Edit: Wow, I cannot stop talking. I just hit a word limit on Beehiiv, because I guess that exists. Good for me, bad for you. I’m going to eat dinner, watch RHONY, and go to bed. This entry is just on my Madrid leg of the trip. I’ll save Valencia and Barcelona for next time, whether that’s next week or later this one. If you have questions or suggestions for my next entry, let me know. Thanks for understanding.

I’m back! I hope you didn’t miss me too much in my hiatus. Before I left, I told one of my coworkers that I think this trip will be a life-changer, and I think I was right. We left late Tuesday night and returned the following Tuesday afternoon. In the days since, I’ve easily settled back into my life — now trying to keep a streak of invigorating 7 a.m. wakeups. I kept having this feeling that this might be my last time out of the country in a while (wonder why!), so I tried to savor it as such. As with all trips abroad, I remember how American I truly am even though I think I’m so worldly.

I have a dumb anecdote from this weekend I want to share as kind of a tone-setter for this entry. My friend Christina and I had just begun a walk to Juniper Valley Park (ever been? Good if you’re craving something suburban.) and were passing beloved club Elsewhere.

When we hit Elsewhere, there was a parked truck with bright green light panels on all sides of it — a Brat van related in some way to Charli XCX. Christina’s immediate verbal impression: Oh, this must be for the ticket scavenger hunt she’s doing for her tour! A normal reaction and fun that we had just stumbled upon it. My immediate verbal reaction was different. I’ve only been off of Twitter for a week and already am losing my grasp on pop culture, so I didn’t know what this was aside from it being Brat. When I first looked at it, I saw a bunch of Dove brand logos on it, like Charli was doing some collaboration with Dove. Instead of reacting to anything else in front of me, my first thought was a disgruntled, moderately loud Fuck Dove. That’s gross.

I don’t even hate Dove like that. Of all the companies, they seem to be moderately woke and fun, plus I love their soaps. My anger was towards the big ad that is Bratcore, the commodification of what’s marketed as an alternative lifestyle. I can’t even take a walk without a big, neon ad in my face. I felt like Larry David.

Anyway, there was barely anyone around except for two people working the area around the van who we realized are there to help scavenger hunters. They told us that there’s a subreddit listed on the back of the van that we can go to to give us some clue we need to score free tickets to this summer’s tour. I was so annoyed at the whole event but couldn’t even process my frustration, so I just ignored it while Christina (who already had tickets) sent all the info to her friend.

We walked off (I threw an offhanded apology for saying Fuck Dove, an apology that also felt embarrassing) and continued our journey. Around 45 minutes later, Christina checked her phone to learn that her friend used the code and scored free tickets to this in-demand show. I then followed the process I easily could have 45 minutes ago, but the tickets were all sold out and I instead got a code for a complimentary Dove deodorant. If I had just approached the situation with curiosity, I would have reaped the benefits. Instead, I was jaded and unfit for public consumption. However, we are too accepting of marketing, blindly saying yes to cookies of all kinds.

What I got out of it was that I’m in another period of my life in which tiny things tick me off. I hate being in this phase. This is one of the lowest forms of humanity: complaining about the weather, complaining about wait times, and — the worst of all, the lowest of the low — complaining about traffic or driver behavior. I have to remember how to not get set off as much and calm down. At least we had a nice time at the park watching children fight over footballs or even younger ones scooter around in cute coats.

It’s nice to remember that children exist, even though I’m surrounded by adult children like myself all over Bushwick. Thankfully, Spain had cute kids in spades. This week, I’ll just talk about Madrid, which I loved and would love to see more of. Here’s a stream of consciousness that may or may not be interesting!

I’ve been banking on a lot for this trip: a break, a reward, a feast, an awakening, an opportunity to communicate in a language I’m learning. We planned but not as much as we could have, only making a reservation beforehand to a restaurant we wouldn’t end up going to. Our core four was me, Meera, Gabby, and Allie. Gabby spent part of her childhood outside of Madrid, and Allie had seen parts of that at the end of the study abroad that bonded them for life.

