All was going well in Santander. The school was great, I had lovely students on the whole, my colleagues were friendly too. All in all times were happy and the days went by with few trials.

There was a bar/café some of my colleagues and I would go to after work sometimes. As we did split shifts, we would often get there at about 9.30 in the evening or so. I’m afraid I don’t remember the name of the place but it was pretty non-descript. During the colder spring days it would be frequented by older ladies wearing fur coats is my abiding memory.

I would often order freshly squeezed orange juice there and the barman would duly cut some oranges and squeeze them by hand. He would then pour the squeezings into a glass using a funnel to filter out the orange pulp. Now I am a lover of orange pulp in my juice and was slightly puzzled that visit after visit, I would see that lovely pulp chucked away, leaving smooth orange juice.

So one evening – anticipating the wastage – in my gradually improving Spanish I found the courage to ask if I could have the pulp with my orange juice. This seemingly rational, reasoned request was met by a torrent of Spanish and gestures at the kitchen. I didn’t really understand what he was saying but it seemed the gist was ‘No you can’t have the pulp with your juice.’ Being English, I declined to inquire further and stoically accepted the disappointment that was my smooth orange juice.

On getting back to my colleagues at our table I explained this, to my mind, slightly bizarre episode and asked the question, ‘Is there some kind of law against orange juice pulp in this country?’. The barman had been pointing at the kitchen so I figured it was some kind of Health & Safety initiative. Puzzled, we continued the evening.

A few days later I was sitting drinking coffee on a sunny day with my Spanish conversation exchange, Oscar. After a while I asked him in Spanish, ‘What’s up with the laws in this country? Why can’t you have the pulp with orange juice?’. At this point, Oscar burst out laughing.

‘What?’, I asked, ‘Why are you laughing?’.

‘You asked for an octopus with your juice’, Oscar giggled.

‘What do you mean? I asked if I could have the pulpo in the glass? What’s wrong with the waiter?’

‘Exactly! You meant pulpa!’

‘Whoopsie!’

So, Bei Bei, here I am. I've been here for a month and I have to say that I've been enjoying nearly every moment.  I've made friends with Eagle and Soar, a newlywed couple living with Eagle's parent in their two-bed flat and working on getting work visas to Canada. I've learned how to order food - other than my standard 'chao fan mian' (egg fried rice) that saw me through my first few days - and have even learned how to say, 'hen gao xin ren shi ni' (pleased to meet you). I've been enjoying my early morning jogs through the campus where I can watch the first year students march up and down and around the running track. I've started getting used to attracting large crowds in the food market (as I seem to be the only non-Asian around). The spicy food and humid summer temps don't seem to be cooling off any time in the near future, which is slightly worrying for a Minnesotan woman like me, but that's the least of my challenges here.

The Dean of the English Department met me yesterday afternoon to debrief me on my teaching assignment. It's simple. I will be teaching undergraduates and postgraduates English. I'll be teaching Reading and Writing to three postgraduate classes (with approximately 100 students per class) once a week. Every two weeks, they should be given a written assignment. Not a problem. I've also got three classes of undergraduates that meet once a week. There are only approximately 40 students in these classes. Easy peasy. I'll be teaching Spoken and Written English to these students. They should also be given a written assignment once every two weeks. Each class is 90 minutes long.With only 9 hours of a class a week, that means I should have plenty of time to mark all those student essays that will be piling up in my flat in no time...

The Dean kindly gave me a few things to get me started. I've been given two books - a writing reference book that looks like it was written about 40 years ago, and an ancient listening book that comes with 3 cassettes for the postgraduate class. I've also got class lists for the postgraduate classes (nothing for the undergraduates). The lists are written in Chinese characters so I can't even attempt to pronounce my students' names. I've also been given a box of white chalk to use on the blackboards.

Right, it's time for class. Wish me luck.

