Madrid felt like home, which felt like paradise.
When most people talk about paradise, it is somewhere far from home. Somewhere they run away to, where they can close their eyes and smell new scents and hear new noises.

The brightly feather birds singing magical songs, the brush of palm leaves against each other, the hush that falls over snow when the northern lights show up

As someone who grew up with a tenuous concept of what home is, being in Madrid and feeling like I belonged more there than I had anywhere else in my short life was euphoric. Finding somewhere, that in 72 hours, felt like I needed to be there was more paradise than any escape could ever be.

The motherly rattling shake of the metro early in the morning, the warmth of all the people jammed side-by-side, the rumble of the streets at night all alive with talking

That’s what this blog post’s focus is: what finding home is like, even knowing that you must give it up.

The thirst that drives you to go back, to find anything that even touches on the feeling of belonging.

Here are pictures from the last weeks I spent at home.

The fever dream fantasy was real, and I loved every second of it.

 

 

Happy New Year from NOT SPAIN 😐

Don’t forget to eat your twelve grapes, one for each tolling of the bell to ring in the new year!

And, like, lets be real: you need a few of these, too.

 

I flew in to Madrid on NYE 2014. My first experience with the city was ringing in 2015 with more people than I had EVER seen in one place at one time.
It was wild, amazing, and beautiful. Also, my shoes got So dirty.

Happy New Year!

This past weekend I flew home to Houston for Christmas.
I was standing in fron to fthe elevator bay after landing in IAH, and a brief thought troubled me: This feels weird. Why does this feel weird?

IAH is home. IAH is a gateway to being in a city that brings me joy. But Christmas Eve it felt off.
Then I realized, the last time I had flown into Bush Intercontinental was in the last days of May 2015, coming home from Spain.

Having to leave where my heart calls home was hard enough. The flight situation made it worse.

The night before leaving Spain, I was told I had to go from two 70lbs bags to two 50lbs bags, dropping 40lbs of luggage weight.
So, I left almost all of the winter clothes I owned in Madrid.
The next morning, after seeing Trinh off to work (who took the above photo), I taxied to the airport, where I found out I only had approval for ONE 50lbs bag.
That’s a 90lbs difference in luggage going to to coming from.
After an hour of trying to figure out what to do with an entire suitcase full of things

• I couldn’t pay to check it into the flight
• I had lost my debit card… AGAIN
• I couldn’t leave it at the airport, ahem, BOMB THREAT
• I couldn’t get a hold of my Dad  and I couldn’t make the international phone call to get a hold of my mom for them to pay for it (I later found out my dad had ruined his phone in the pool the day before)
• No one in Madrid could come get it

 

I was about to miss my very, very expensive flight and have no way to get home because my dad had neglected to tell me about the changes in what I could check on my flight. I had a huge anxiety attack, only for the women at the check-in counter to waive my bag fee at the last minute, because they’d already scheduled to hold the flight for me so I could get through security. They were not pleased.

Here is the moment I decided I’d never pack anything more that a single 50lbs bag for any international trip ever again.

With that tiny bit of relief after an hour of crying and calling and panicking, I loaded onto an American Airlines flight.
If you’ve traveled you know this is the part where the story normally gets bad.

American is NOTORIOUS for being a shit carrier, and this day they upheld their reputation. Because of a neglected repair needed on the plane, we sat at the gate for hours. The flight I had had a near mental breakdown over maybe missing was set to fly out at 11:15. We lifted off sometime after two that afternoon, all because of a tiny repair that was finished in 30 minutes, but the flight still needed clearance to take off from the home office in the US (who were not keen on responding quickly).
Did I mention an entire American high school choir was on the flight and I was randomly on a row alone in the middle of all of them? Because I was.

Thankfully, the only real respite this day, I slept the whole flight across the Atlantic. The anxiety attack had exhausted me.

