It’s an alternative reality you allow yourself to explore when you lie in your bed at night– eyes wide open, mind searching. You can’t shake the thought that you deserve more, a life where every day makes you feel energized and motivated.
It’s cruel. It’s impossible. It’s unfair. You love Jaén, you tell yourself. Jaén is safe and comfortable. And yet, you can’t ignore that… searching, that feeling that you are missing out on an undiscovered life
That’s what staying in Madrid for seven days and six nights felt like, like I’ll be comparing everything and everyone with Madrid for the rest of my stay in Spain. It feels like a thought you can’t quite overcome:
What could my life be like?
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One of my favorite songs in 2020 was called ‘Pink Pony Club’ by Chappell Roan. Alongside it’s upbeat pace and lighthearted rhythm, Roan sings about her desire to leave her small town in Tennessee and move to Santa Monica, California where she will be able to…
“Dance in the club… just having fun…in my high heels… every night’s another reason why I left it all”
I think many who have grown up in smaller places can relate to that insatiable desire to move to a bigger city and get lost in it’s dazzling confusion.
C. Tangana’s Demasiadas Mujeres feels like the perfect example of the seductive nature of such big cities.
“Borracho en Miami, volando pa’ LA, o de vuelto a Madrid,” he sings over an intensifying beat…
“Cuéntame cosas que no me hagan daño
¿Cuando volverás?”
Although my experience wasn’t as crazy as that of “El Madrileño”, Madrid is still alluring with its baroque architecture, countless museums and busy nightlife.
Like passing kisses in a pulsating club, Madrid feels elusive. Just as you are trying to know who it is, it disappears. Bodies, sweat and music get mixed all into one. Turning round and round one gets lost in the sounds of reggaeton from the Spanish Caribbean, Latin trap and Black-American hip hop.
On such intense nights, stepping out into the cold night air can be just as refreshing as a cup of water. An even better solution is walking to Lavapiés for some food.
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On such intense nights, stepping out into the cold night air can be just as refreshing as a cup of water. An even better solution is walking to Lavapiés for some food.
Lavapiés sits at the southeastern part of the bustling city. In contrast to the gargantuan blocks of calle Gran Vía in the center of Madrid, Lavapiés is a conglomerate of small narrower intersecting streets. an indication of Spain’s origins in the middle ages soon after Madrid became the capital of Spain in 1561. During this time, many immigrant populations from the rural parts of the country moved in to the barrio, giving the neighborhood the name “coralas.”
Unlike the ritzier more sanitized parts of Madrid, Lavapiés feels homey and lived-in. It’s residents sit on park benches talking or sharing a beer. There is laundry hanging from balconies. It’s walls are painted with art, as if it’s heart and opinions are on it’s sleeves. It’s stores and restaurants predominately cater to global shoppers who hail from Asia, Africa and Central and South America. It seems that all the world has made home in these quarters. Hatian creole, Urdu, Bengali are just a few of of the languages you can hear walking up and down it’s sloping streets.
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The search for food opens up another challenge: picking one restaurant out of a multitude. Walking along this specific part of Lavapiés reminds me of buying produce at the feiras in Brazil as vendors shout to grab the attention of possible customers.
“Try out these oranges, querida!” “Tudo tá bonito y barato!!” “5 reais por duzia!”
The search for food, turns out, is also a search for a taste of home.
On one night out, this exploration brought my roommate and I to a small and cozy restaurant at the heart of Lavapiés. The smells of Mughal cuisine that is popular in North India and Pakistan welcomed us, the delicious taste of chicken biryani even more. Uncles sat around the table gossiping about the latest drama. The TV played melodramatic music videos (no open heart surgeries or flying cars, however).
I can only assume that these pockets of togetherness bring solace to people whom have made homes away from home. Language, food, and media, all of these things can make one feel less alone, less unmoored.
Yearning for this same sensation, I bought a guaraná antártica on the way back to the hostel. O jeitinho Brasileiro. It’s dark green can and familiar sweetness made me smile. There is no more perfect way to end a busy night than tasting memories of one’s country on one’s lips.
“Come get me out of California
No leaves are brown”
Chappell Roan sings in her other single, California.
“I miss the seasons of Missouri
My dying town”
Finding and feeling at home while living abroad can be disorienting and difficult. It is also a highly individual experience.
Yearning. Regret. Wishful thinking. Dreaming. Sadness. Happiness. All of these emotions are valid.
But do not despair, “home” can feel different with each month that passes. A country that felt so foreign once can eventually feel like your own. An apartment that was vacant can be filled with roommates. A dream can become a reality.
After my stay in Madrid, I won’t lie and say that upon reaching my much smaller city, I didn’t automatically dream of returning to the Spanish capital. But I also can’t say that I didn’t feel a sense of peace walking through it’s familiar streets.
Jaén does not look or feel or sound the same as a Madrid.
It has an ocean of olive trees where Madrid has concrete. It has MasyMas and Supermercados Dani. It has white houses with red tiled roofs, and neighbors who say, “bueno día.”
All of these things make Jaén what it is.
Looming over my small city like a protective mother is Castillo de Santa Catalina, spread atop the cliffs of El Naveral. Night after night, she waits patiently for her children to return. And on sleepy drives back to Jaén, she whispers, “buena noche,” and puts me to bed.
“Cuando volverás?” C. Tangana asks.
“Has volvido,” my home responds.
Where in the world 
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