Our trip was a week starting in Madrid and driving to Barcelona by way of lunch in Valencia. Gabby drew up a Madrid itinerary we sort of stuck to, but the rest was quite up in the air. Gabby and Allie had been to both cities before, Meera clocked a short layover in Barcelona, and I was going in blind. Spain was always high my travel bucket list but never the top when I used to be kosher-ish because I knew I wouldn’t be able to eat most of the food. Now with an unholy diet and sacred friends, the time to go es ahora.

I was willing to fight jetlag with sleeping on the plane, and we paid a cheap flight out of JFK from 11 p.m. our time to 11 a.m. their time, which would be around 6 hours. I ask again, has anyone heard of Air Europa? We had to make sure it was a real airline (it is, and a Spanish one at that) before we bought tickets. I loved the departure time because I packed the night before and had a way less restless sleep than I usually do before flights. Meera and I rolled our carry-ons (none of us checked bags, and I definitely packed enough outfits for my week although I only wore my beat-up Vejas the whole trip) over to Gabby’s where we’d take our Revel over to Terminal 4.

While we waited for our rideshare, we (eventually became I) chatted with a disheveled guy about Spain as well as how his job is “racing cars, as in running faster than them,” which I found fascinating. One of Gabby’s neighbors entering the building asked us where we were going, and she talked a little about her time there and sighed longingly. That’s exactly how I want to remember this trip.

Our driver was mostly silent and played music I avoid (Kanye) and music I forget about (Now that we found love, what are we gonna doooo with iiiiiit). I coudn’t figure out how to put in TSA PreCheck info with this airline so I just went through the long line with the plebes. Can anyone tell me why there are always gaggles of orthodox Jews on international flights? Is everyone just going to every Chabad everywhere?

I was really excited to eat Shake Shack (fun fact: the first time I had it was at this terminal in high school), but they were closing it as Gabby and I arrived. We instead shared a burrito on the plane from a random place called Mi Casa that I can’t tell if it was actually delicious or just felt like it was.

One of the best parts of being Gabby’s friend is winding up in silly situations or conversations I wouldn’t otherwise, something I’ve experienced with her since high school. Something about the Cadahia Effect (I feel it with her sisters, too) is the pinnacle of romance, weaving in and out of serendipitous situations or dreamily avoiding stickiness that I’d fall into without it. I think I have resting kind face, resting ask-for-directions face…but the Cadahias have something else that softens all genders and ages.

One of the Mi Casa dudes was being silly unprompted, and we thought it was at us, but they were really for a coworker walking directly behind us. Afterwards, he walked up to us to explain himself and we all had a laugh. Then he went on for a while about how having these silly morsels with his coworkers is what makes the job bearable and helps him care more about the food he’s making. It was a pleasant moment of openness and appreciation right before a vacation made for both of those things. I don’t think any of it would have happened if I wasn’t with Gabby.

I was on edge this entire journey because we were running a bit behind (read: I love getting to the airport super early), and I felt out of control. This is a theme for me lately with getting frustrated because I want to control everything. TikTok OCD diagnosis incoming, obviously. I’ve made plenty of mistakes at airports, and being prepared early eliminates a lot of that headache. I don’t think it’s uncommon to be stressed out at airports, but I was pleased to see my friends completely chilled out. They had no idea I was stressed but did notice how quiet I was, which I guess is the indicator. I felt comfortable going into a foreign land with people who can roll with the punches.

We had no chill time at the gate and immediately boarded, which involved getting on a small bus that seemed to give us a whole perimeter tour of the airport as we tried figuring out which plane was ours. Our big yet somehow dinky plane stood alone with an ugly, boxy, multileveled ramp up to the plane instead of a glitzy, straight staircase. I had lost my phone signal at this point and claimed the middle seat beside Meera to my left, Gabby to my right, and Allie behind us (which I think would be our same formation back).

We had a meal once the flight took off, a midnight dinner of either pasta or chicken (Meera chose the chicken, Gabby and I laughed at her with our pastas) and this actually delicious cake square. Gabby lent me a neck pillow, and I had multiple layers alongside the plane’s “pillow” and blanket to keep me sleepy. We popped melatonins, and I actually slept on the flight, which is rare for me. I woke up a few times due to the intermittent turbulence, occasionally frightening but not comparable to my last turbulent flight. I had a lot of half-sleepy moments that only exist on dark planes, and the only media I consumed was my oldies playlist. This was definitely a budget airline, but any transatlantic flight has enough amenities to be moderately comfortable, right?

