Living in the Moment: Day 4, Madrid
I lied—it wasn’t dreamy, and I didn’t sleep well — jet lag still full in tact, pillow still high as Everest. I also woke up to someone’s alarm that went on so long it shut off on its own. I tried to go back to sleep, but it was no use. So, I got up and readied myself for the day.
I had breakfast at a cafe just around the corner — another yogurt bowl with fresh berries and granola, and an iced latte (or rather a coffee with a side of ice, in this case). I was still struggling to work up an appetite, feeling somewhat nauseous for some reason (later I would find out that it’s normal for international travellers to get sick the first few weeks after they arrive due to being exposed to new pathogens), so I sat there awhile slowly making my way to the bottom of the dish. I watched as several folks came and went — a couple of ladies who appeared to be friends catching up, another group of gentlemen dressed for work, and a younger male, solo with headphones and a laptop. I went back and forth between people watching, reading my book, and forcing a bite of yogurt.
Eventually, I finished and decided to go back to the hostel until I felt well enough to head out again, which didn’t take as long as I thought it would. I was worried I might not be able to get up again. Only a couple of hours later, I managed to freshen up and walk to the metro station where it would take me back to the Royal Palace, this time to tour the inside. All the tickets were sold old when I went to book ahead online, so I was crossing my fingers I would still be able to get in at the door.
The line was rather intimidating, but I had mentally prepared myself for the wait. There were several lines, and, based on experience, I hopped into the longest one. I asked the guy in front of me, who also appeared to be solo, if he spoke English (he did) and if this was the line for tickets. He was confident when he told me it was, but (after chatting awhile) a line attendant let us know we were, in fact, not in the right line, as he blurted out to everyone that this was the line for groups. Even after his announcement, it was unclear which line we should be in as his words and hand gestures were rather contradicting, so my instinct told me to trust the signs that I saw. I felt bad for the ones who went the wrong way as hordes of people from the group line swarmed the correct line. I stood my ground in the line with the sign that said “sin billets” (without tickets) as my new friend stayed confused and unsure on the other side of the rope. I quickly pulled him up to my side, past all the pushy tourists behind me.
The line went rather quickly, especially because I had someone to talk to. We were comfortable not talking, but found it easy to fill the silence. After we got our tickets and entered the massive courtyard inside the palace grounds, I asked him if he wanted to tour the castle together. He happily accepted the company, although it was only after we established we had similar pacing styles, that I, too, liked to take my time and soak in all the details, that I saw his body ease. He had let me know that he typically prefers solo travel because his friends tend to rush through these types of things. I made sure to take note of that.
The entrance to the palace and the grand staircase that followed were a breathtaking prologue to the rest of the palace. A statue of King Charles III stands guard at the bottom of the stairs surrounded by peach-colored columns. Arches surrounded us as well, along with delicate flower sconces lighting the way up the stairs, leading us to another statue and gold plated, intricately painted ceiling with round windows that circled us above. It’s impossible to describe all the details, but it felt like standing on the edge of heaven, something not entirely of this world. I suppose that was the point.
We continued into the next room that housed a wall painting of the current royal family before being led into the reception/ceremonial room. I made sure to linger long enough for my companion not to feel rushed, feeling the pressure of being the one who offered to visit together. Room after room, bedrooms and dining rooms alike — they were all intricately and purposefully designed and all a different color, telling a different story. There was nowhere you could look that didn’t behold some sort of grand detail. Chandeliers, painted ceilings, gold furniture, marble floors, and everything in between reminded you of where you were. The 3,000-room palace was designed to replicate the Palace of Versailles in France, but bigger. We took our time studying the custom wallpaper, handcrafted china, intricate tapestries (which I am still in awe of), and all the paintings that told stories of Christianity in most rooms, royal history in others, and commoners in some. The image of a king graciously dropping pennies on a beggar was my favorite. After a long while, and many rooms, we eventually made our way back to the main stair and down toward the gift shop, where we came back to the 21st century. We lingered a bit, having enjoyed each other’s company, hugged, and said our goodbyes before going our separate ways. As for myself, I regretted not exchanging socials to stay connected, but was grateful for the brief connection.
Now, in the courtyard where we started and before leaving the palace grounds, I gravitated toward the balcony that overlooked the view of the mountains. After taking in the view, I looked around for a victim to ask to take my picture. As fate would have it, there was a family next to me taking photos, and I had spied the professional-looking camera on a stand they were using. As it turns out, the woman was a professional photographer, and I asked her if she wouldn’t mind snapping a few photos for me. She happily obliged, clearly in her element, and the photos she captured were evidence of that. I smiled and waved at the young girl in her mom’s arms as I said goodbye and thanked them again.