Touching down in Miami was fine, the passengers formed a line and waited to be shuffled through customs. After a few minutes of being in line, airport workers were eagerly looking for someone, who turned out to be me.
Because of the HUGE delay, I was on a very short time frame to get to my next flight. A seven hour layover had become a less-than-three-hours one.
They handed me a boarding pass for the next leg so I didn’t waste time going to get it. They, too, were flustered.

Then I waited. And waited.

 

And waited. In line for so, so long in a queue of people, like cows being corralled for sale or branding.
After maybe an hour, my passport was glanced at, and I was waived to the next part of the process by a man in a police-style uniform who didn’t even really look at me. I realized I’d been in the line for a hot minute, and asked a worker what time it was. Oh, six something. I would later read on my boarding pass that my flight boarded at 6:10 , but at this moment I just knew I’d be cutting it close.
Then I stood. And stood, and put my carry ons through the conveyor belt, and stood some more, and I walked through the body scanner, then headed to ANOTHER line, where I stood again to be checked back into the US. Some nice security guard checked my passport again and welcomed me home. A sliver of warmth in my heavily taxing day.

Time was ticking. I was sweating terribly from the huge, heavy carry ons I was lugging around, but also from stress.
I picked up my two 50lbs suitcases, and nearly crying, asked airport workers how to get to my flight. The pointed me to where I needed to check my bags for the American leg of my trip home.

Checking my bags was another line, and another series of this-way-and-that-way directions. BUT there were playful Cuban accented guys taking the bags, and we jested for a moment about my sandals (the alpargatas from Casa de Hernanz).

Finally, I entered into the terminals. I had maybe 10 minutes before my flight took off (later, in clarity, I’d realize my plane was probably already taxiing on the tarmac at this point) and half an airport to get through.

I don’t know if you’ve ever been to the Miami airport, but it’s the size of a small city.
I also had to find which terminal was right in this VERY big airport, with two stuffed carry ons, neither of which rolled, on incredibly tired, sore shoulders. With very frayed nerves. I went to TWO wrong terminals before I found the right one, fifteen minutes after my flight had lifted off.

I cried harder in public than I had in years (I AM NOT a crier, and this was incredibly frustrating and shameful, and it just added to how terrible I felt.)
I went to American Air customer services, and after the desk worker coldly asked why I’d missed my flight, she accepted my reason with raised eyebrows and a bit more warmth.

A sweet little Polish dad that was in customer service stopped to ask if I’d be okay afterward.

And then I finally got to my gate, I changed in the bathroom out of my sweaty clothes into fresh ones from my carry on. I asked a mom at my gate if I could borrow her phone to call my parents (I had a Spanish phone that was no use in the states). No answer. I texted my parents. No answer.
I assumed they’d find out my flight was delayed on their own. My dad tracks that stuff on his phone (remember, I later found out it was broken. Mom’s was dead).
I slept hard on that flight from Miami to Houston, again emotionally tapped out.

I arrived to the airport to two parents who had been drinking for hours in the airport Chili’s because they’d been made to wait, entirely unexcited to see me because they were tired of being at the airport. One slurring slightly.
My brother had no shoes on because he hadn’t realized he’d need to get out of the car— accustomed to domestic flights where I’m picked up curb side. My bags had been mixed up because of me missing the original flight, so we had to find one, and wait for the other that had ended up on the same flight as me. Then we had to wait longer for a carry on that had been checked at the gate because of its size.

It was the last bag out.
As we waited for that bag, my mom said when they had arrived there had been a family with balloons and a huge welcome home poster with the A&M insignia all over it, apparently their daughter was coming home from abroad, too.
She said, “I’m so glad we didn’t do that.”
It was easily one of the most hurtful things anyone has ever said to me. Just because my parents were tired— fuck how I felt— I wasn’t worth celebrating.
six months away wasn’t enough time to stir any anticipation for my arrival. Nothing quite so comforting as a slurring parent telling you you’re not even worth balloons.
We drove home with my mom asleep in the back seat, and as we exited towards downtown to go home, my dad said, “I’m proud of you. Don’t tell anybody.” I had to come home from paradise to two people who had no intentions of celebrating what I had just done, after the worst day of my life. People who had no interest in what I had done for nearly half a year on the other side of an ocean.

