It’s hard to believe that it’s been a little over one year since I began my semester abroad in Spain. The memories, the people, the food, the adventures… I could go on and on about how amazing my time in Madrid was the best of my life, but I’m sure you get the picture. I’ll make this post short and sweet, but just wanted to give a huge shout out to all of those who made the time abroad so special! Besos!
We may or may not be slightly dysfunctional – going delusional on the last day in Granada
“Vivo en Sol.” The words slip from my slightly chapped lips as I explain to the cab driver how to get home on my last day in Madrid. It’s a natural phrase, uttered without hesitation, reflecting my years of practice and months of living in this city. A recited and practiced line, I guess you could say, but more or less a string of words smushed together haphazardly, indicating that I call this place my home. I live in Sol.
“Derecho en Calle Mayor y para antes la iglesia.” Sentences begin to flow effortlessly, a sudden click between brain and tongue, a feeling of near fluency. A sense of accomplishment washes over me, but then the sudden realization that I will be on a plane a mere twenty-four hours later brings me down from cloud nine.The ping of my inbox, alerting me to check in to my flight, brings with it a flood of emotions, regrets, memories, question; an almost self-loathing and pity all combined into one.
I watch the minutes tick away, yet I cannot bring myself to terms with leaving this place which had just provided me with a treasure chest full of experiences. Laying in my tiny twin bed for the last time, I set the alarm for 9 AM, early by our Madrid standards. Insomnia strikes again, surely a result of the conflicting emotions pitted in the depths of my stomach, thought I’m sure the cup of green tea an hour earlier wasn’t helping either. I shoot my family a quick “24 hours” text, send a Snapchat to my favorites and browse through the photos on my iPhone one last time before slipping into a light sleep. I wake no less than seven hours later to the blaring of my alarm, but instead of getting up, I silence it and enjoy the fleeting moments in my bed for the last time in our tiny Calle de la Villa apartment.
I rub the sleepies from my eyes, and look up from my bed towards the charcoal painting above my bed for the last time. The portrait of an old man, arms crossed, with a disappointing look strewn across his slightly wrinkled face, almost resembling my gather, looks down upon me and my questionable decisions for the last time. I look to my right and see three bags filled with a semesters’ worth of clothes and souvenirs, sitting neatly ready for their next adventure.I muster all my of my strength and plop myself up and quickly throw on my clothes and hastily pack away the last of my belongings. It plays back in my head; a surreal moment, frozen forever in time.
I creep down the hall into Erin’s room and see her struggling with her overpacked suitcases. I proceed to zip them shut in a “sitting and pulling” fashion, learned from my reign as Packing Princess of the Patten household. The clock hits 9:27 and we wake up our other two roommates to say our final goodbyes. The routine is all too familiar, from weeks of traveling together, yet the baggage, both physical and emotional, is much more to bear. A final group hug, a huddle, if you may, and we drag our belongings up the stairs from Bajo Izquerida for the last time and hail a taxi down.
After squishing into a cab, we wind our way through Sol and head eastward to the airport, past Puerta del sol, through Plaza de la Cibeles, by the Prado, and turn left at the Atocha railway. The cab driver asks us if we’re Americans and he reacts eagerly to ask more about our stay once we’re from Chicago and California. He asks if we mind if he smokes a drag, and though it’d normally bother the hell out of me, the smell and smoke in my face is almost welcome, a subtle reminder of my time in Europe. We continue on, past Plaza de las Ventas and my normally subdued emotions take form as a singular teardrop out of the corner of my left eye. It was beginning to hit me. The only thing holding the flood of tears back was the conversation with the cab driver about the Copa del Rey final the night before.
We struggle through the airport, it feels as if our feet our chained together, the city unwilling to let us out of her grip. Erin and I part ways, and promise to meet up after security, and sure enough, we do. My luck of running into people still proving to be as relentless as ever. What seems like an hour later, we are saying goodbye for real this time. She goes through yet another security check point and disappears into the growing crowd beyond the fence. I find my place among the remaining empty seats at gate U60, and find myself thinking of the number of people who have sat in that exact seat after a semester abroad.
I flash back to reality when fellow NYU students sit next to me, all hungover, clearly already missing our new city, regretting getting drunk the night before an 11 hour flight. I guess they really did grow accustomed to this Madrileño lifestyle. Twenty minutes later, I’m sitting in seat 27H, next to one of my teammate’s freshman year roommates – as a matter of fact, the same one who comforted my sobbing self when I missed my flight home on my official visit, three years prior. This world really is getting smaller. We break into conversation, reminiscing of our days abroad, her adventures in Italy, and mine in Spain. The familiar pang of nervousness washes over me as the captain announces we are delayed because we cannot take off in tail winds.
