Adventures in Madrid
I.
I was sparking up with my Egyptian friend Tawfik when one of my fellow Americans came in the room.
“Bro, last minute, but I just bought a plane ticket to Ibiza. Only 1 hour flight from here in Barcelona. Leaves early tomorrow. Calvin Harris is performing. Jeff, you in?” Beck said.
Considering I was so stoned I couldn’t even see my phone, I never ended up booking a ticket. I spent the rest of the night laughing in confusion every time someone spoke Arabic.
But I woke up the next morning regretting not going. I wanted to make up for it by having a crazy rest of the weekend.
I was in luck. I went with my friend Dennis from the Netherlands (coolest dude I've ever met by the way) and his two cousins from El Salvador to a club.
The clubs in Barcelona are exactly what you would expect—huge, endless flashing lights, deafening EDM music, smoke pumping in from the ceiling, and a linguistic orgy of different tongues.
In the last moments at the club around 4 A.M., I remember a 28-year old Mexican woman asking me “How you only 21 and you a savage?1”
II.
I woke up Saturday at noon, sweaty and hungover.
An hour later, I was on a train to Madrid.
Who was coming with me? No one. What was my plan? There was no plan.
I remember thinking I would either find a nice female who would be kind enough to invite me over, or I would sleep in a hostel. I wasn’t going to buy an expensive hotel or book any tours, nothing like that. Raw dog travel son!
The route from Barcelona to Madrid takes you away from the Mediterranean coast, right through the heart—a country of wide open yellow fields and small mountains.
We went by towns that made me feel like I was traveling back in time. They reminded me of Minecraft NPC villages—small, in the middle of nowhere, always with an old church in the middle.
I arrived in Madrid at 5 PM. There were somehow larger crowds and more noise than I expected at the train station.
I then walked outside and saw an ocean of people blasting music, ringing bells, and dancing through the streets followed by party buses. Most of them were wearing rainbows.
What…
Unbeknownst to me at the time, Madrid has a big gay population. And I happened to show up during a city-wide pride celebration.
Like a slap in the face, it dawned on me that all the places to stay might be at capacity. So I started my search for a hostel (a place to sleep in shared rooms with other travelers for ~15-30 euros).
After 3 hours of looking, I gave up. Everything (most actual hotels too) had been booked in advance for the festivals.
The sun went down and I accepted my fate—I had to pull an all-nighter in the streets until the train station opened at 5 AM.
What to do in the meantime, what to do…
I found this fancy-looking restaurant in the middle of a concrete park, grabbed a table, took out my kindle, and started slamming beers.
Right as the cervezas started to make me feel funny, exactly what you would expect a beautiful Spanish lady to look like was suddenly sitting across from me. She spawned, out of nowhere.
I was writing in a journal as I always do. Funny thing was, she was writing too. Considering her attractiveness and the odd situation of two people sitting in the corner of a restaurant at 11 PM on a Saturday night writing in journals, I couldn’t help but say something.
III.
“What are you writing?” I asked.
Ana, 29 years old, told me that she writes a newsletter, hosts a podcast for Spanish actors and actresses, and is a life coach to artists.
I then explained my situation, and she thought it was hilarious.
“You're so American. This situation is like a Hollywood movie.” she said.
“My life is better than the movies.” was my cocky, dumb response.
We talked for an hour or two, alternating between Spanish and English (her English was perfect) as I ordered more tapas and drinks.
“So what are you going to do now?” She asked.
“I was going to explore the city until the train station opens. Where should I go?”
“I can just show you. I’ll be your tour guide.” she smiled.
Clutch.
I stuffed my journal and pen into my bag and left the restaurant with her.2
She was an excellent tour guide. We walked around for a few hours, marveling at places like Plaza Mayor and Hotel Rui. Most of the streets were still packed—we were dodging and weaving through the mayhem.
But eventually the party was over. She told me she had to go back. I walked her to a bus stop and said goodbye.
It was now 3 A.M. I was alone, and I wanted to get away from the crowds.
The one area of our tour that wasn’t mobbed with people was The Royal Palace of Madrid. I decided to return there to chill there for the rest of the night.
The Palace is a *British accent* magnificent piece of architecture—so great it even made me feel a bit of disdain for the American style of constructing soulless rectangles.
I sat on the pavement looking at the old building. “How am I so lucky? This is cool. My life is so good! Haha.” was a series of thoughts that were on repeat in my mind.
As my eyes became heavy, I threw on a Lex Fridman podcast to stay awake.
It was a night that felt like a lifetime. As 5 AM crept up, I made my way back to the train station.
The station was open when I got there, but I couldn’t find any workers for hours.
The only place to buy tickets was on some screens—but the screens were saying no more trains were available until the next day.
Slow.
An old version of me would’ve panicked. I laughed instead. I remember texting my friend from home Jacob the situation, at this point around 7 AM. His reaction was hilarious, simply saying “damn dude you’re fucked.”
Even though I agreed, as thought I was stuck ~400 miles from my apartment in a different country with little money and nowhere to stay, I simply chose to not freak out.
Thankfully, after some workers showed up, I got one of the last tickets on a 9 AM train. If I didn’t speak Spanish, the situation would’ve been much worse.
With my ticket secured, I then had an unrestful slumber on top of a stone wall surrounding an indoor garden near the boarding area.
I woke up to my alarm at 8:30 AM. You know that feeling when you wake up from a nap in a state of extreme confusion? Yeah, I felt that deeply.
I finally boarded the train back to Barcelona with bloodshot eyes and a tired smile, chuckling to myself about how strange the night was.
There’s no lesson in this story. If there is one, though, I’d say it’s to take risks.
Your stories will become more heroic, your plans grander, and your emotions more fulfilled if you embrace taking (reasonable) risks. Someone who can thrive in the face of uncertainty is someone who understands the art of living.
There’s even a fitting Spanish saying about risk. You can apply it to anything. It says: El que no arriesga no gana, which means he who does not risk does not win.
What did I win by ‘risking’ going across a foreign land by myself with no fixed plans? I won an adventure.
She didn’t actually say that.
The next day I realized that I never paid. I was there for ~4 hours. Ouch.