Flying in for 30 hours to spend Christmas with my family was A LOT easier.

Wow. We are SO CLOSE.
Literally every side of my body is being touched.
Wow, there is no more room on this train car, yet here are more people about to get on at this stop.
Okay. We are definitely all much closer now.
This person’s butt is touching my butt, but they’re not freaking out about it, so I should stay calm, too.
Not bothered, like a Madrileño.
That was a thigh graze. Whew, no worries, its cool.

*more people cram onto the metro car*

 

Managing your personal space expectations

Keeping your American sense of space in check will be important to really enjoy your time abroad. Southern Europeans know few boundaries when it comes to interpersonal space. They kiss cheeks upon meeting: these people are comfortable with each other. You will be expected to follow suit.
This was actually one of the easiest things for me to adapt to, because I don’t really have personal space at home. I have to remind myself that people don’t want me to be a “close talker” and that maybe whoever I’m sitting next to doesn’t want to be completely up against me.
Spaniards, on the whole, don’t mind. It was fabulous really.

The most people I saw on the metro at once was on the way to watch fireworks at Retiro during the San Isidro weekend, as seen above. Probably a hundred people per car.

I think what surprised me more than the comfort with being Very close and touching perfect strangers was the sheer number of people you end up physically very close to.
I grew up in a small town in Texas, where people definitely believe in personal space (Ahem, the Dixie Chicks song “Wide Open Spaces” could be a hint to that).

Even in my time in Houston, people are rarely sardine-canned into a space together. Houston takes up more square-mileage than almost any other city in the US (only NYC and LA beat it). We’re a spread out, have space people. Not the case in Spain, but even then, it was no bother to me, just a surprise.

You will be crammed into small spaces with a lot of other people. You will be touched and no one will mind, except perhaps you. Be prepared.

I do truly, all the time miss the metro. I miss the people watching AND not having to freaking drive.
I miss the bustling streets where you have to squeeze past schools of people.
It was good.

museo arqueologico nacional- there is a full Moorish ceiling on display, an exhibit on early humans in Spain, the jewelry of the various tribes of people that lived in Spain, how invaders over the millennia impacted modern Spanishness, and an underground replica of the cave paintings. Highly recommended, great if parents are visiting. Metro stop: Serrano.

Prado- move in. Let the nuclei of your cells fill with the pigment of Goya’s paintings. Let Velasquez’s jabs at the royalty via painting details burn into your retinas. Become el Prado. At the Atocha metro stop.

Something cool they’re featuring now here.

Reina Sofia- let the guards recognize your face. The displays downstairs change pretty frequently, so if you’re a regular you are never bored. A lot of the work they feature is politically motivated, which I really appreciated. The gift store and cafe in the museum complex are both fabulous, I would suggest you take the time to stop into both. Also at the Atocha metro stop.

Theyssens– I never actually went to this one, because it wasn’t free with a student ID like the other museums in the distrito de museos. It’s not free because it is privately owned, very posh. Apparently they have some sweet pieces, but my host mom (THE ART HISTORIAN) told me to skip it (she wasn’t into it being privately owned). I plan to make it there in some future trip back to Madrid. Don’t prioritize it. The third museum at the Atocha metro stop, completing “El triangulo del Arte.”

museo de america– another one I missed out on, waaaaaaah. My dad really wants to go to this one someday. It is essentially a museum of the history of Spain conquering various parts of the Americas and what that looked like on both sides of the equation (though obviously featuring more heavily on the Spain side of things). This is in a part of the city I never actually went into, so the idea of that area is already enticing, I imagine to museum would be worth the trip just to see the neighborhood. Avenido de los Reyes Católicos.