My basic flight training flashes before my eyes, and I reason it is because our 767 is way too heavy to do so. My intuition is rewarded when thirty minutes later, the captain explains that cargo is going to be taken off to lighten the load. An hour and a half late, we’re finally in the air – my true home away from home. I double-check my ticket from DFW to SAN and realize my original two-hour layover is compromised. Instead of my normally fretting and stressing, I repeat my favorite spanish phrase, “De perdido al río,” over and over in my head (translated meaning, “from lost to the river”). I accept the fact that I might not make it home tonight. I figure, a typical megventure is not complete without a missed flight, so I just go with it. That’s what the phrase essentially means, so…
Saying goodbye leaves such a bitter taste in my mouth, that I usually only reserve it for funerals. In my half-glass-full, eternally optimistic world, it’s always “see you later,” or as the Spaniards say, hasta luego. When I told my typical Tuesday/Thursday lunch spot that it was my last time eating there, upon walking out the door, they waved and said, “hasta luego, otra vez” – indicating that I would surely be back to their tiny vegetarian nook nestled on the edge of El Viso. There was no hesitation, no question that I would be back, if not tomorrow, the following day, for another piece of their most scrumptious, not too cream-cheesy, carrot cake. She was the closest thing I had to a señora while abroad and always greeted me with a warm smile. We often got lost in translation, and resorted to pointing and hand motions when all else failed. Instead of getting frustrated with me, she would treat me with an extra large piece of torta. She asked about school, helped me with on more than one occasion with my grammar, and even kept the doors open past normal closing time so I could finish an essay, but perhaps what I’ll look forward to seeing again most is being a regular again in a place that isn’t my home. So until then, hasta luego.
It’s a mid Friday afternoon. Rain is pouring down (by my California standards) and the tips of my Sperry Top Siders are soaked. My roommates are gone for the weekend – two are in Barcelona, while my third roommate is out and about in Madrid, showing her two friends around our beloved city. I am alone at a café – the first café in Spain I ever went to actually- sitting at a
table with my cappuccino, contemplating getting a crêpe but then I remember the lack of Euros in my wallet. Heck, why not. I’m broke as it is and it’s the perfect day for crêpes and people watching. I have the perfect view of the street – the two large glass doors sit in front of me and my eyes wander to the wonderful wet world outside.
A runner passes by in his bright neon orange shirt and yellow shoes, scuttling away at a casual pace up the hill towards Atocha. A story plays out in my head – he lives with his wife and two kids – a boy, 13, and a girl, 9. Probably a business man, a casual runner, and enjoys a nice whiskey at night. A pair of foreigners sit next to me – speaking in a heavily accented English I can’t quite decipher, sipping each on a café con leche, reminiscing of their youth summers spent somewhere in England. A woman in her late thirties strolls by pushing a stroller, likely a young baby girl wrapped up inside, judging by the pink blankets peeking out from underneath the umbrella. Nothing out of the usual. Spain you’re boring me – Where are the people running to and from the train station as if their life depended upon it? Where are the crazies? Where are my people?
People watching has come to be one of my favorite activities in New York – where else in the world do you have access to individuals as eccentric and as electric and as stubborn and as, well, New York? (Yes, I did just use “New York” as an adjective – you’d only understand if you’ve lived here). Where else can you find a woman dressed in all black, standing tall in five-inch stilettos, sipping on a latté, with three hours of sleep under her belt, living the dream? You simply can’t. Nowhere else in the world will you find people as happy to be killing themselves as you will in New York. They work 70-hour weeks, find time to go out at night, and pay more than a small fortune for a shoebox of an apartment. But they’re living in the Big Apple – hoping, dreaming, wishing that their dream of becoming the next big Broadway star or Wall Street exec will come true. They feign the excitement of working for an asshole and getting next to nothing in return. I guess it’s just part of being a New Yorker.
