España — My First Trip Away from North American Soil

What I Discovered During the First Days of My First Trip to Spain

Photo by Patrick Baum

We have traveled through much of Canada, most of the U.S. states, including Hawaii, and have driven through all 31 states in Mexico because we’ve lived in Mexico during the winter months since 1998. And so, when our friends hear me say that we are going on our first trip off North American soil, their reactions have been: “What? Really? You have never traveled abroad before?” — with wide eyes showing disbelief. That fact is unbelievable, even to us. But it was because of having a dog.

We’d been told that taking a dog on a plane to another country was difficult, especially when the dog was too big to fit in a carrying case under the seat and would never survive a long trip being in a cargo hold, because, Gulliver, our furry family member, would have been too stressed out and hating the confinement without us by his side. And then there were some country’s quarantine rules to consider.

Gulliver was nearly 19 when he passed on to romp around doggy heaven, and that was when we decided it was time to spread our own wings and take some time to travel beyond our self-made boundaries via jet plane.

_____________________________

I was trepidatious about flying, not because I had never flown before, which I had in my past life, it was the packing.

Since we’d been used to packing a car to drive wherever we went and taking along all that I thought would be needed to cram into every available space, it seemed an impossible job to pack for a flight with limited luggage. That was a huge challenge for me. I couldn’t pack less than five suitcases for our first winter trip to the Yucatan after Gulliver’s passing. But when it came to planning a trip overseas, only wanting to take two acceptable carry-ons because we didn’t want to have to wait for luggage coming off the belt line…oh my! How could I possibly pack all my clothes in just one small suitcase with an additional personal bag for incidentals?

I spent three days practicing to pack frugally. I’d pack and unpack all that I wanted to take, which was always too much to fit. I had to decide, with each packing session, what I could eliminate until I had only the bare necessities.

What an ordeal. Why did I think I had to have so many changes of clothes? I didn’t have to.

My sister-in-law, who’d been a world traveler for years, said that she took a pair of black pants, three tops, and a skirt, and said she wore the same thing for several days before changing and would wash things out when needed. Ugh! That thought made me cringe. Not the washing out part, but the minimalistic aspect of changing clothes. Another problem with my packing decision was the fact that we were going to northern Spain in January and then to southern Spain in February, which meant I had to take enough warm clothes for the cold and some lighter clothes for slightly warmer weather.

Tee-shirts. Long sleeves and short sleeves to layer, I decided. Also, a couple of sweaters, three pairs of pants, one being capri length, and two skirts. I took a jacket that folded up into a pillow and a cape for dressier occasions, which could become a stand-in for a blanket on the plane or elsewhere. I had room to spare, so I added a second pair of shoes. Perfect.

A small backpack was invaluable for my computer and other needed electronics, collapsible water bottles ready to be filled, plus snacks and other necessities. I was ready when the day arrived to catch our flight to Madrid, and I felt pretty proud of myself for my accomplishments.

We left on time and should have arrived in New York to make our connecting flight in plenty of time to make that second flight. But our plane had to wait for an incredibly long on the tarmac while another plane got out of our way to steer into its gate. We were late deplaning and had to run to the other end of the terminal to make our connecting flight to Spain. We were the last ones on, and, in fact, someone had already taken our seats in the expectation that we wouldn’t show up last minute. But we did, and the people had to move.

Photo by alevision.co

We had purchased a tin of expensive chocolates for the flight crew to share, which I had to pull out of the suitcase before an attendant took it away to store since the overhead bins were already full. We were thanked profusely for the thoughtful treats and were then taken very good care of during our flight. Buying the chocolates for the crew was the best investment we’d made that day.

The seats in the plane were comfortable, having purchased economy-plus tickets that were below business class but with extra leg room. The drawback was we didn’t have the extra space to recline into a bed while flying over the Atlantic during the night and we had to sleep in a more pretzel configuration. But I did sleep, until we were rudely awakened to get our served breakfast over with before we landed. It was still dark out, and I preferred to use the darkness to get more ‘zzz’s’ instead of eating an egg sandwich. I wanted more rest and thought we had a few hours left to go.

Not so. I’d misread the clock and misheard the announcement for landing soon. What a novice I was. My husband seemed unfazed by it all, but I felt discombobulated. Not only was I a bit panic-stricken having to make sure our scattered belongings were compiled and back in their proper carrying cases, like needing to have my cape and pillow put away or on my body to brave the cold when we went looking for a taxi, but I was still groggy.

