Alone in the Crowd

About ten days ago, I was called “tío” for the first time. I had just slipped a five-euro bill over the counter, which somehow managed to pay for four beers and two large plates of tortilla española and jamón serrano, and the bartender nodded in my direction and said, “Gracias, tío.” The word, which literally means “uncle,” is Madrid’s most ubiquitous greeting, since it manages to cover “bro,” “dude,” “man,” and “guy” all in one word. (Women are not exempt—they get called “tía,” or “aunt.”) And after nearly a month in Spain, I suppose that was the first time I actually felt like I lived here. The Spaniards who flock to the capital from all over the country have told me that the broad avenues, stately government buildings, and frenetic nightlife bowled them over when they first came to this city, the third largest in the European Union. But for a New Yorker, Madrid is almost disarming in its friendliness and intimacy (much to my shock, constantly trying to one-up your friends’ misery is not part of the civic culture). The sight of the streets filled at 3 a.m. and the knowledge that the night has just begun are the only things that come close to matching the energy of home. And so while most people come here to kick their lifestyle into high gear, I’m being forced to learn the virtues of a quieter life—cozy medieval roads, subways that close at 1:30 a.m., taking an hour to eat instead of sprinting from my room to HamDel to Fayerweather in five minutes.

Since the city seems like a large village, the feelings of disorientation are understated, but they’re still intense. Slowly and awkwardly, I’m finding my way. My Spanish has doubled in speed since I got here, and my accent has quickly picked up the Castilian lisp (no, really, it’s pronounced grathias). The people at the café near my apartment—where I go because it reminds me of the Hungarian—know who I am now, since I can usually be found there every third night with a glass of Rioja wine and a Philip Roth book (I’m unwilling to give up novels in my quest for linguistic immersion). But there’s one thing that I’m still clinging to and don’t plan to ever give up, because it’s something I take for granted at home: the right to keep to myself.

The sense of independence that I worked for two-and-a-half years to cultivate while in New York came, in large part, through learning how and when to take leave of others and set aside time for myself. The city provides a sense of anonymity that renders solitude perfectly acceptable: You can go out to eat, to the movies or the theater, or even to a bar alone, and no one will bat an eye. No such luxury exists in Madrid. To truly experience the city, you have to be constantly surrounded by others. The concept of saying “I can’t go out tonight” is strange at best and antisocial at worst.

Nowhere is this more evident than during meals, when the streets empty and the entire city can be found in taverns, bars, and cafés chattering at full volume. I eat with my host family twice a day, and I’ve gotten into the habit of spending at least an hour over dinner with them, often finishing dessert and then continuing to talk for 20 minutes. The unusual times at which Spaniards take their meals—2 or 3 p.m. for lunch, 9:30 or 10 p.m. for dinner—don’t even strike me as abnormal anymore. But on those days when I’m left to find a meal for myself, there’s nothing I’d rather do than wander through the surrounding neighborhoods until I find something cheap and filling.

Invariably, when I find a seat at the bar, everyone in the room is juggling several conversations at once, gossiping with three or four friends in one direction and cracking a joke with the bartender in the other. The sight of someone eating alone, even a young foreigner, is enough to garner stares of bewilderment. The idea that one might prefer to be alone from time to time, especially in a public space, is one that doesn’t even register. In part, this is due to the sacred privacy with which madrileños treat their homes—an invitation to a friend’s apartment basically means that you’ve become family—but the city’s countless bars and close-knit barrios ensure to its residents that life is nearly worthless if it’s not spent in the constant company of friends and family.

When madrileños greet newcomers to their city, they’re fond of using the phrase “Si estás en Madrid, eres de Madrid”—If you’re in Madrid, you’re from Madrid—and even after five increasingly jaded and weary semesters in New York, I found myself unable to doubt their earnestness. And yet it’s this same intimacy that still manages to unsettle me most, even more than the rapid-fire speech of my professors, unapologetic hedonism of the nightlife, or nonchalant racism that one hears occasionally in everyday conversation. I have yet to adjust to the fact that reserve and independence are no longer virtues but rather impediments to my immersion, and I probably never fully will. Still, after five weeks, four nights of staying out until 6 a.m., countless cups of café con leche, and one birthday paella, I concede defeat: Life beyond the Hudson does indeed have its perks.

The author is a Columbia College junior majoring in history.