Hot

Hot, hot, hot. As far as I can recall, those were my first thoughts as I stepped through the airplane door and felt the air of Madrid, air-conditioned though it was, rise to meet me. It had been a long flight – 8 hours. I had reached the gate right at boarding time, though it was another twenty minutes before boarding began. Through some weird fluke of checking in, my seat had been moved to 44J, which was right above the wing. This proved providential as my seatmate didn’t arrive. I therefore had the row to myself in an otherwise crowded plane.

If you’ve taken a trans-Atlantic flight before, you know that for all you may plan to sleep on the plane, you rarely get your beauty sleep. This was one of those not-so-rare times. To begin, I had lost my neck pillow within three minutes of arriving at O’Hare. I must have dropped it, and of course airline employees are very good about removing anything that might possibly prove a potential threat. 

Across the aisle from me was a little Spanish family who looked like they had some gypsy blood to them. The little girl was tiny and busy, playing with her little toys and wanting to watch movies on either Mom’s or Dad’s entertainment system, but never her own. Her face was a miniature Spanish version of my Pastor’s littlest girl’s right down to the nose shape. She finally went to sleep in the final two or so hours of the flight.

In front of me was a sea of mainly blonde American students, who must have been going on a study abroad trip. They were fairly quiet, but did an astounding amount of texting as testified by the amount of flashing from their phones getting notifications.




After landing, I caught the metro into Madrid. Over the next 45 minutes, I saw hundreds of people reading books, checking their teeth for food, trying to flirt, trying to ignore the flirting, and teaching themselves Chinese from a book. 

I even saw a man who looked and sounded exactly like one of my education professors, with the difference of being taller, lankier, Asian, and Spanish. (But he had the bowtie, the briefcase, the glasses, the smile, and the mannerisms.)

I arrived (finally!) at Atocha station, and tried to find my way to my apartment using my GPS as my phone and iPod were no help. After climbing a hill I didn’t need to and going back down it, circling several roundabouts, and attempting to sidestep women in long dresses riding bikes, I arrived at Paseo Santa María de la Cabeza, my street. No idea why it’s called María de la Cabeza. I met my Airbnb host, who suggested I rest and then go out to museums or whatever else. After all, she said, there was a heat wave that was passing through. She had never seen such a hot June.

Three hours later, I was just about ready to go conquer the museums. The Anthropological Museum has a wealth of information and tiny models about anthropology and the cultures that have been affected by the Spanish culture. It wasn’t very big, but it only cost 3€ and it was close to the National Archaeological Museum. It also had a fantastic ofrenda, or an altar for the Day of the Dead (see photo below). 

Then off I went to the Museo Arquiologico Nacional. For a history nerd like me, the National Museum of Archaeology was a 3.50€ windfall. I’d always loved the histories of the Celt-Iberians, Phoenicians, and Romans, and the museum took me on a walk through their histories. They even provided touchpoints to get to touch reproductions of the items behind the glass.

At 8, with the museum closing, I returned to Susana's tiny apartment and turned on the fan, comforting myself with the thought that everyone in Spain was sweltering with the heat wave, not just me.