed up as a flamenco dancer and asked for tapas instead of treats. I got my first real taste of the life I’d dreamed of when I studied abroad in Sevilla five years ago. Those transformative six months sealed my fate; I knew I would return to live here one day. I spent the following years meticulously organizing my career and social moves to deliver me to this point. I was fully prepared to quit my job, pack my belongings, and bid farewell to my friends when the time came. It had always been part of the plan. I felt no uncertainty or regret as I boarded my one-way flight. I was lucky in this way. Moving is an overwhelming ordeal and moving overseas tends to be even more so. Coming to Spain was a difficult decision for a lot of my peers. Choosing to leave behind the life we’ve built to seek a great unknown, is a high-risk scenario with potential for even higher reward.
In our applications, we were asked to identify the aspect we imagined would be most challenging and then expand on how we planned to overcome it. I can say with absolute certainty, not one person wrote about Coronavirus, and yet, I’ll go out on a limb here, and say we’d all confidently classify it as our greatest challenge. But for a lot of us, this was an obstacle that couldn’t be overcome.
The chance to flee came suddenly, it was an opportunity to return home that no one had predicted. For weeks, the possibility lingered. It arrived, unannounced, on a Monday, disguised as a vacation. Slick and tempting, the school closures reinforced lack of work and cheap flights as reasons to leave. You might as well go. This sparked the first wave of evacuees. Most of the individuals in this group had full intentions of returning to Spain in the coming days. I wasn’t phased by the initial push to leave, the thought of getting some free time in Madrid was much more appealing than traveling for more than 14 hours to get home.
Completely content, I stayed put.
Then came the second wave. Not massive or thundering, but rather with a swift undertow, powerful nonetheless. The damage of this wave was invisible to the naked eye. This time, the uneasiness crept through the city under the cover of darkness, slowly taking shop and restaurant owners - residents discovering more unopened storefronts with each passing day. Posts from colleagues and friends regarding their abrupt departures seemed to trickle in one after the other. The city continued to empty, but just gradually enough that I thought maybe I was imagining it, that perhaps it was paranoia getting the best of me.
With the third wave, however, it was blatantly clear the blow we’d taken. This wave came as a tsunami, roaring through the otherwise still Friday morning. We awoke to an email from our teaching program that they were abandoning us. They could no longer support us and would be placing us in the hands of the Spanish government. Ridding themselves of responsibility, they parted with specific instructions to make no attempts in contacting them about this announcement. The panic that ensued was one I’ll never forget. Phones ringing off the hook, a frenzy of Facebook ads selling belongings, and a surge in flight prices to the United States kicked off the hysteria that engulfed the following 48 hours. It felt like every American in Madrid joined together in a tornado of utter delirium and whipped through the city, leaving a trail of abandoned apartments in its wake.
This was my first encounter with fear in the time of COVID-19. Seeing friends, who had confidently declared they would stay, disappear in a matter of hours shook my faith. Our numbers dwindled and it began to feel like those of us choosing to stay were making a mistake. This is your home now. I reminded myself. Is it though? The chance to flee inquired, revealing itself to me for the first time.
I eluded that chance over the subsequent days as the restrictions on the city grew tighter. By Sunday, everything was closed aside from grocery stores and pharmacies. Police patrolled the streets, issuing fines up to €30,000 for disobeying the regulations, while drones flew overhead broadcasting orders for citizens to return to their homes. In this depressing dystopia, I grew envious of all those returning to their dogs and spacious backyards. I tried unsuccessfully to gather my thoughts while I dedicated the majority of my energy to fighting off dread and temptation. I couldn’t get past three recurring thoughts that obstructed my rationale.
The first was a sense of entitlement. What a privilege it is to be able to afford to surrender one’s job, pay rent on an empty apartment, and purchase an inflated flight around the world at a moment’s notice. This was a luxury that made me wildly uncomfortable, and I wasn’t even sure it was available to me. As long as I’m getting paid, I’m staying. This became a sort of mantra between my roommate Isabella and me as we convinced our friends, each other, and ourselves we were making the right call. We also repeatedly pointed out that Spain is technically ahead of the United States in terms of the progression of this pandemic. We are already in the thick of it. Returning now would mean starting over again as far as social distancing and isolation go. Not to mention, the risk involved with navigating airports laced with potentially ill travelers. And then of course, there’s pride - such an exhausting and confounding feeling to experience in times like these. Am I just going to quit when the going gets tough? Who am I if I can’t stick this out? How could I expect to return next year as if I didn’t just surrender? I’m hyper-aware this shameful line of thinking doesn’t serve me, yet it remains. I berated myself out of entertaining any further discussion on the subject. Then came the final wave.
On Monday March 16th, the European Union announced it would be closing the Schengen Borders for at least 30 days. Three days later, the U.S. Department of State declared a Global Level 4 Health Advisory stating, “U.S. citizens who live in the United States should arrange for immediate return to the United States, unless they are prepared to remain abroad for an indefinite period.” This was the wave that took one of my roommates. It took all the people I met at my orientation back in September. It took the last of my friends. I hadn’t been entirely aware of just how few of us remained until the majority of that remainder disappeared.
At this point, it appears the choice has finally been made for me. I am prepared to remain abroad for an indefinite period. I’m fortunate to feel relieved by this result. I think about all the unwalked streets, untasted tapas, and unsaid goodbyes, and I know there’s no way I could have left. For me, the force of living out my lifelong dream is greater than the fear that draws me away from it. I am reminded of the opportunity for growth that sits in front of me - motivated by the vision of the person that will come out of this, the courageous and committed woman who stuck it out for her love of Spain.
But this decision is convoluted, ever-evolving, and unique to each individual. There is no right choice besides the one that feels best for you. In this unprecedented time all we can do is give ourselves grace as we attempt to maneuver the unknown. So to those who have left, we miss you, we understand, and we are glad you’re home safe. And to those of us who remain, may we find comfort in our choice to stay, strength in our small but mighty numbers, and peace in our pursuit of better days.
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