Jarring sunlight woke me up, so I peeked out our window as we landed. Madrid just looks red, red, red. The buildings, the warmth, it doesn’t look like the gray American cities I tend to fly into. We traversed through the airport’s long hallways before passport check. I couldn’t believe how lax their officers were both when we entered and exited the country. Neither asked me any questions as they stamped my passport, and one of them just smiled at me and didn’t say anything.

My booking.com apartment booking for Madrid earned me a free drive from the airport, but we must have missed him by the time we got out of boarding. I felt so bad and frustrated with the timing, but the girls genuinely did not show a single sign of caring. We just grabbed an Uber to Gabby’s sister Sofia’s apartment.

I always love the first ride into a city from the airport because you can see weird hotels and roadside attractions turn into a real city, and hopefully recognize everything on your way back, too. Spain is gorgeous even at its airport ugliest. There were a few corporate offices, and they were for businesses I immediately recognized: Vodafone was my phone provider during this trip and Aena of course helps run Madrid’s airport. It made me feel like we were in a small town.

Allie, Meera, and I’s apartment wouldn’t be ready for another few hours, and Gabby was staying with her sister, who’s in grad school and working nearby. Sofia’s neighborhood — weirdly like a lot of Spain — reminded me of Milan because all of the signs and businesses looked unchanged since 2009 or even 2004. Her building had a doorlady, who got up to hug Gabby when she said she was Sofia’s sister. Spain is small enough that she knew their dad, who grew up nearby. It immediately felt like a very intimate, European interaction.

Sofia’s apartment was the perfect landing pad. The smells and wood reminded me a lot of my Nonna’s house, and it had this great view of the blocks beyond. I felt super groggy and weird, and Gabby thankfully wanted to nap. Allie and Meera were restless enough to venture for a walk, coffee, and snack, so we turned down the siesta curtain (this is a thing) and dozed off. It was essential, perfect sleep we were giddy to fall into, and we woke up to pastries from our friends. My favorite was this pasteis de nata-esque flan pool atop a croissant-y crust.

Some tourist-annoyance regulation requires all hotel or Airbnb guests to fill out this security form. The Madrid spot messaged me that they hadn’t received our forms despite us doing so days prior, but that might have been an automated message because they told me my room was ready while I was freaking out. Meera, Allie, and I Ubered to our accommodations smack dab in the middle of the city.

Sol is a plaza in the center of Madrid, and all of the highway kilometer markers from the city are based on how far you are from Sol. It’s packed with touristy treats and is close to the Gran Vía, the main commercial drag. Our Uber took us from this normal neighborhood to this drag, filled with tourists on the sidewalk passing by hotels, theaters, and restaurants with English words. Our apartment was on a pedestrian street slightly off the Gran Vía and was thankfully quiet enough for us to forget where we were. I was probably the most accepting of the accommodations, but maybe I have the lowest standards of the group. It was a dark Airbnb with a window in the bedroom that led to a dark atrium.

In both of our accommodations this week, we had to brace ourselves for hot water ceasing after around 10 minutes in the shower. If I wanted to shower immediately after someone, I’d have to prep myself for a cold plunge. This was my biggest gripe with both apartments, but the Madrid spot reminded me of my study abroad dungeon that was dark enough to lose any concept of time. I showered while my loves napped. The Milanness of Madrid had me excited to hit the streets.

There are many Milan haters out there because they find it boring and are accustomed to the playgroundiness of other Italian cities. It’s probably just because I have family there and have been primed to view a storybook version of it, but I loved being there so much because of the realness. It’s both gritty and glamorous. If I could live in Italy, I’d probably want to live there. It doesn’t feel like a caricature of a city like Venice is (love Venice tho!) but instead somewhere you can build a real life. I kept comparing everywhere in Spain to Milan, specifically, even though my trip there a few years ago included other Italian cities. I think Milanifying something just means me liking a European city.

