Arriving in Madrid on a Sunday in August
The promised metropolis is masquerading as a ghost town. I am on a quest for champú and toothpaste, but most shopkeepers have retired into the summer wind until September 1st, and on the Lord's day there is no need to open the pharmacy. The Spanish sun is unforgiving and it beats down on me and the curving cobblestone, sweat drips from my face to my saturated socks. For six miles, I meander the desolate streets, encountering only the most picturesque domestic scenery: teenage boys stroll arm and arm with their Grandmas, and nuclear families picnic along the river. The enormous capital city is contradictorily quiet and quaint.
Legacy madrileños are proudly referred to as Gatos. Silent and respectful, autonomous and adaptable, the cats of Madrid are what immediately become the subject of my focus. I turn to a self-imposed character study. Patiently, I watch as the “felines” navigate the city and I take note of each behavior for my own personal performance. One does not ask for a table, but seats himself and waits for service. I do the same. When awaiting the bus, a woman reaches her hand out to signal a pick up. I do the same. Always say hello when you enter a shop. Wear sensible footwear. Eat bread in the morning.
As a teenager, I fantasized about my future in Europe. And when I say my future, I mean a tattooed, tall, dark and handsome man, wearing an absorbent amount of perfume, driving a moped. This adolescent dream has descended into reality almost comically, as he exists on almost every street corner.
After proudly and painstakingly adjusting to grinding through life in New York City, I was eager to denounce this European lifestyle as something “other”, already regarding the semester to come as a temporary diversion from reality. Yet in less than 48 hours, I have already become ashamed of my American hustle. I will not go as far as to say that American priorities are incorrect, but I can say with resounding certainty that American life does not cater to happiness. Self-care is not to-do lists and face masks and candles. Self-care is a schedule that begins at 10 AM, so you may read and sip on a coffee before your day starts. Self-care is walking everywhere insanely slowly and not speeding up to pass. Self-care is the mere existence of siesta. Already, I am unsure of how I will readjust to the demands of an American city and an American life.
