I meet a lot of people on the metro. People who only gaze at you once, and move on, hopping off to another train. People who hope to read you in what little time they have.
I met a man once, a Spaniard. He was about 28 years old, with a scar on his mysterious face, tired eyes, rough, worked hands. He had a ring on his finger, but not a wedding ring. His eyes were searching for something. He wasn’t an ordinary man, but one of interest, personality, a wounded soul. A man who was not easy to read, who had suffered something deep, something that had left him fatigued, scarred within. I watched him as he got off, walking away to the right, gone forever. I would have liked a moment to see him again, even to talk in what little I knew. But he was gone, his scar forever in my memory.
Everyday, I encounter the oddest, most peculiar faces. I like to listen sometimes, just to hear the sound of their voices, the pitch of their accents, the movement of their lips. I like to see what makes them interesting, what makes them so out of the ordinary, so foreign and impenetrable. Inside the metro, outside under the sun of Madrid, inside the bars and restaurants and clubs, on the sidewalks and inside dense underground walkways…
Today I meet Mercedes, my Spanish exchange partner. She is in her mid-twenty’s, brunet, with a beautiful accent, pink lipstick and a cigarette. She has been a smoker for six years and wants to quit but only when she is ready. She is an actress, playing parts in theater, hoping to get a part in television. Her boyfriend of four years is in Barcelona. This is her longest relationship so far. Mercedes is a coffee addict like myself so we walk to SOL and find a quiet, tranquil spot outside under the sun, order two café con leches and talk. We have divided the time to talk both in English and Spanish, for she too is trying to learn English. We both love the city, but for different reasons. I decide that she is a true Spaniard who loves cinema, coffee, beer, theater, fiestas and all that Madrid offers.
We part ways and I walk back home, content, tired, sleepy, but no longer lost. I once again realize that I have made the best decision of my life, that I have done something extreme and grand. I get off my stop, go up and around, leave the metro station, pass by Penelope’s beautiful poster on the big brick wall and take out my keys. And the sun starts to disappear behind the towers of Madrid.

Madrid is sunny today and I smile as I make my way home. I can’t hide the smile that is forming on my mouth, the smile of contentment. I have been challenged and feel like I’m finally faced with something completely different, strange, scary and beautiful. I feel pretty and misunderstood and lost and happy all at once. My head has been spinning, translating word-to-word, sentence-by-sentence, sometimes forgetting everything. I wake up and there are so many words in my head that I forget where I am.
The sun here hides behind buildings, once in a while reappearing when no one is watching. I miss nothing of who I was and what I did before I left. I simply want to keep walking in the calles and watch the Madrilenos who watch me.
What happens on the streets, on the sidewalks, and everywhere else happens with a certain degree of calmness and tranquility. No one rushes or gets in line to go. No one sips coffee while walking to work. People like to sit, take their time, have coffee breaks and enjoy life, sun, a bit of gossip. Madrilenos are not punctual; time has a different concept to them. As I wait, early as always, they arrive slowly, talking in their sweet, thick accents. Inside the metro, I never worry, never get nervous. Those around me are peaceful, relaxing with music or the day’s paper, or talking quietly. There are times that musicians aboard the train and play a three minute song, get their donations and give thanks before hopping to the next train.
Drinking coffee is a pleasure, a custom of every true Madrileno. One is never served with a plastic cup. Everything is elegant, prepared and warmed. If one asks for coffee with milk, the milk is heated an extra time if one wishes.
I missed nothing today and liked being an extranjero, a stranger…because sometimes you understand yourself better when no one else does.
This is my sweet dream…and I like to keep dreaming.