As I exited the palace, I lingered towards the (public) wall to take in one last view of the mountains. As I was leaving, a man with a violin was setting up to play, and as he started, I slowed to a stop, entranced by the melody — very Bridgerton meets Mozart. It suited the royal palace next to us, but also seemed to capture the essence of the overlooked as well, a sort of genuine and raw paradox of emotions — grief and hope, joy and despair alike. Only three days into my three-month trip, I feared I was being too hasty when I approached him as he played and bent down to drop 10 euros in his case to pick up his CD, but I didn’t regret the purchase. I knew his music was exactly how I wanted to remember this city, perfectly capturing its beauty and elegance, its slow, unrushed nature, and caring spirit.
I had to pull myself away from the music, a side quest to my mission at hand: finding a magnet that captured the city as well as the music did. My magnet collection of places I’ve visited is my pride and joy. I take its selection very seriously, which is why I bobbed in and out of no less than 10 souvenir shops and wound down several streets before finding, not one, but two magnets in an off-the-beaten-path shop off the main drag. I couldn’t decide between a flamenco dancer and a pastel-colored cityscape version that captured the essence of the rest of Madrid, so I ended up with both (a rule I don’t often break). I was honestly so happy to find a magnet I was satisfied with, after passing on so many others before, that I couldn’t help trying to communicate that to the cashier who was checking me out. Between her broken English and my broken Spanish, I think she somewhat grasped what I was saying and insisted on thanking me for my business.
I have to back up, though, to tell you about the Polish family I passed on my way to find my magnet, who were standing next to the bronze man statue with the worn-out cheeks. When I saw the family taking pictures, not paying any attention to the man with the cheeks, I thought it was the right thing to do to let them know about the wish-making statue. I was not, however, prepared for the translation nightmare that ensued, making me seem like a crazy person touching a statue’s ass as I tried to tell them the legend of the butt. Desperate to explain, to clear my reputation as a crazy person, I frantically rummaged through my bag for my phone to access Google Translate. I finally managed to figure out what language they spoke (clearly not knowing a lick of English or Spanish) and wrote in Polish: you are supposed to touch the butt and make a wish. A wave of relief washed over me as they read what I wrote, their expressions turning into one of understanding, at last, as they smiled and laughed, thanking me for my service.
Fast forward to my success after finding my magnets: I took my time walking back to my hostel again today, weaving in and out of streets, trying to capture with photos its essence, its architecture, and all the details, but failing miserably. I told myself I was going to sit down and take a photography course one of these days.
There was still a lot of daylight left, so I thought about stopping for dinner somewhere, but decided I simply wasn’t hungry enough to justify it. I had an early flight tomorrow anyway, and figured I could use the rest of the evening to pack and try to beat this jet lag at last. It was after 10 p.m. and I was all settled in, my room dark and quiet, my mind drifting to sleep, grateful for the tired eyes and mind…when a group of obnoxiously loud men walked in. My eyes darted open, irritation growing. I tried to close my eyes again, tried to ignore them — tried headphones, music, everything. The audacity, the disrespect, the fact that men seem to think the rest of the world doesn’t exist, had me fuming, and it took everything in me not to burst and give them a good talking to. But I mustered all of my lessons in patience and grounding, eventually finding peace as the last of the men finally found their beds, shut their mouths, and started snoring instead.
Travel tips I learned this day:
Listen to your body. Pushing yourself won’t do any good if you’re not feeling well. Take the time to listen to your body and rest. If you notice yourself forcing yourself to do something your body is screaming at you not to do, chances are it’s fear of missing out that is guiding you. If I hadn’t stopped and rested this morning, I might not have met a friend in line at the palace, or I might have been miserable for the rest of the day, or feeling worse now.
Unless you are really unsure about timing or the activity itself, I almost always suggest purchasing tickets in advance. It ensures you will have entry, you can skip any lines at the entrance, and, personally, it takes away some of the anxiety and stress associated with all of that, even if you purchase the tickets the day before or day of, if possible. However, if you don’t, I wouldn’t give up so easily. You can almost always buy tickets for entrances to museums and castles at the door and, like I did, make the most of your time in line by chatting to your neighbors. So, the real lesson — learn how to pivot and make the most of the time and experience you have been given.
When in doubt, follow the signs. Many things can be lost in translation, but, typically, signs will never steer you wrong.
In my opinion, the best way to experience historical places is to imagine yourself and what life was like back in its prime. Read the signs posted about its history and purpose to really help you set the stage, and take your time to soak it all in. Otherwise, you’re just looking at a bunch of building blocks and furniture, only bracing the surface of all the rich history and culture underneath it all.
Don’t be afraid to stop and smell the roses, or in some cases, lose yourself in the music. Take time for the side quests, and let yourself enjoy and experience what is being gifted to you in the moment. Unless you are truly in a time crunch, the gift shops can wait.
