The Briefest Reflection of My Time in Madrid

Decisions are hard to make and I've come to find that the more time I spend thinking about a decision the more I question the outcome. In the middle of my last year at university I put a very abrupt stop to over-thinking big decisions. Since adopting this (financially risky - sorry wallet) attitude I've found myself living in my second country abroad looking back at where it all began.

By far the least thought-out decision I ever made was the one to move to Spain. While it was planned (be it superficially) well in advance, by planning I mean that I just kept telling people I was "moving to Spain" after graduation until graduation came and I had told enough people my "plan" that I just had to go (this is arguably the best way to make yourself do something). In the week before my flight to Madrid I had a conversation with a close friend who had thought up way more questions about my plan than I ever had and the conversation went pretty much like this: 

friend: "Is someone greeting you at the airport?"

Me: "No, I don't think so.."

friend: "Where are you living when you get there?"

Me: "uhh an apartment.."

friend: "how are you getting there?"

Me: "Probably a taxi, I have an address?"

friend: "Will you open a bank account there or use your American one?"

Me: "I haven't thought about that yet..."

friend: "How will you get around the city?"

Me: "I think they have a metro."

I had never been on any type of subway system, but I heard Madrid had something called a metro, and that was good enough for me.

It goes without saying that this conversation did not make me feel more comfortable with the decision I was making, but I didn't care. Spain was a foreign country in Europe that I had a very vague idea of what would be like, and I was sticking to it damnit. Thanks Dad for giving me that indefinite stubbornness that I so relentlessly stick to once my mind is set. 

My initial idea of what Spain would be like consisted of: spicy food, sexy accents, and full emersion into the Spanish language. This wasn't just vague, this was absolutely without foundation. The reality was that even the smallest amount of spice was too hot for Spaniards - cue the strange looks as I'm dumping Valentina on my pizza. As far as accents go, the Spanish lisp is still very much intact. Grathias. It's

honestly easier to say than gracias. Rolls off a smidge better. But still, it's hard to find a lisp attractive. And as much as I wished I would soak up Spanish by osmosis, in the most international and metropolitan city of the country my Spanish was often met with a response in English. My blonde hair betrayed me even before my accent did.  And as it turns out American accents are hard to kick. 

It seemed I was only fully submerged in Spanish at times when I needed to hear English the most: 

• at the bank (reminding myself "mil" is only "thousand". There's no glitch in the banking system. I don't have 2 million euros.) 

• at visa or social security appointments (I've never had 1 appointment that didn't turn into 4 appointments because of mutual misunderstandings and/or lack of organization within Spanish bureaucracy.)

• at a hospital under high stress scenarios: "ELLA NECESITA VER UN DOCTOR, URGENTE!" I'm yelling and pointing to my friend with a fungal infection rapidly growing up the side of her face.

Visiting Ave in the hospital (by our 3rd trip in I was making myself comfortable)

Yet it's always these misunderstood stories that I cherish the most. It's how I got shoved into a tiny elevator with two suitcases and a carry-on by a 150 year old Spanish woman who spoke no English. It's how I ordered way too much lunch meat thinking a kilo of pavo (turkey) was definitely less than a pound. It's carrying around a 2x3 foot metro map and unfolding it at every turn, for a new friend who was suffering from second-hand-embarrassment to say "uh you know they make smaller maps right?"  It's ordering "brocheta" with expectations of a piece of bread with diced tomato, onion, and basil on top only to be served some blackish meat cubes stacked on a stick. I never mistook "brocheta" (Spanish for skewer) for bruschetta (American for fresh and tasty snack) again.

Madrid turned me upside-down in the best ways. It was nothing like I expected it to be, but the great thing about great things is that they never are. They're the complete opposite and so much more. 

Experiencing another culture through a language barrier was paradoxically the most frustrating times and most fun times I've ever had. In a world that's rapidly adopting the English language, it's something I hope more people will experience. 

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Plaza de Chueca

Plaza Mayor