Seven a.m. is just too damn
early and too cold. My down comforter envelops me in two different types of
warmth, like hot mulled wine when the alcohol kicks in. I slip the sheets off my shivering body and scoot the
cat, Gala, out of the bathroom to get ready in peace.
Then I remember: The metro workers are on strike today. I’ll be late.
I swallow my oatmeal with fury as I shoo Gala away from the sandwich I have made for lunch. Hat, shoes, coat, scarf, keys – go.
Pounding the pavement outside my apartment, avoiding cobblestone, I dash towards the center of town to hail a taxi. I can’t miss my first class. Worry runs through my mind a few more times as I’m bounding towards La Puerta del Sol, ribbons of frost whipping my bloodless face. I spot a cab that says LIBRE and raise my hand to it. The car pulls up to me in haste.
Buenas, I say as I swing the door open, rushing every movement. I glance in the rearview mirror. The driver is a cheery, middle-aged man with cheeks I can only describe as jolly. Rosy and smiling, he mentions that it is very cold outside. I agree, and I add that I’m from California, so I’m not accustomed to the below-freezing weather this time of year.
Then I remember: The metro workers are on strike today. I’ll be late.
I swallow my oatmeal with fury as I shoo Gala away from the sandwich I have made for lunch. Hat, shoes, coat, scarf, keys – go.
Pounding the pavement outside my apartment, avoiding cobblestone, I dash towards the center of town to hail a taxi. I can’t miss my first class. Worry runs through my mind a few more times as I’m bounding towards La Puerta del Sol, ribbons of frost whipping my bloodless face. I spot a cab that says LIBRE and raise my hand to it. The car pulls up to me in haste.
Buenas, I say as I swing the door open, rushing every movement. I glance in the rearview mirror. The driver is a cheery, middle-aged man with cheeks I can only describe as jolly. Rosy and smiling, he mentions that it is very cold outside. I agree, and I add that I’m from California, so I’m not accustomed to the below-freezing weather this time of year.
The conversation vacillates back
and forth easily and without pause. It starts with the weather, flows to
schoolwork, which leads to why I’m here, and eventually turns to a topical discussion about society as a whole in
California compared to Madrid. We talk about vagabonds, Roman ruins, travel,
poetry, New York, hippies, and it goes on.
Now, I haven’t been feeling
incredibly encouraged about my Spanish conversation abilities lately, but in
this conversation, I feel confident and self-assured. Though his accent is
thick and he cuts many words short, I can understand and follow the discussion
with ease.
When I arrive at school, he
thanks me for the rich conversation and tells me that I am a girl with a lot of
personality. When I try to thank him for that comment, he says, “It’s not something you need to
thank me for. It’s something you either have or you don’t.”
I hand him the money and thank
him again, wishing him a good day.
I realize my worries about being
late have melted. Being late one day to class is not part of the so-called “big
picture.” It’s a spot on my windshield that I can easily sweep away. Good
conversations in Spanish with strangers are part of the reason why I am here. I
want to experience the culture and empathize with the population here.
I am surely to remember these
moments more than tests, papers, or lectures. I’m here to expand my outlook,
and that’s just what I’m doing.
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