Madrid, Spain-
I have a new set of keys for my new house in Madrid. I live with Senora Ana Fidalgo, her 16-year old daughter, and my new roommate Becca. Senora cooks dinner and prepares my breakfast: cereal, toast with marmalade, coffee, juice, and a sweet pastry. She has dirty blond hair and blue eyes. She is fascinated by my love for movies and cinema and writing. Sometimes, during dinner, we talk about Iran or how Americans are different from the Spaniards. We don’t always agree, but we somehow understand each other. I speak in broken Spanish and she throws in a few English phrases with her thick accent, laughing amusingly afterwards. After she offers me fruit, I say thank you and go off to my little room.
I ride the metro everyday, following signs and arrows, walking fast, my eyes wandering like a common tourist. The Spanish like to observe. They look at my shoes, my hair. Unlike Americans, they don’t normally smile as you walk by.
A week has already passed. I no longer have trouble with my keys-during the first few days of my arrival I had trouble opening the door on multiple occasions, one including a late night return and waking up the Senora, which was evidently an embarrassment. And I no longer have to ask the Spaniards where Calle Hernani, my street, is. I follow visual signs that I’ve made for myself and take the same route home. I get off the metro at Cuatro Caminos, make a left, cross the street, walk down a couple of blocks, turn left to where there is a huge poster of Penelope Cruz with bright red lipstick above on my left, walk straight to where there is a Starbucks and H&M, turn left and there is Hernani 57. Sometimes I stop by Carrefour, the supermarket near my house by the McDonalds and buy bread and water. The more I go, the more confident I feel. I now know that I have to weigh fruits and put a price sticker on them, that there are two different kinds of baskets and carts, baskets on wheels, normal ones and carts that require money. I also have a good idea of where most things are, which makes me look less like a foreigner.
There are times where middle-aged, old men stare at me openly, turning their heads as I pass through people on the sidewalk. I anticipate this everywhere, for here in Spain glaring is a norm. I have found interesting styles of fashion: women with bright red hair (yesterday I met one with blue hair, I kid you not). I have also seen old ladies with fancy fur coats.
The food in Mardid has been nothing but delicious. Paellas, tortillas, Churros (sweets), coffee and salads are among the many. Because the Euro is expensive and our school fee doesn’t cover lunch, we try to save, so our lunches are sometimes bread and cheese, or in my case, bread and honey!
I wake up at 7:40 and make it to school by 9:00, thirty minutes before classes start. I have a hard time deciding what to wear, for in Spain people dress up. The weather has been a gloomy at times, but Madrid is normally a sunny city.
There is nothing more beautiful than waking up in a strange place, without words or your usual thoughts and worries, walking for what seems like miles and finding yourself in the middle of Madrilenos who read their papers and books on the metro. What’s more fascinating is that everyday you are becoming something else, a fusion of everything you ever imagined of yourself…or nothing you ever thought possible. You wake up in a dream and no one recognizes you and you are obligated to nothing and no one. It’s like this: You are 20 years old and you feel like your life has just started.

In the middle of the night, I wake up from a bad dream and cry. I am holding him tightly as I cry. I can still feel his little body, embracing me. I wake up…it is past 3 am. I am thirsty. I suddenly remember that I am in Madrid, in Senora Fidalgo’s house, that I am alone and frightened. Nothing is familiar…I am not in my own skin yet. But the bed is warm and comforting. I remind myself of the happy streets, the people, the coffee, the fresh air outside, and close my eyes. I lie awake for hours, unable to return to my broken sleep.

A stranger walking in your skin, through the calles, the streets of this beautiful, beating town, Mardid. Women and men observe each other, every move and gesture, every smile. They look at your shoes, your hair and your eyes. I like Madrid.
Today, I became a stranger and walked through the streets of Madrid, searching for nothing. I looked around, lost and content with not mattering to anyone or anything. And the Madrilenos watched as I made my way in and out of the metro stations. I found Mueseo de Prado by accident. I followed a sign; I was bored. Then I found a movie theater, Cinema ideal and asked what I could watch at that precise hour. Death at a Funeral, an English movie. I made sure to read every subtitle line for I had come to learn. I hit the supermarket, the one I found accidentally as I was lost, looking for my house. I wanted to buy apples, but for some reason the cashier didn’t accept them. I didn’t understand what the problem was, but I assumed that, like Belgium, I probably needed to put a price sticker on the plastic bag. I wanted those apples…
Senora Fidalgo is sweet. She is a lovable lady of class. She smells good and dresses nicely. She practices speaking with me and asks if I want dinner.
In Spain, the afternoon starts after 3. One is still morning. So my breakfast is until 11, dinner at 8:30. I was served cereal, grapes, coffee, lemonade and toast today.
My room is lonely, but I like it for it is warm and cozy, warmer than my room at home. I am going to bed now…ahora estoy sueno. Right now, I am sleepy.