A cold, blustery, dark March afternoon in a new city, a new home for the foreseeable future. Quiet Saturday afternoon streets. First thing was to find a place to stay of course. Somehow all those doorbell buzzers giving a direct line to the cheap little hotels, or pensiones, nestled away in apartment blocks were quite intimidating. A rudimentary knowledge of the language meant that a little courage and language had to be found each time a buzzer was buzzed. Wandering empty streets, consulting the guidebook and several awkward enquiries finally led to a narrow, dark windowless room for €20 a night and relief from the outside.

Next to find something to eat. Dining alone never feels particularly comfortable, especially in a foreign city with little knowledge of the place. However, it was an opportunity to explore the new surroundings. A pedestrian street with shuttered shops selling fur coats and banks; all the other shops seemed to specialise, perfectly illustrated by a sock shop. There soon was less to see with the dark coming on. A sparsely patronised little bar served up a comforting plate of fried pork slices and chips. Then it was time for bed and the promise of a more thorough acquaintance with the city in the morning.

So that was the first night in Santander, a small city on the northern coast of Spain. A little school there had taken a punt and kindly offered me my first teaching job. For some reason, the north of Spain had been on my wish list of places to live and experience and here I was, fortunate, intrigued, interested and naturally a little apprehensive.

After a long sleep into Sunday morning, a wash in the shared bathroom, my hosts pointed out to me my new workplace on a map. I thought I would stroll there as a way of seeing a little more of a city I’d barely heard of month before. Santander, a city of some 180,000 people, stretches out along one side of a large, deep bay and round a headland. This elongated city climbs up a ridge and down the other side, ending in a series of grey and featureless university campuses and buildings. My school was in the other main part of Santander aside from the centre, an area called El Sardinero after the long beach that faced the Atlantic Ocean rather than the bay.

Having breakfasted on coffee and pastries in a nearby cafe, I set off to have a look at the place where I would be spending much of my time, also hoping to avoid getting lost on my first appearance there the next day. Advised by my hosts to catch the bus, my walk took me through the still quiet Sunday streets allowing me to see more of this city. First impressions were of a generally handsome place of pleasant squares and streets. For some reason I chose a route that took me not over the ridge or long way round the headland, but through a mile long tunnel, gaining none of the benefits of the sea view or the high vantage point. And so I emerged the other side in El Sardinero and could finally remove my scarf from its job masking me from the car and lorry fumes.

At the other end of the tunnel was a huge roundabout surrounded by wide, spacious streets and two storey houses contrasting greatly with the city centre apartment blocks. Continuing on I came to the long beach, and with it the Atlantic Ocean, which bordered this neighbourhoo,. The day was still windy and grey but it was nonetheless a refreshing site. Walking on revealed more quiet bars, restaurants and a grand looking casino. There was an air of seasonality to the place which is common to many seaside towns yet it still retained its elegance. The cold late winter hadn’t diminished the place like it can others. The city had become a favourite holiday spot of some King Alfonso or other some time in the early 1900s and there was a small summer palace sitting modestly on a peninsular that marked one extremity of Santander’s bay. It seemed that this barrio’s style and elegance was a direct result of the favour and fondness this king shown and had for the city.

The rest of the day was spent strolling back to the centre and then, at a given point in the afternoon, the streets filled up with fur coat clad ladies and male epitomes of smart-casual. The bars and restaurants started buzzing a little. It was an early night in anticipation of the morning meeting at the school that awaited. All the while I was thinking about how everything would be. Having graduated the previous summer, this was my first attempt at a ‘proper’ job. How would the work be? I had hardly taught anything before. I had learned the rudiments of the job in a mere four-week course just months earlier. Would I take to it? Would I hate it? Would the work stimulate me? Would I fall in love with this city and country and find a new permanent home. Where was I going to live? How would I find somewhere to live? Who would I live with? How would I get along with my bosses and colleagues? I knew no one; and almost nothing about the work I was about to undertake.

Monday morning came with another overcast and dirty sky and I managed to make it from the centre to El Sardinero on a bus which zoomed down the side of the bay and around the headland. Fearing delay I had given myself plenty of time to make my first appointment so had plenty of time to stop for coffee and prolong the gentle anxiety and anticipation I felt. As I set off for the school, it began snowing. I got closer and closer to new colleagues, new students, a new profession.