You will never feel more alone than you do in a city of millions – that much is true. But while living in New York, you’re part of something bigger than yourself, an unspeakable bond unites us – the aspiring actresses, the recent college grads, the wannabe big shots. We eat dollar pizza, not because it’s good, but because it’s a dollar. We go early to clubs so we don’t have to pay a cover. Yet, we will spend $300 on a pair of fabulous heels, because appearance is everything – it’s part of the never-ending illusion of being a New Yorker. But here, in Madrid, in a country more friendly than your creepy neighbor in apartment 2C, in a city where the taxi cabbies smile at you and the men buy you drinks without a second thought – you are more alone than you think. It’s not that you lack friends – the other study abroad students, the foreigners, the Madrileños just don’t understand. There is no mutual understanding of “struggling to make it”– everybody is relaxed, moving at a snails pace, eating dinner for hours on end as if there was nothing else more important in the world. In a country where the conversation is as important as the food on the table, I’m at a loss for words with those around me.
I feel the word lonely is used to describe somebody lost and by themselves – in a somewhat unhappy state, unaware of their own being. And while, yes, I am alone by pure definition of the word; I cannot feel any more aware of myself in this present moment. Nothing screams struggling writer like a twenty-something year old, sitting alone at a Café, sipping on a coffee, dressed in an oversized cream sweater from Urban Outfitters, with a messy bun on top of her head. All she’s missing are some large D&G glasses, a pencil behind her ear and a notebook in an overused black Longchamp. I’m watching myself, aware of my own being, aware of the stares as I type away feverishly. I am aware of my appearance as a New Yorker – jaded, opinionated, and unimpressed of everything around me as I people watch outside the large glass windows.
I first began to refer to myself as a New Yorker when I moved to Spain to study abroad. Every time my Mom skyped me, she would ask if I was home sick? My answer, without fail was – “Yeah, I miss New York terribly”. The disappointment on her face yielded an equally disapproving response in her eyes – “It’s my home, Mom, you’d never understand.” Her only reply “New York has changed you”. Living in the city transformed me from a carefree and laidback California girl to an uptight, busy young adult, whose life is dictated by the calendar appointments in my iPhone. Similar to the bright lights of Times Square – my life in New York is simply an impressive façade. My newfound beauty routine hides my lack of sleep and the slew of friends who pose for pictures with me at clubs usually forget about my existence by the weekends end. I appeared to be a New Yorker on the outside and tricked myself into thinking the same.
I haven’t even lived a full twelve months in the city, yet, when I meet people, I find myself telling them I’m from New York. Spaniards are instantly mesmerized – a bit confused as to why I would ever leave the mystique that is New York, but so am I. Leaving the city has made me realize how much of a New Yorker I am not, but I guess to become one you have to leave and appreciate everything that the city is. The more I realize the way I act and eat and dress and drink and fill-in-the-blank here, the more I realize how much the essence of being a New Yorker is the illusion of having it all together. And while I am rather composed on the outside, I cannot even begin to fit the puzzle pieces together on the inside. A true New Yorker knows what they want and when and are not afraid to tell anybody about it. I, on the other hand, do not know what I want, let alone know who I am. I just know I am not a New Yorker. Not yet anyways.
Quote of the Day: ” One belongs to New York instantly, one belongs to it as much in five minutes as in five years” – Tom Wolfe
Europe knows chocolate: chocolate and wine, chocolate and fruit, and our new found obsession – chocolate and churros. One of Spain’s most famous desserts, these fried dough pastries and thick chocolate drink are perfect for any occasion.
Interestingly enough, Spaniards order this insanely delicious combination at any time of the day – including breakfast. Yes, chocolate for breakfast – count me in! The most famous chocolatería and where we are the most famous per se, is Chocolatería de San Gínes, a mere three minute walk from the Sol Metro, right between Calle Arenal and Calle Mayor. To say that we are regulars here would be quite the understatement, but somehow we still don’t seem to care that they know us so well.
San Gínes, as we affectionately call it, is easily one of the most touristy places in all of Madrid, but that doesn’t stop us from indulging in our favorite late night treat. Open 24 hours a day (dangerous, I know), this chocolate and churro hang out is the place to go if you want a taste of Spanish culture. Though most people order the typical chocolate con churros, I definitely recommend Porras, which are thicker versions of churros. They have a very simple menu – churros, chocolate, tea, café, and ice cream, but I would recommend staying with the original masterpiece.
Nestled between a group of apartment buildings, right behind Calle Mayor, off of the Sol Metro stop, sits the glass-enclosed Mercado de San Miguel. One of the most famous markets in Madrid, this Eataly-style building is filled to the brim with brightly colored fruits and vegetables, the aroma of fresh pincho de tortilla, and hundreds of tourists on the weekends. Luckily enough, I live only a few minutes walk from the Mercado and have been able to leisurely walk between the permanent food stalls without the rush of people pushing me every three seconds.
