I slept two hours and called it eight. The hostel finally went quiet at four, which is when the bin lorry arrived and sang outside my window like a wounded robot. I got up early anyway because today was the placement test at the school I keep pretending I’ve already started. My phone said 08:12. My head said no.
The walk there was that Barcelona morning that looks cooler than it is. Street washers, shopkeepers dragging shutters, a teenager on a scooter eating a napolitana the size of his forearm. I rehearsed answers in my head—¿Cómo te llamas? ¿De dónde eres?—and then ran out of script. I don’t know why I still get embarrassed about speaking. Everyone else is busy living.
Lucía was on the desk again. Same ponytail, same expression that can do kind and unimpressed at the same time.
“Placement today?” she said.
“Apparently,” I said, because my mouth is an idiot.
She slid a form over without looking like this was a movie. “It’s not an exam,” she said. “We just want to put you in a class you won’t hate.”
Small room. Twelve chairs. One wall of verbs and an aircon that sounded hopeful. A guy from Poland, two French friends who whispered in turbo mode and then swore to speak only Spanish, a woman from Brazil who smiled at everyone like she’d already forgiven us. I sat at the back because I am still fourteen inside.
The test had the usual traps, but it didn’t try to be clever. Ser and estar played ping-pong with my confidence. I nailed the family vocab and then forgot the past tense for “we went” like I’d never gone anywhere. A teacher with the hair of a marathon runner called my name and asked me questions that felt like small talk in a lift: work, how long I’ll stay, why Spanish. I told her the truth in the smallest words I own: I want to live here without feeling like a tourist who apologises for himself. I didn’t say: I’m trying to stop my head from eating itself. She circled “B1 maybe” on the paper and told me I start Monday. I nodded like I have Mondays in my pocket.
Outside I messaged my girlfriend in Australia—ex? not officially? a ghost with read receipts—and wrote placement done, class Monday, all fine. She sent a koala and a heart and nothing else. I put the phone away because sometimes I am capable of self-preservation.
The sea from the bridge looked pretend. Flat, shiny, the kind of blue that makes you say words like “Mediterranean” in a bad accent. The forecast promised ankle-high lines if you were very small or spiritually advanced. I’m neither. I went anyway because sitting still is a sport I’m losing.
Boards at the rental were stacked like biscuits. I asked for something floaty and got handed a nine-foot soft top that weighed as much as my regret. I told myself it was training. Paddle on a door, find a line, don’t overthink it. A guy with a neck tattoo waxed a fish next to me and said, “It’s better at Castelldefels sometimes.” He said it like a warning and a dare.
Water was warm enough to be smug. I paddled out past the part-time swimmers and the couple making TikToks at knee depth. Tiny bumps slid through like someone breathing under a sheet. I caught the first one out of stubbornness and stood for two seconds, which is still standing. I told my brain it was practice and my brain told me to shut up and paddle.
Second little lump I stayed low and remembered to look where I wanted to go instead of at my feet. It worked because physics is kind to idiots. I trimmed, if you can call it that, and then the wave died and I did too, gently, into the warm, and came up laughing in a way that felt borrowed from someone happier. A dad on the beach clapped once like I was an unusual dog.
Between lumps I did the drill my mate in Portugal showed me: strokes smooth, hands in, don’t slap the water like it owes you money. Ten of those, rest, ten more. If the set arrived, I turned; if it didn’t, I called it cardio. A woman on a tiny longboard glided past like a person who didn’t own a phone. She said hola without irony. I said it back and didn’t sound like a question.
I should say something wise about learning languages and surfing at the same time. There’s a metaphor living in there somewhere about balance and falling and how repetition makes your body smarter than your head. But really it was just this: I put the hours in and the water didn’t argue. My shoulders hurt the good way. My ankle behaved. The sea gave me four forgettable waves and a feeling that might be the opposite of panic.
Back at the hostel the kitchen smelled like burned toast and ambition. I made pasta because I am an unimaginative athlete and added tinned tuna because protein and shame. A German guy told me the fireworks last night were for a saint and then said, “Which one?” and shrugged in the same breath. I showed him the bruises from the time a banger went off under my ribs and he said, “Barcelona trains you,” which is either wisdom or an apology.
In the afternoon I tried to study in the common room and lasted eleven minutes. I memorised caro, barato, demasiado and then my brain went into snooze. I put on headphones and did pronunciation instead, just the silly stuff: r that buzzes, j that does the throat thing, the way ll is a choice nobody agrees on. Whoever said speak like a child and read like a lawyer is probably right. I sound like a child with a cough. It’s fine.
Lucía was on the late shift when I went past reception to the street. “So?” she said.
“B1,” I said. “Monday.”
“Congratulations,” she said, which felt like too big a word for the size of my day. I said thanks anyway. I thought about asking her where she learned her English, then didn’t, then turned back and asked. “Here,” she said, tapping the desk. “Talking to people who are too shy to talk.” I laughed because she’d found me out without trying.
Evening at the beach again, no board, just feet. The light went soft and the city took its shirt off and the sand stuck to everything. I did the stupid romance thing and made a note in my phone: learn the difference between “todavía” and “aún,” stop apologising, bring wax next time, Monday is not an enemy. Then I wrote: call Mum. Then I actually called.
If you want a moral, I don’t have one. I have a timetable, finally. I have a sore shoulder that means I moved. I have a level B1 that could be charity or accuracy and we’ll find out. I have four small waves nobody saw and a receptionist who said enhorabuena like a normal person. That’s enough.
Tomorrow I’ll try the dawn glass-off and probably get skunked. I’ll pack my verbs next to the wax and tell myself one hour in the water buys me one hour at the table, and then I will cheat and stay in the water. If the sea is sleeping, I’ll paddle anyway. If the class is too easy, I’ll raise my hand. If it’s too hard, I’ll keep my mouth open and let the words wash over until they stop sounding like weather.
Monday, then. Shoes by the door, notebook in the bag, tongue unglued. The ocean can’t help me with the subjunctive. The teacher can’t fix my pop-up. Both of them will try. I’ll show up and let them.