Kindness of Strangers

As I was waiting for our flight to Spain at Chicago O’Hare, I went to use the restroom. When I went to wash my hands, an older Indian woman, dressed in a flowing peach sari, was trying to wash her hands in the basin next to mine. She carefully studied my motions, and it soon became clear that she had never encountered an automated sink. I turned to use the towel dispenser, and she did the same. As the water in her sink kept flowing she looked panicked. She gave me a look, the equivalent of a shrug, that said, “How the hell do I turn this thing off?” I smiled and made “okay” gestures with my fingers. But the message got lost in translation, and she banged on the metal spout with her fist, hoping that would do the trick. Finally it turned off by itself, and I smiled, reassuringly trying to say, “See, it’s okay!” Inside, I was thinking, “That is going to be me soon.”

Little did I know that soon would come in a matter of hours. We arrived Madrid at 8:15 am, bleary- eyed and exhausted, having slept little on the plane. After clearing customs and collecting our luggage, we began the great debate of how best to get to our hostel. We had been warned repeatedly about pickpockets and gitanos running rampant on the Metro, and wanted to make sure our belongings were secure. First, we made the executive decision to carry our backpacks by their handles rather than the straps, so as to appear less vulnerable. I slung my daypack awkwardly over my shoulder, and Maikael strapped his to his frontside. The result was two Quasimoto-like figures ambling through the underbelly of Madrid, looking more vulnerable than ever.

Second, we decided to give my money belt its maiden voyage. I crammed the belt with passports, cash, and credit cards, and within minutes my protruding paunch was sagging. By the time we reached our destination, it was somewhere towards the bottom of my thighs. Maikael slung his backpack atop his shoulder, as if he were carrying a bag of coffee beans. I finally stopped halfway through a Metro tunnel and strapped on my backpack properly. “We’ll get better at this,” we said.

We emerged from the Metro, after wrestling with the ticketing machine, sweaty and tired. We arrived at the Hostal Alaska, relieved that our room was ready for check-in so early in the day, and Maikael removed his pack. His chest was ringed by a bullseye of sweat from hugging the daypack to his chest. On a normal vacation, I’d say, “Big deal. We’ll throw it in the laundry when we get home in two weeks.” But today my mind began calculating the complicated equation between shirts owned, opportunities for laundry, and days on the road. We are fortunate enough to have a bathtub in our room, so I immediately plunged all of our dirty clothes in the soapy water and decided to do a load of laundry. When I went to hang up our laundry line – which came highly recommended for its versatile design - I discovered that there was nowhere in our room to hang the now-sopping laundry (note to self: assess laundry line situation before submerging clothes). “We’ll get better at this,” we said.

After a brief nap and shower we went to a lunch spot that was recommended by our hostel. We ordered from the menu del dia, typical midday fare in the Spanish-speaking world, which provides a choice of one of three primero and segundo platos, plus “1/2 of wine” and dessert, all for 10 euros. The waitress brought two bottles of wine, both about ½ full, and we waited for her to pour us each a ½ glass. When she left we raised our eyebrows at each other. “Does this mean we get an entire ½ bottle each?” We glanced around to make sure there hadn’t been some mistake. It’s the first time in my life that I’ve stumbled tipsy out of a restaurant into the midday sun.

It took only one day to determine that we might need to buy a strap for our backpacks for certain situations; that our laundry situation needs some reevaluating; and that the shoes I bought are proving to be disappointing. It’s a reminder that we’ll hardly ever get it right on the first time on this journey, despite our planning and best efforts. We’ll get better at this.

Despite an exhausting and difficult day of feeling like babies beginning to walk, I am writing this post with the balcony doors propped open, as Madrilenos pour out into the waning daylight, laughter rising from the cafe below. I can even hear the strains of an accordion playing an eclectic repertoire of “Happy Birthday,” “When the Saints Come Marching In,” “Those Were the Days My Friends,” and, curiously enough, “Jingle Bells.” Could I be in any more of a quintessential Spanish scene?

Tomorrow is another day. Hopefully with better shoes.