We walked to dinner off a square Malasaña, allegedly Madrid’s Bushwick. We were about to meet our companions for the Madrid leg of the trip: two of Gabby’s grad school friends visiting from Amsterdam. I’d met Charlie twice before, but this would be my first time meeting Mathilde, who I’d repeatedly been told will either be my best friend or the love of my life because of how similar we are.

Gabby and her Dutchies were picking at seafood when we arrived, and I immediately felt comfortable as soon as we all hugged. Charlie has this natural beauty feedback loop inside and out that millions of women wish to attain; Mathilde had sparkly purple eyeshadow (which I also often choose and was the first thing I noticed about her) and an inherent security with herself, unable and unwilling to fake anything. I quickly understood the clone comparisons in how we joked, ranted, and initiated.

We sat at this croqueta spot for three hours and mostly talked politics (bleak but very engaging with people who come from a country Americans view as utopian) as the sun set. Almost every meal we had was tapas, and this started us off with octopus, shishito peppers, fried anchovies, fried eggplant, and obviously croquetas. I had my first of many tinto de veranos this trip (red wine mixed with soda), beginning a trip of mostly light, simple drinks. I wasn’t hungover the whole trip and understand why Europeans have later nights out than Americans — they’ll pick a light beer over a Slopfest Shmorple Triple IPA.

The only sad part of the dinner was when a sobbing dad-aged man walked up to our table asking for money. Gabby went with him to another spot to buy him some food to which he was super grateful. She came back a bit spooked since this wasn’t the Madrid she knew. I didn’t see much poverty, begging, or homelessness in Madrid but did see slightly more homelessness in Barcelona (still nothing compared to U.S. cities, in my opinion). The crying definitely made it feel unique.

Gabby wanted to get back early so as to not wake Sofia up too late, so she ushered the rest of us to a Brooklyn-esque rocker bar nearby called La Vía Láctea. We sat around with Estrellas in a cozy booth while chatting over Spanish rock and people watching. If the stereotype of Dutch people is homogenous and not trying to make waves in a social setting, we got lucky with Mathilde and Charlie’s gleeful exploration through anything.

Mathilde would strike up conversations with the bartender when I’d rather disappear as an American loser that harshens whichever vibe she penetrates. Mathilde and I’s main difference is that she has self-proclaimed no shame whereas I am always trying to course-correct what I perceive as my inherent bumbling foolishness. Charlie is so committed to memory-preserving that she constantly takes short videos on her phone of whatever we’re doing. It’s not intrusive or annoying because it’s not for attention or posting; she got a lot of hilarious clips out of our time together. The five of us having this bonding time sans Gabby as our connector was easy and satisfying for our first night.

In Madrid especially, I peed in a lot of strange bathrooms due to lacking toilet paper, low toilets, and/or lockless doors. I warned the girl entering the bathroom about this door’s refusal to shut, so I ended up guarding her stall while she peed. She ended up being a Texan teaching in Madrid for the year, which she was loving. She said she barely speaks Spanish and is hardly learning but that her job “is all about English immersion.” Okay then. She recommended a bar to us called Tupperware, and I felt like I hadn’t left Bushwick.

Mathilde asked our bartender what’s open and what’s worth checking out on this sleepy Wednesday night. We were either in Malasaña (Bushwick) or Chueca (Hells Kitchen, I guess, since it’s Madrid’s gayborhood), but the crazy gay bars weren’t open. She recommended a bar a few blocks away called Madklyn, which we stayed in for another few hours. Again, I’m in Bushwick.

The crowd at both bars were similar (some people went from one to the other), and it got packed later. They had pinball machines in a separate room and played random oldish American rock. People watching was maybe the best of the trip as we watched a bunch of Madrileños smoking outside and running into each other. They were dressed like 90s American punks and had gorgeous faces. I found it pretty easy to tell who in Madrid was Spanish and who was clearly not. We drank more Estrellas on a couch and screamed stories at each other.

