A Whirlwind of Spanish
I arrived early afternoon in Madrid, Spain, 1:15 pm to be exact. My plane landed early, what a relief.
Even though I am the first one from my family to leave the country, it was not a huge deal for me to be going to Spain for a month. I believe it is mostly because this is what I picture my life to be, an international correspondent, one who travels to report.
The legitimacy of this trip didn’t actually hit me until the passenger next to me on the plane lifted the window curtain and I laid eyes on the patchwork of wine country and land just before Madrid.
“The first time you are looking at foreign land,” I whispered to myself.
I was ready to embrace this new frontier and I was ready to do it alone for two days. Yet, there was one issue, I didn’t speak Spanish.
It took me three hours to navigate through the airport to find my train. Especially because the Madrid, Barajas Airport is not just for planes. Who knew Renfe and Metro were two different lines.
Still, I wasn’t angry or frustrated, I was more anticipatory to step foot on Spain soil.
I went to dinner the first night and I ordered an IPA.
“Quel es,” the bartender said.
Or at least I think he said.
I had to reach across the counter and point at the only IPA that the bar had. We exchanged a few words and I drank my beer.
I cannot tell you what came across me on my first days, but I suddenly knew Spanish.
I found out that my Uber driver was from Cuba, he met his wife in Central America, his dream was to visit New York, he even told me where to party in Madrid.
He made it apparent to receive a five star rating, but no tip.
So much for someone who doesn’t speak Spanish right?
After an early morning run at the Buen Retiro Park I had a rundown of what Madrid really was.
To me, it looked like New York, acted like Los Angeles, but every race spoke Spanish.
