Alcalá and Madrid

There's something about going back to a familiar place and finding that everything you held dear is the same. Right where you left it. But, this is life, and to find that some things have changed is inevitable.

Alcalá de Henares is a little city right outside of Madrid where I lived the first two times I came to Spain (once for a month in 2002, and again for a semester in 2004). When I stepped off the train Friday afternoon, I saw a short, nervous little man sitting on a bench, reading the paper. Memories came flooding back when I realized that he was a professor of mine from 6 years ago, when I took Spanish Civilization for the first time in undergrad. Carlos de la Hoz. I took the shortcut out of the train station as I had years ago, and was delighted to find that I remembered it. I went to the convent of cloister nuns who make their living making candied almonds and bought several boxes, smiling as I put my money in the revolving door, watched it swing around, and got my almonds and change in return. I walked around the Plaza Cervantes (named after the famed author of Don Quixote de la Mancha, Miguel de Cervantes, who was born in Alcalá) and chatted with a toothless old man about the beautiful day. Everything's the same.

I got a call from a friend from those blissful days after texting him that I was in Alcalá, and he said it would be best to come to the hospital now to see the baby because they would be discharged soon. Six years ago, when I met my friend for the first time, I never imagined that I'd ever be back in Spain and that one day I'd meet his wife and hold his first child. This is life, and some things change.

I sat down to lunch made by a wonderful lady I'd lived with the last two times I was in Spain. One of the first questions she asked me: ¿Tienes novio? Do you have a boyfriend? (sigh.) Same old Blanca. I met the girls who are living with her now for a month-long summer program and went shopping with them and met some of their friends. Later on that night, we sat in the Plaza watching the guys kick around a soccer ball, laughing at children's antics, warding off curious stares due to our English conversation, and breathing in the magical night air.

Just like old times, I stayed up with Blanca watching and commenting on the gossip shows. That night, the grandson of the infamous Spanish dictator Francisco Franco was featured, telling all of his drug addiction struggle. "If his grandfather could see him now," clucked Blanca in Spanish, with a shake of her head.

Saturday morning, I was off to Madrid. But not before Blanca made sure that I ate breakfast and packed me a lunch. I was reminded of a time years ago that Blanca wanted to show me some curtains she'd bought for an apartment she was renting out in another city. As we crossed the street on the way to the curtain store, she warned me to be careful and held my hand. Even though I was 22 years old.

I met up with a classmate in Madrid, and after wandering around the heart of the city, Puerta del Sol, and eating at a nice Cuban restaurant, we visited the requisite art museums, the Prado and the Reina Sofía. He'd never been, so I relished my role as Metro navigator and art historian.

Later on Saturday night, I met up with a friend I met when going to church in Madrid. She's now married and has an adorable little boy. We had fun catching up, and her son fell in love with my camera. We went to church together the following morning. The beautiful thing is that although the service was completely in Spanish, I felt the same awesome power of God. I could feel the love of the people there. The church sells plates of food after Sunday morning service, and I was brought to tears when a young lady treated me. All of the church people are immigrants (most of them at this particular church are Colombian), and most of them don't have very much at all. But of the little that they have, they still give. How could a spoiled American girl (I don't care what you say, Americans are spoiled compared to the rest of the world) accept something from a probably not-so-well-off Columbian girl? I also met a gorgeous young Moroccan girl who was majoring in English Language and Literature. "But, aren't your parents Muslim?" I asked. She told me that it was a long and wonderful story, but all she could say was that Jesus brought her where she was today. Wow. We later compared mp3s and raved about Jane Austen over guayabana popsicles. I'd never tasted guayabana in my life, and it was divine. "If you were to taste the real thing in Colombia," one man added, "you'd love it even more."

I watched the Spanish countryside speed by the bus window on the way back to Salamanca, feeling that, no matter where I am, God is with me.