I’m not sure if I jinxed myself with the last blog post or if Spaniards have a secret mission to keep me from visiting, but either way it seems I have horrible luck with Spanish travel. A trip to Barcelona a few years ago was spoiled at the last minute due to my passport expiration according to Schengen treaty laws––arguably my own fault, but it ultimately cost me a new $700 ticket and a 24-hour expedited passport (not to mention loads of tears and stressful endeavors with my superhero dad). Anyway, like clockwork, this trip to Spain has proven to be just as difficult.
Since covid has become such a divided issue regarding travel in various countries, Olivia and I did our research before leaving last week. I read through articles, embassy websites, travel blogs and more to confirm that all we needed in order to get to Spain (with a layover in Portugal) was either a negative covid test, proof of recent covid recovery, or a vaccination card, which Olivia and I both have. So one can imagine my frustration when I confidently approached the flight check-in counter 50 minutes before departure only to be told that I needed either a negative test or an EU vaccination card. I pleaded with the Tap-Air Portugal stewardess and even showed her the misleading covid requirement information on the airline website, but she made it clear there was no getting on that plane with our current documents. I watched as two, then three, then six other passengers on the flight ran into the same issue at the counter.
“There’s covid testing upstairs, you still have time to make the plane,” said the woman working the counter.
She was right, there was a rapid covid testing center upstairs––and it was conveniently $250 per test. Seeing as I had no other option, I reluctantly forked over the cash and waited anxiously for results that I could’ve obtained for free at any old Walgreens at home. The whole thing felt like a set up and to make matters worse, the testing took place outside of security (which if you’ve ever flown internationally from Boston, you know is a pain in the ass on a slow day, but a straight up suicide mission on a busy one).
With just 35 minutes to departure and a test result waiting time of 45 minutes, I was hopeless. The ladies administering tests didn’t exactly provide much confidence either: “I don’t wanna burst your bubble, but you’re not making that flight,” one of them said to me.
Somehow, like a sign from the Spanish gods themselves, I got my negative test results ten minutes earlier than expected.
Doc Martens untied and hands full of paperwork, I dashed through the airport and practically hurled myself onto the security conveyor belt. In the end, Olivia and I did make our flight, but the emotional and physical toll it took to get there was borderline traumatizing. The actual flight itself was of course the worst I’ve ever experienced in my life too. Naturally, Olivia and I were seated in the very last row before the restrooms, and since we were among the last to board, there was no more cabin space to store our backpacks which had to be forcibly shoved behind our seats. Then there was the turbulence. No exaggeration, I think the six-hour ride included four hours of extreme turbulence. I’m not one to fear a bumpy ride and I’m certainly not religious, but believe me I was signing the cross the whole way. I don’t think I’ve ever squeezed a person’s hand harder than Olivia’s on that ride. It felt like every twenty minutes a Portuguese voice on the intercom would warn us that we were about to “enter a very turbulent area” and needed to buckle up. The flight attendant serving dinner legitimately ran down the aisle hurling little meal trays at us as he sloshed from left to right. Needless to say, Olivia did not have time to ask for a vegetarian meal and neither of us got the much needed glasses of wine we’d planned to enjoy whilst watching Titanic.
Dehydrated and sleep-deprived, we finally landed in Madrid at 9:30 AM, and made our way through border control (surprisingly with ease) before catching a ride to our hostel on the metro.
Aside from a high school trip to Quebec I’ve actually never stayed at a hostel before. In theory it’s a wonderful concept: cheap housing, interesting characters, central location, etc. But as someone who values privacy, rest, and alone time, I can’t say it beats a good ol’ AirBnB. Our dorm is a 12-bed mixed room which is proving itself to be quite the experience. Madrid is already known for being the city that literally never sleeps, but the fine patrons of Cats Hostel are especially insomniac. The first two nights were interrupted by a swath of loud German girls coming in and out at 7 AM, which is basically the equivalent of an American 4 AM given nobody goes out here until midnight. I will say the showers are nice, and I appreciate having a locker to store my things in, but above all it’s the people staying at the hostel who are my favorite.
There’s a bar inside the hostel which fills up every night with folks from all over the world. On our first night, we played beer pong and flip cup (which you’ll all be proud to know I won four times in a row for both). Right off the bat Olivia and I formed a small crew of likeminded hostel mates hailing everywhere from Ireland to Portugal. Collectively we all decided to opt out of the hostel-sponsored pub crawl which costed 20 euros for three watered down shots at Madrid’s “most popular bars.” Instead we embarked on our own social outing that led us to several fun watering holes and nightclubs. We’ve essentially done that every night here until 5 AM which is kind of the norm in Spain. Nobody eats dinner until 8 or 9 PM and going out on the town doesn’t begin until around 11. I actually don’t know how people hold stable jobs here because Olivia and I have yet to wake up before one in the afternoon.
Despite their insane sleep schedules, the Spanish are incredibly kind and Madrid is chock-full of culture. Unlike most other major European cities, English is not a guaranteed mode of communication. It works out perfectly for Olivia who’s virtually fluent, but I pretty much rely on gesticulation and the occasional random memorized noun from my high school Spanish class.
The food so far has been unsurprisingly fantastic. You can’t go wrong with tapas here and the little plates of olives, cheese, and cured meat have become a staple in my diet. We finally pushed our way into one of Madrid’s well-known churrerias for churros with milk chocolate, but that’s quite the process in and of itself. All of the churrerias are packed from open to close seven days a week, so hailing down a waiter is near impossible, let alone getting in at all. As far as drinks go, I’ve been loyal to vino tinto de la casa (house red wine) and cerveza (beer), but sangria and mojitos are equally delish.
Most of our days here have been spent wandering around the city and popping in and out of cafes. We opted out of the big museums in an attempt to save money, but we did splurge for the Reina Sofia art exhibits because in my opinion you can’t visit Spain and not see a few works of Salvador Dali.
The weather feels colder than expected. Even though it’s a good 20 degrees warmer here than Industry, ME, I find myself shivering as I race walk through the streets. The Christmas markets and ornate city lights are worth the chills though. You'd think with it being colder that fashion would fall to the wayside, but I guess Spaniards see it as more of a motivator for style because I've never felt so underdressed in my life. It's as if everyone's born with a natural gift of trendiness and color scheme knowledge––everyday feels like fashion week. Luckily we're only here for a week as I wouldn't dare repeat an outfit on these streets.
As lovely as the bustling city of Madrid is, I’m looking forward to a slower and less-populated pace of life in our next destination of Seville about five hours south. One can only sustain a dusk-to-dawn nightclub lifestyle for so long before longing for stillness and quiet.
It’s become impossible to avoid the news of covid and its threatening presence in the European countries I wish to visit. Between the daily articles about the new variant and more and more fellow travelers sharing horror stories of major city lockdowns it’s tough to feel confident in the long run. As they say, tomorrow’s worry takes away today’s peace. All we can do now is enjoy the moment and be flexible with our expectations.
Comments