As told by Alana Jenkins (NYMP10)

From JFK to Madrid!

And so it happened, Las Chicas were finally in España.  Las Chicas, of course, are Shipnia and myself; it’s a name we affectionately acquired while at Middlebury from our long-time Middlebury professor, Irina Feldman.  The title was appropriate enough because Shipnia and I had started our Spanish language and culture immersion together at Middlebury. The two of us vowed over chocolate milk in the Ross dining hall that “neither of us could change our mind about going abroad without the other [during our junior of college].” So with the clank of our glasses, Las Chicas had begun the journey that would one day place us right in the heart of Spain – Madrid.

It wasn’t long after our takeoff at JFK when we realized that this was going to be a whole new type of adventure, and boy were we excited! Granted, it could have been the wine and hot towels they served us on the flight (three words: love international flights), but the true tingling sensation came from the mutual understanding that for the next three months, I would be sharing many (if not all) of the most important moments in my life with the Posse member right next to me.
My new life in Madrid commenced as one would expect for any first day—awkward interactions in Spanish with cab drivers, gorgeous tourist-clad hotels, overpaying for underwhelming tapas, a parade in the streets celebrating Real Madrid’s recent victory—you know, the norm. Then came the task that we had both been dreading for months; looking for a piso in Madrid.  After tripping over which formal conjugations would be appropriate for a future roommate/landlord and checking the Spanish equivalent of Craigslist, we [finally] found a few places.  Ship, being the let’s-just-get-this-over-with kind of girl that she is, was content with the first piso that we saw. The Spanish flat was a bit pricey and had a bed that wouldn’t even fit inside a Battell double but it was in a perfect location right in the ‘SoHo’ of central Madrid. I however, was a bit more selective.

A stop in "El Retiro" during a long day of apartment hunting.

I had spent my summer enthralled in all things Pedro Almodovár, and from his films,  I knew what I wanted from my living space in Madrid. My ideal piso should have windows that faced the streets [many Spanish apartments had windows that opened up into an open courtyard between the buildings], can not be too far from the center of the city and needed an element of indescribable beauty. I know it was crazy but we all have our expectations and I knew I didn’t find it in any of these places we saw: the walk-up by Cortes Inglés which had no living space; the apartment that was reminiscent of Hunts Point in the Bronx; the Erasmus apartment across the street from Ship; and definitely not the place with the old woman and cat, whom stole internet from the Starbucks across the street. I had a vision, and I wasn’t willing to sacrifice it.  Shipnia, on the other hand, was getting restless and slowly going broke from all the cabs, trains and buses we took and just wanted me to find a place.  “One more place,” I promised her, and we planned to set out the next day to Tetúan.

Since we had never taken the Metro too far from Sol, we were excited to see what laid in the northern most blue point of the Madrid subway map—Tetúan. After an extensive walk on a hill and a turn down a questionable alley, we were finally at the site of my soon-to-be piso.  The piso in Tetúan was everything that I was looking for; a cove of beauty amidst a lively and underrepresented community.  Tetúan was a place for people whose home was not native to España and people who were browner, louder, and slicker.

Ship and I, settled and living la vida Madrileña

The neighborhood reeked of the New York that I missed—the raw reality of a condition of happiness said through mierdas and coñasos instead of puta madres and joder. On the nice days, I’d sit on my terreza and listen to my neighbors argue, or hear the kids laughing as they leave school.  Sometimes I’d take the bus and listen to old Spaniard men tell me about their multiple conquests of las negritas, always hoping that their creepiness wouldn’t extend beyond their stories.

Tetúan was quieter, with less hustle and bustle than Sol and felt different than the center of Madrid. From the moment we exited the station, I instantaneously came to a familiarity with Tetúan. It was the sort of comfort you get after leaving Times Square and getting off a stop or two past Fordham Road. The feeling of being away from the major commotion and in the heart of a residential yet metropolitan area.  And just like the streets of the Bronx or any off the grid section of New York City, we often found ourselves lost and immersed in the neighborhood. To me, Tetúan was like a slice of grit and even if it was just a sliver, sometimes that is exactly what I needed.