Quite a bit of my first two days was spent in envy, which I didn’t realize until writing this down. I envied what I internalized as carefreeness and calm from my friends, exposing what I thought as an uptightness in myself. I’m not sure most people would use that word to describe me, and my friends pushed back when I started using it, but it’s how I felt starting as an airport dad. I adored getting to know Charlie and Mathilde, both of whom are rising stars and very worldly. I’m jealous of their Dutch education that made them polyglots, able to speak at least enough Spanish, French, and German between the two of them alongside Dutch and English. There was a tattoo tour portion of our night at Madklyn, and I famously could never get a tattoo because I struggle with permanence.

Maybe uptight isn’t a great word, but I do think I’m quite cautious and afraid to dive into things I can’t know if I’ll succeed in. I wasn’t speaking as much Spanish as I had wanted to by this point and hoped I’d be bolder in the coming days with it. I expressed my overall frustration with my self-imposed limits, and my friends obviously saw it very differently than I did. I felt like a bit of the baby for most of the trip, a departure for someone who tries to daddy every itinerary. I set an intention to chill out. How lucky am I to be a baby in another country swaddled by friends old and new. When we parted ways for the night, I told Mathilde I loved her and meant it, which I do think is possible to feel for someone within a day of knowing them. My trio got some snacks (Sweet Chili Doritos, Tex-Mex Doritos, and Tiramisu Oreos), noshed, and hit the hay (or for Allie, the pullout couch).

Our Dutch friends were hungover this morning, which made us Americans feel very strong. I had set an insane goal of getting up around 8:30, which obviously didn’t happen. I think we slept until noon, which ended up being typical for this trip: late nights, late mornings. I wasn’t mad at it because I thought it would ease our adjustment back to the states. Mathilde and Charlie were staying near Gabby, so we all decided to meet at what I assume is Madrid’s answer to Central Park, Retiro. If you’ve seen pictures on Instagram of your friends in rowboats on a blue pond in front of an ornate pillar with a horse atop it, you’ve seen the Retiro.

Our crew was in don’t talk to me until I’ve had my coffee mode, and we thought we’d walk over to the Retiro and find coffee with lunch nearby. Temperatures were ever-changing this trip, but I almost always felt prepared due to my layering. I was worried my thick, cropped puffer would be too heavy for this trip, but it ended up sufficing for certain days and most nights. Otherwise, I’d bring my hoodie or turtleneck In this moment down Gran Vía’s congested, slow-moving sidewalks, I was shedding my layers.

Another tip that most people swear by already: don’t use Apple Maps. I love Apple Maps and think it’s the superior walking navigator, but the platform is so unfamiliar with how Spain works. It showed me what I thought was a trendy coffeeshop near the park, but it ended up being a tiny cafe in a wellness center with workout classes. We obviously exited.

One of the most stressful feelings on a trip is having to search for something you’re desperate for and feeling unsatisfied with the results around you, hoping your choice ends up surprising you. We parked ourselves at an overpriced outdoor restaurant that happened to be serving a hotel. We decided to just get coffees here and pick up a quick bite nearby after. I sipped my thankfully incredible cappuccino while we schemed food.

We walked through the posh Salamanca neighborhood to grab quick sandwiches. I detest ham and cheeses, but jamón y queso really gets me going. Allie said she’s heard that the deadest giveaway of Americanness is eating while walking. We were true Americans on our way to the park, but I can’t help how much I love eating on the go because it makes me feel like I have somewhere to be. Shackles! Gabby saw my sweater tied around my neck and told me I looked Spanish, so I actually am fine.

We met our angels in front of the Instagrammed pond, which was prettier in person. There were people playing instruments, all ages running around, and different terrains to the park. We stopped for a while in front of a different pond filled with turtles, geese, and a regal black swan. One of the best things about making international friends are the joyful conversations you have that would be so boring between Americans. We talked for 10 minutes about our differing orthodontia. I learned that a lot of Dutch people get these permanent retainer wires instead of having to deal with what we have.

After finishing our Retiro walk from a garden with trees that looked like loaves of bread, we passed by some beautiful museums that maybe I’ll have the chance to walk through later in my life. For today, we stopped at the Museo Thyssen, an art museum both Gabby and Allie loved. Allie had a Snapchat memory calling it the best museum she’d been to even though she now doesn’t remember going. I might agree with Snapchat-memory Allie.