La Mallorquina, it’s been in the Plaza del Sol since 1894.

There are privately owned and chain bakeries all over the city.
Old, established family bakeries and things whipped up mechanically in school cafeterias.
the grandaddy of them all, the Gran Don of the pastry game, is surely La Mallorquina.

First things first: rated number 1 by many pastry/dessert guides

Everything they sell is wrapped up in pink packaging with a precious illustration of La Mallorquina (a little lady from Mallorca). I’m a pink-loving fool, so this really resonated with me deeply. This time of year they sell turron, the traditional pastry of La Navidad. Sure, someone’s abuelita probably whips up something better, but this place is as close as you can get if you have no Spanish nana.

Traditional holiday pastries Torrijas at Easter, Turron at Christmas, Rosquillas de San Isidro during Dia de San Isidro, all sparkling in the window. All melting in a fury of sensory pleasure in your mouth.

My favorite thing there year-round are these marshmallows covered in chocolate. I cannot even tell you how many I had while there. Thank god for all the hills in Spain, countless number of pastries later, and I still lost 17 pounds in Madrid (which I promptly regained back home in Houston).
Here is a blog post on another blog with a piccy of the marshmallow goodness

A strong contender for second, and something I ordered at the school cafe often, is the napolitana con chocolate. It’s essentially a croissant with chocolate. Flaky butter goodness + chocolate. No complaints. The version at La Mallorquina has really well done chocolate filling, compared to my uni’s still-partially-solid chocolate chips in the center of theirs.

The hallowed shop also has pretty decent coffee to go which was much harder to find in Madrid than I was prepared for. There are Starbucks in the Spanish capital, but I don’t drink there in the US. I sure as hell wasn’t going to pick up a drink there in Spain. La Mallorquina was also super duper close to my study abroad program’s office (just around the corner, in the same building complex). Before ISA meetings, I’d often pop in for a cup and some pastry to get me through.

So if you live in Paradise, or you’re just visiting: satisfy your sweet tooth at La Mallorquina.

 

 

Lowkey, these are there, too. Home sweet home

 

 

Turron de Navidad is a typical Spanish treat come holiday time.
I didn’t see Madrid at Christmas time, but I was there for New Year’s Eve, and that was spectacular. I imagine Christmas is really something!!

If you’d like to feel like you’re in Spain for Christmas you need a great recipe for turron and perhaps a vinyl of the Plaza de Torros official band (::cough:: my parents have one) playing.
Maybe watch a little Muerte de un ciclista.
A decidedly not happy nor cheerful film, but crisp and beautiful like fresh fallen snow.

Wear your fuzzy slippers/socks and feel like a Spanish holiday reveler. Christmas sangria anyone?

I just finished writing Christmas cards to several of my favorite people in Spain and I thought I’d share a great resource I found for Spanish Christmas sayings: http://www.fluentu.com

This specific page opens to a list of potential greetings one could include in a card to your favourite hispanohablantes! I really loved it and added ending up a few of these phrases into each of the cards I wrote, personalizing them to what I was saying.

The American holiday Thanksgiving was a couple of weeks ago, as was my 25th birthday.

My birthday was the 22nd.
Thanksgiving was two days later.

One of my roommates from Spain posted this photo in her birthday message to me, a picture I had never seen of myself from our San Isidro celebrations.

I was very Thankful during Thanksgiving for this wee reminder of how happy I was in the city that I love.

• Thankful for literally the best holiday experience I’ve ever had (San Isidro) in a city I shared with a set of new, but so close, friends.
• Thankful I got to see THREE NIGHTS of the best fireworks I have ever seen.