Pincho de Tortilla
Though you do not have to go to the Mercado to find one of my new favorite foods, I first tried this recipe at the Mercado San Miguel (by accident) and immediately fell in love. My favorite Spanish dish so far has to be the delicious Spanish Omelet, also known as Tortilla Española. Filled with eggs, potatoes, onions, and sometimes a splash of cheese, I usually get a pincho (single serving size) of this delicacy. Served either at room temperature or warmed up, with a side of bread, pincho de tortilla is the perfect midday snack and will fill you right up. Partnered with a glass of wine or copa de Sangria, this dish will win over your heart at first bite.
Comida Fresca
After going on my long runs on the weekend, I like to cool down and walk around the market to see if anything catches my eye. Though the thought of an ice cream cone is enticing, I usually opt for a banana or salad. The Mercado de San Miguel, is not only home to warm dishes such as pasta and croquetas, but also to fresh fruit, meats, and fish. My favorites are the fruits and the spinach salad with white asparagus, walnuts, tomatos and balsalmic dressing; and the bananas Though it tends to be a bit more expensive than Corte Ingles (which is a grocery store – Bloomingdales – Spa – Target-all-in-one), I indulge and reward myself.
Everything Else
In the market, you can also find couples sipping on very full glasses of red wine, walking around trying various tapas. A slew of green olives, sushi, and empanadas, among many other things, are at your disposal at Mercado San Miguel. Your taste buds are in heaven at San Miguel and I promise you, once you go, you’ll find it very difficult to stay away.
To say that I’ve been having a blast since I’ve been here would be a complete understatement.
To say that time has passed by quickly would be a complete and blatant lie – it has gone by in the blink of an eye.
I’ve been here a month and it’s mind-blowing to think of all the things I’ve done, the places I’ve seen and the people I’ve met. To put things in perspective I’ve listed my top 20 things I’ve done.
I’ve been walking past the Santiago Bernabéu stadium everyday for the past two weeks, simply imagining, dreaming, and wishing I knew what lay within the confines of the large gates. The hundreds of thousands, if not millions of fans have witnessed players who’ve laced up their boots, taken the field, and gave it their all for ninety minutes, but that number dwindles when you solely count the number of fans that have witnessed a Real Madrid and FC Barçelona game, El Clásico.
The view from our seats
Luckily enough, I got to be one of those fans. YES. You read that right, I got tickets to El Clásico. Granted it was only the Semi Final of the Copa del Rey, which is a trivial and unimportant game in the grand scheme of things, but hell ya I’m went to a Real-Barça game! I’m one of those people who firmly believes that money cannot buy you happiness, but let me tell you… money can buy you tickets to El Clásico and thats pretty much the thing right next to happiness (in my book anyway).
It was all a dream
As a soccer fanatic, I cannot even begin to tell you the number of times I’ve dreamt of seeing this match being played out. Just ask any fútbolista what the biggest rivalry in soccer is and they will say, without hesitation, Real-Barça. The hostility towards each other stems from a very long and violent political history (as do most inter-city club rivalries in Spain). I for one, was surprised by this, as I always viewed sport as a means to unite people, not to divide them. Quite honestly, I think that’s why I’m a sports management major – because I’m infatuated by the way sports transcends so many social and political issues!
The only time I’ll pose with a Real jersey
Flash back to Wednesday morning. I rolled out of bed, threw on my beautiful sea foam green Barça jersey with Lionel Messi’s number 10 on the back, under my long sleeve black NYU Soccer shirt. I grabbed my zip up, knowing that If I were to walk around the stadium in any Barcelona gear, that I’d be immediately shunned and given the nastiest stares you could imagine. The two hours of class could not go fast enough, as all I could find myself thinking about was the intense rivalry I was about to witness. Luckily enough, my Blogging Spain professor was a Barça fan (a rare find in Madrid) and spent half the class talking about the game and the history between the clubs.
Rockin the Barca jersey and hat
I grabbed a quick lunch and then headed over to a friends apartment near the stadium to do some homework and get ready for the game. Of the ten or so of us girls, I was the only Barcelona supporter (obviously) and one of two people who knew what was actually going on. Though it was somewhat comical to me when girls were asking who won after the game (it was a 1-1 draw), I was happy I was able to introduce them to the soccer world.