Mathilde had a work meeting, so we snaked through the museum’s three floors while she Zoomed. We spent way too much time on the first two floors and sped through the top floor so we could rejoin a patient Mathilde. The first floor was a lot of impression and post-impressionism, which are my favorites. The second floor skewed more modern. We saw all kinds of all stars in this museum — Degas, Chagall, Miro, O’Keefe, and obviously Picasso and Dalí. Everything felt important here, even American art had more of a sheen. It was mostly paintings with a few sculptures, including a windowed enclave with a few Rodin pieces. The place wasn’t packed and a joy to pace around. Since we needed to make our exit, our third-floor jaunt was fast, which ended up being in my favor since it was all renaissance art (groan).

Hungry and tired, we stopped at a Sofia-recommended spot nearby called La Dolores, a wood-lined spot run by old, gregarious, possibly drunk dudes. I felt like I was getting the authentic experience. Every conversation Gabby had with a server in Spain lasted over a minute. How many words do you need when describing a dish? It was more fun than our short exchanges with servers here, though.

Like most of our meals, this was going to be seafood central. Fun fact for my non-Jews: the word traif is used to describe non-kosher foods. Spain might be the traif capital of Europe with all its pork and shellfish. I grew up a very picky eater, something I’ve mostly shed as an adult, and used my semi-kosher status (no pork, shellfish, or certain other meats…but not truly kosher because I mixed meat and dairy, plus I wasn’t trying to have separate cutlery for either) to my benefit since I had no desire to expand my palette.

I’m about six years into fully ditching kosherdom, which started when I conceded to my study abroad friends wanting pork. I find pork much more accessible than seafood. It doesn’t have that smell, I don’t have to deal with bones in the same way, and pork can be fun at any time of the day. Wouldn’t you rather start your day with a BEC than a [pick any fish], egg, and cheese? I never go out of my way to eat seafood and tend to only have it when someone else wants it. I’ve had some really incredible seafood, but I must be set in some sort of way that it’s never my instinct to choose it.

Other than a lil’ chorizo, this was about to be an all seafood, all the time meal, ordering stuff I’d never choose. The specialty was to get tinned fish and put them on chips, which we also did with anchovies. This was one of many times I surprised myself with how much I enjoyed fish instead of slogging through it like I assumed I would. We also had pulpo (octopus) again and again, which might be my favorite. I’m so happy I didn’t go to Spain while I was kosher.

After enough time resting, we walked through some pedestrian streets then onto greater ones over to Plaza Mayor, one of the more famous plazas, where we’d stop for another tinto. We got a lot of angry looks when we sat down, and I can’t figure out why. Too American? Too loud? Too beautiful? We sat as the sun started setting and watched a woman wearing an ill-fitting, barely zipped flamenco dress along with some videographer. A man played accordion at us to the song I can’t remember that’s also the Money Heist theme song. As we left, we noticed signs on the apartments atop the plaza angry at street performers playing at all hours. Isn’t that what you’re signing up for while living in Plaza Mayor, though?

Our walking continues to Gabby’s favorite park in Madrid, Parque del Oeste. We rushed to hit the park before sunset, which is apparently extra beautiful. We arrived just in time as we moved through the crowd doing the same thing we were. A dude with a microphone and guitar was singing Spanish and English songs, but the breathtaking views of the city from this park on the hill drowned out his voice. This was maybe the second time in my life I watched the sun completely disappear into the horizon, which is the reason for watching it set here. This is what travel is for.

My uptightness strikes again. Our crowd now gathers around this musician as I hear a lot of American accents and see a sea of videotaping phones. I’m sort of enjoying this performance but also would probably not be sticking around if this was in Central Park. I felt some sort of tourist aversion. He starts playing “Dancing Queen,” which I have a complicated relationship with as I adore this song but tend to hate wherever I am that chooses to play it.

Some people break out of our semicircle and start dancing in the middle, which inspires others to do the same. All of my friends except Meera run in to dance. I’ll happily videotape them letting go, but I could not fathom doing the same myself. I felt this deep refusal I tried describing to Meera and couldn’t. Do I need to be too cool? It’s not like I don’t love dancing in public. It was something about the “Dancing Queen” of it all. I think it felt like a manufactured moment meant for tourists to feel like they were really immersing themselves somewhere but was actually just a container for them to stay in so they don’t plague local spots.