As suspected, it was cold and drizzly outside, but the line of taxis was easy to spot. We walked to the beginning of the line-up of cars where a man was stationed to make sure each customer got a ride in the proper sequence and we were soon hunkered inside a warm vehicle in no time. It was an impressive and efficient setup.

The cab driver was helpful in deciphering Marty’s Mexican Spanish to let him know the proper words in Spain-spoken Spanish, as well as giving us the information we’d need for finding places and things. I like congenial cabbies. They are so much more pleasant than grumps, which we also experienced. They are the ones needing a change of professions, I determined.

Arriving in Madrid in the early morning put us in a situation of having no place to go, as our Airbnb would not be available to us until mid-afternoon. Luckily the owner of the apartment told us we could at least store our luggage at the nearby grocery store where we would also get the keys when it was time. We just needed to talk to Leonardo.

We did that, grateful not to have to lug suitcases wherever we went, and a young woman happily took our things to store, assuring us of their safety.

We walked out unburdened and found a delightful coffee shop where I experienced my first cup of espresso.

The coffee came in an itty-bitty cup on a very small saucer. There was a tiny spoon with which to stir in the added sugar laying on the saucer in a sealed packet. I didn’t use sugar, so drank it straight. I was gobsmacked at the teensy amount of liquid in the already undersized cup for drinking first thing in the morning. What the hell? How can that wake a person up?

Marty had a cup of café con leche that came in a much larger cup and was full to the brim. I don’t do dairy, so that was out for me. I downed the espresso from my tiny cup quickly and needed another soon. The second cup I sipped and decided to add a little bit of the brown sugar packet. What a difference in the taste-treat on my tongue! I decided I liked that drink, which I savored to make it last.

Photo by Oscar Nord

I didn’t realize, however, that in that small amount of mahogany liquid I was drinking, was octane-plus caffeine. So, after sipping my second tiny cup, I began to feel slightly dizzy with a major caffeine buzz. I needed food quickly.

Marty finished his cup, paid the barrister and we left to find a café that served food, which, thank goodness, was just another block away. But I needed my dark glasses with the growing daylight.

We went back to the grocery store to ask to get to our luggage to retrieve my sunglasses and the young woman took me back to the office where they were stored. She seemed really excited while rattling off some Spanish I couldn’t keep up with, and then dashed off.

I got my glasses and met Marty at the front of the store. When we walked out, he told me, “Leonardo said we could get to our room early — to come back in an hour.”

“Yay! That must have been what the woman was saying to me,” I told him. “She was speaking so fast I didn’t catch her meaning, but she was likely saying that the people who had been staying in the apartment had left early and she was going to go clean it so that we could get in sooner. That’s why she dashed off so quickly. Great news! Let’s get something to eat and wait out the time at the restaurant.”

The eatery was comfortable with lots of wood and dim lighting for ambiance. I ordered a Spanish tortilla, which was a compact mixture of eggs, potatoes, and onions. I have had them before and knew they were delicious. It was no different that morning. Marty ordered a chorizo sandwich on a baguette. But it was not as satisfying as my tortilla, he told me, since his sandwich was simply dry meat on dry bread with nothing else on it to add moisture and taste, nor was anything suggested to add. Mustard? Catsup? Mayo? Salsa? Nada. Strange, I thought. It was no surprise that we had leftovers to take with us.

When we finished our breakfast and coffee with refills, we went back to the grocery store and were given the keys. The young woman took us to the next block to an alleyway to show us our new space for the next few nights.

We were on the third floor. Thank goodness there was an elevator as the stairs were narrow and steep. The apartment was a studio-style room with a bed, sofa, and kitchen all in one space, but with a good-sized bathroom by itself.

We had taken converters to be able to access the electricity, and immediately blew a breaker by trying to plug a power strip into the system already overloaded with plug-ins, which disabled our power strip and blew the converter.

The electricity, we’ve learned since, is much more powerful in Spain, with an average of 230 volts instead of the 110 we’re used to in the States and Mexico.

“No wonder I blew a breaker,” I stated. “Too much on one plug-in, even for 230.”

The one exciting discovery for me was when I walked into the bathroom and used the toilet.

“I love this toilet!” I exclaimed when I left the room. “I love the rectangular shape, which seems more compact, and how it flushes. It’s instant and powerful. What a concept! It seems much more streamlined, efficient and it’s good-looking.” I was in awe.

The stove was another matter.

Photo by Sam Williams

Read Part 2 of this series: Madrid and the Train Ride to Zaragoza.