The Girls
We walked over to the stadium about an hour prior and I was in complete soccer heaven. Thousands of people crowded the streets, vendors sold merchandise to fans, and policeman blocked off the streets surrounding the stadium. I wore my jersey proudly, embracing the fact that I was the enemy, knowing that anything I did or said would be amplified, not only because I was an American, but because of the colors I wore across my chest. I got spat at, sworn at (numerous times) and told to “get my papers and go home” by many Madridistas throughout the game, but nothing took away from the fact that I was living my dream of going to the greatest soccer rivalry on the planet.
With some of my people
I know for one that I cannot do the game justice but I wish I could share the moments with everybody.Flags were waving. People were singing, chanting, whistling, screaming their lungs out. The unforgettable smells of the jamón y queso bocadillos and the stench of cigarettes filled the stadium. The piercing sounds echoed in my ear drums for hours after the game. You could FEEL the emotions evaporating off of peoples faces when I flashed a smile at every Real fan I passed by. They were disgusted. I was on cloud nine – too excited to even be mad at their “Puta Messi” remarks.
The game itself was not everything I was expecting. A 1-1 draw is not horrible, but in the world of soccer, a tie is practically the same as a loss – and I hate losing more than anything! In addition, Messi had been averaging 1.53 goals a game and recently scored 4 goals on Sunday so I was very excited to see him juke out some keepers, however he was largely absent from the game. Fábregas scored, and as an Arsenal fan in the EPL I was very excited for the old captain to score. I also had been looking forward to seeing Iker Casillas (my favorite male professional goalkeeper) play, however this past week he had surgery on his hand after the Valencia game where his own player stepped on him. Despite having Diego Lopez in goal for Casillas and slew of athletes recovering, Real Madrid proved to be progressing. The best part of the game itself, and perhaps what made me most excited is when my roommate Erin repeated to me, “Barça’s passing is amazing” – and quite honestly it made me smile. Even a complete non-soccer-fan could see the beauty that lies in the crisp passes between Iniesta and Messi.
In my element
Wednesday was a dream come true. And everyday when I walk past the Santiago Bernabéu stadium I will no longer be imagining, dreaming, and wishing I knew what lay within the confines of the large gates. I will know. I will know why that stadium, El Clásico, and the beautiful game of fútbol is so important to the people of Spain.
It’s a beautiful Sunday morning, a rather warm 50 something degrees compared to the frigid temperatures we’ve embraced the past two weeks – and quite honestly the perfect time for a run. I’m not a “runner” by any means – after my knee surgeries running became more of a punishment than a pleasurable thing to do, but I’m a “runner” by pure definition of the word. Since being in Madrid, however, I’ve rekindled my love with the blisters under my toenails, the cold air piercing my lungs, and the striking of my feet on the pavement ehhh I mean cobblestones. When you’re not in the mood to run it’s absolutely awful, but when the itch to lace up your shoes hits you, it’s one of the best feelings in the world, and that’s what’s happened since being here. I’m a competitor and running has provided me the opportunity to take out my most competitive feelings out on myself. It’s not that I love winning, I just hate to lose, so what better way to fuel my fire than with some self competition, right?
All smiles during my runs
I feel this post veering in the wrong direction, but running has become my sanctuary since coming here and feel it was of the utmost importance to share it with all of you. With the lack of female soccer teams here (if anybody knows of one, lemme know!), I really needed something here to keep my fitness up for the 2013 season and running has done just that. There are numerous routes, the parks are plentiful and best of all, it’s a perfect outlet for my stress. Running has once again become my friend. All it took was one beautiful long run from our cute apartment down Gran Vía, around the city center and back again to make me fall in love.
Running through any city provides an entirely new perspective on the surroundings, the people, and the way of life. I love walking around with los chupitos, don’t get me wrong, but running Madrid has just made me love it here even more. I might never want to leave!
Maybe it’s just me, but the blaring of my “Danza Kuduro” into headphones as I sprint up the hill (hill might be an understatement) leading to our apartment just soothes my soul and allows me to take in everything around me (I mostly just take in the burning in my hamstrings, but you get the point). The sights, the sounds, and the oh so delicious smells invade my senses as I run up Calle Mayor, through la plaza más antigua de Madrid (the oldest plaza in Madrid), and around the corner into el barrio La Latina. The extravagant street performers, the adorably dressed señoras, and tourists in Puerta del Sol stare me and my sweat stained NYU soccer tee down, as if I’m a more unusual sight than the headless business man.
Madrid I’m already in love with you enough as it is, but thank you for making me lace up my shoes again, letting me fall back in love with running, and allowing me to explore your beautiful city.
¡sta luego!
Quote of the day: “Traveler, there are no roads. Roads are made by walking” ~ Spanish Proverb