This is obviously a cynical and probably incorrect view (I heard a lot of Spanish speakers, too) of what’s just supposed to be a fun time, but I had such a repulsion I couldn’t explain. It wasn’t even for my friends, it was just my own rule I found myself following. I walked back to the overlook and ranted to Meera about why I am so uptight and what I can do to break free from it. Then I got over it and the two of us took in the views together, which was what I wanted all along. Meera and I are pros at being in friend mode, but I loved taking advantage of our moments alone.

We split home to get ready for what we knew to be our biggest night in Madrid spent eating and clubbing. Other than a few Uber exceptions, we walked everywhere. The stroll home from the park was great because we saw the other side of the Gran Vía from where we’d usually been, clarifying my mental map. I changed into a booby jumpsuit and walked to dinner with Meera and Allie.

We beat our other friends and were confused where the dining room was at Asturian (northern Spanish region) spot Restaurante El Ñeru. The main floor looked more like a bar, but when we went downstairs, no one was in the brick-walled dining room. Turns out there were multiple large dining rooms downstairs, and we weren’t at the right one yet. This place looked like it hadn’t changed since the 90s in a good way.

Before the other girls arrived, we ordered Sidra, an Asturian cider usually poured from high above to carbonate it further. This eatery instead had these contraptions you hook onto the bottle that you can put your glass in and get a shot of sidra by pressing a button. It’s still very cool. Our server told us we’re supposed to drink it all in one go (bigger and thicker than a normal shot, but very delicious), and my face got super red. I wasn’t drunk most of the trip despite drinking daily, but the sidra got me good.

Once the girls arrived, we began another tapas journey: asparagus, more pulpo, more croquetas, and the famous Asturian capacho (fried veal, ham, and cheese in a breadcrumb crust, kind of like a cordon bleu), which we were too full to eat more of. This restaurant felt super cozy and homey, and it definitely paid to be pretty girls because our server gave us free limoncello-esque shots at the end. This was one of multiple restaurants we were the last people to leave but waited a while to receive the check.

If you asked me before my trip what I was most excited for, it was our next destination: Kapital. This refitted theater is a 7-story smorgasbord of a club, each floor providing a different experience aimed to keep you awake all night. I’ve only heard of it in mythical terms from study abroad alumni. Our generation famously isn’t great at clubbing, but there are some venues that refute that fact, and Kapital is the type of club a movie protagonist let loose at.

It was a Thursday night, but the line was still long. We ended up behind some Germans a bit older than us who met in town at an Amazon conference. Is it something about traveling or being in Europe, specifically, that makes it so much easier to make friends? We hung with the Deutsche leute intermittently throughout the night.

Upon walking in, we were smacked with a reality possibly not seen by study abroaders: the clientele was extremely young. They could have been sixteen. We saw a lot of formal wear that made it seem like this was a night out after a formal school event. Maybe this was one-off, but I doubt it. The crowd was either Spanish teenagers or other tourists with mythical presumptions.

We had to pay cover, but the cover included two drink tickets. I sustained myself on vodka redbulls and vodka sodas, strong ones at that. Not all of the floors were open, but the offerings included the following: the first two or three floors were of this grand theater with the main DJ, one floor had karaoke, and two more floors played reggaeton. Oh, there was also a “rooftop” for smoking cigarettes but it was a total fire hazard, a windowless room with a doctor’s office ceiling. Mathilde, who works for Amsterdam’s Night Mayor, said that if this place existed in Amsterdam it would be immediately shut down by the municipality, a phrase I repeated for the next week.

Partway through the night, dancers appeared onstage with appalling costumes: stereotypical ancient Egyptian dress made slutty. What? The big screen behind the DJ started playing AI videos of Egyptian iconography, a guy dressed as a pharaoh putzed around a go-go booth, and we saw Egyptian coin decorations hanging from a balcony. What? As racist as our country can be, I don’t think this would ever get greenlit in the states. It was kind of hilarious, though. Who is entertained by this? The dancer girls looked beyond bored.