Turning 25 has been one of the biggest  concerns of my life for the last three years, which sounds as ridiculous as it probably is. That doesn’t diminish that I well and truly feared twenty-five.
I feel like I have very little to show for having existed for a quarter of a century. This fotito reminded me that while I have no huge accolades to my name, I did spend a few magical months being the life of the party with a few other firecrackers in the city I have spent most of my life dreaming of.
San Isidro is Madrid’s patron saint and the week of his holy day is A PARTY through the whole city.
Every night on the weekend of his day there were fireworks.
I’m from the States. I know fireworks, right? NO.
Never in my life have I been so blown away by the choreography and intricacy of a lights show, and they were long. And the fireworks themselves came in patterns I hadn’t seen before. All of that was over the pond in Retiro Park.
Magical doesn’t begin to cover how that weekend felt. (I’ll do a whole post over the weekend, eventually.)

Getting sent this photo for my birthday brought up all those warm, bubbling memories of that weekend specifically.
Holidays are a huge deal to me, and seeing the Spanish celebrate with such vigor felt natural to me. One of the multi-fold reasons I felt native in a land that actually wasn’t mine.

My birthday is incredibly important to me.
Like, few things do I hold as dear to my heart as I do my birthday. It’s probably unhealthy, really.
I have quite high expectations for my birthday every year that are not met, and its just short of crushing. I need to adjust expectations, but I hold out that some day I will have a birthday party half as good as the ones I have thrown for others.

This mile-stone birthday happened with little to no fanfare.
I went to work, went home (to flowers and chocolate-covered strawberries, the highlight of my day), and then went to a quiet dinner with some dear, dear friends.
No sparkle, no shine, no cake nor champagne (though there was pie and whisky).
It wasn’t bad, and my expectations for a birthday have never been lower, so it was easily the most pleased I could have been with a birthday.
Even still, with some time in between now and then, it makes me feel a little sad that I’ve existed for 25 years and that wasn’t worth ringing some bells and throwing some glitter for.

But then there is this picture, a reminder that five months of my life were fanfare packed. Nights of running wild and days lounging in green grassy parks bustling with beautiful people. This picture reminded me that my loudness, brightness, and general YES DO IT NOW-ness was celebrated fully.
I felt celebrated fully in being reminded of this by someone who was there.
It felt wildly special for Keji to post this picture on my birthday.
And I was thankful.

Pijo– Posh twat, essentially.
(Excuse the language) this slang term is used by the normals of Madrid (and I imagine the rest of the country) to describe wealthy kids and their parents, who can afford to drive imported cars, attend private (read: wildly expensive) schools, and they wear foreign-brand clothing like Ralph Lauren and Loewe.

Jilipollas– literally means douche bag, but is far more offensive in Spanish than it is in American slang. It is, however, common to describe a poor-decision-making idiot you know in Madrid. Ahem, an asshole. This is Madrid-specific slang.

gatos– what Madrileños are called. Un gato real is uncommon, as a lot of people move into the city instead of being born there. The moniker comes from some battle a bajillion years ago where fighters from Madrid scaled the walls like cats. Where were the walls? Not sure. What battle? No recollection. It also has ties to Madrileños staying up all night prowling the city, like cats.

polla– DO NOT CONFUSE POLLA WITH POLLO. The later references chicken you’d eat, the former is a coy term for penis. Beware.

botellon– It means street drinking, and is very common. Because of the Spanish economic fallout so many yound people cannot afford to move out of their parent’s home, so they drink in the streets while hanging out with friends. It was local knowledge while we were there that as long as you weren’t stationary, you could drink in the streets, and if you did sit down in a park to drink, you’d better have nothing stronger than beer.

tio– literally means uncle, but you’ll hear guys call each other this as they hug in greeting. It’s like a Spanish “bro.”

la leche– As in “Es la leche.” It is like hearing someone stateside say, “That’s the shit!” They love it, it is so cool, it’s the best.

vale– Ok

¡Venga!– at the end of a sentence it can be an eye-rolling word intended to impart disbelief. Like saying, “Come on!” when a buddy suggests something stupid.

The Madrileño’s dialect of slang is vaaaaaaast and wild. The Spanish have a jungle of words they use colloquially. Keep an ear open, have someone you can ask. Good luck.