We listened to all kinds of music that night and went as crazy as you’d hope for a club like Kapital. Two of the Germans joined us, an extremely sweet drunk girl very taken by a much more composed Allie (eventually messaging her I love you more than any guy) and her friend who we later realized was gay (and European). We occasionally stepped outside to get air and compliment each other. At one point, Gabby accidentally bumped into a younger girl in a hallway, who would proceed to yell in peak prissy voice You can just say you’re sorry!

We punted a bit after 4 and grabbed some food across the street. I chose a cookies-n-cream crepe I ate once we got home. We fell asleep a bit after 5. This was a manageably crazy night.

Late wakeup, obviously. We had a lot of fallen soldiers this go-around, and Gabby was preoccupied meeting Sofia’s boo. My trio walked around Malasaña’s pedestrian (or very narrow) streets, stopping for a coffee before meeting up with our Dutch loves. I totally see the Brooklyn comparisons because the neighborhood is full of vintage shops and fashionable youths. It was the perfect sunny day to get lost.

We hadn’t had tortilla (Spanish tortilla is like an egg and potato omelette) yet on this trip, so we met the girls at a chain called Pez Tortilla and split three in this hot room. After noshing, we sat with a tinto outside in a small square and soaked in our last day together before we left Madrid. This felt like both such a touristy trip and so not since a lot of our time was spent doing what I do in New York: walking, eating, and talking.

I am such a code switcher that it’s almost nauseating. After not even a week of talking to all kinds of Europeans, I’ve unintentionally adopted this hybrid international accent and cadence, which has a lot more peaks and valleys than my usual tone. It evaporated fast, but it was fun while it lasted.

Gabby joined us again, and we walked over to a famous cathedral, just another excuse to walk. We had another 10 p.m. dinner in store that night but ended up stopping at Spanish chain 100 Montaditos, which offers 100 varieties of small sandwiches. The closest comparison I could make was to U.K. bar chain Spoons. We sat outside drinking cheap tintos and (after much waiting) cheap bites. If I went here as a study abroad kid, I would probably go every night.

We had multiple fascinating journeys to the bathroom, one of them spent watching the drunkest guy ever stumble up stairs, and we commiserated with a girl about it through laughs alone. Another frustration I have with Spanish bathrooms are one-stall bathrooms for men and women. Why not just have two separate bathrooms and not gender them? Our second trip down featured a long line of women, and not all of us were brave enough to risk peeing in the men’s room (I did).

Our dinner ended up being at a place I saw on our first day from the Uber window and fixated on because of its interesting outdoor dining tent. Sofia, her girlfriend, and young, plucky Cadahia cousin Teresa joined us at this Sofia-recommended place. It felt very family oriented and cozy, also one of the restaurants we probably could not have enjoyed at its maximum if we didn’t have Spaniards in our group.

Our crew was extremely loud to the curiosity and frustration of other diners, and it must have been confusing for them to hear fluent Spanish, English, and Dutch at one table. I faced another food fear of eating shrimp after having to pull its body off of it and was surprised that it tasted like candy. Lots of wine, salad, and pork chops. Our servers were super kind and gave us little chocolates and Bailey’s in a patron-shaped bottle at the end. It was a perfect final dinner in Madrid.

Our Uber to and from the restaurant was a van with both back seat rows facing each other, which us Americans cheered over and the Europeans were already used to. We had to end our time in Madrid as gay as possible, so we went to a lesbian night at a place hilariously called Fluide Escape. My friends weren’t very into this bar, but I enjoyed it. We came as they were finishing up a trivia night, and two girls poured free shots into people’s mouths to transition the night into dancing to a mix of English and Spanish music. I was gripped in silly conversation with Sofia’s lovely girlfriend and afterwards with Teresa about politics. Maybe I wasn’t dancing long enough to loathe the club.

We said our goodbyes and braced ourselves for early wakeups. I felt like I’d see Sofia again soon just because of the Pittsburgh of it all, but I was not in the mood to leave Charlie and Mathilde, who felt like people I’d known intimately for way longer than I had. I knew our core four would have fun for the back half of the trip, but I didn’t want to miss this piece.