Yesterday I got incredibly lost in Toledo. Considering I’m only a few days into my trip, this probably doesn’t bode well for the future. I inherited my father’s lamentable sense of direction.

The majority of my jet lag having disappeared, I woke up at a (relatively) reasonable hour and made my way to la estación de Atocha to catch a ride to Toledo. The train station isn’t anything like you’d expect; it could quite easily be referred to as the Atocha conservatory. A massive patch of thick, lush shrubbery surrounded by ticket booths, restaurants and clothing stores made me feel like I had wandered into an amusement park.

I beelined for the closest open ticket booth and was met with a string of Spanish gibberish. In the morning it’s nearly impossible for me to speak decent Spanish – my brain refuses to fire on all cylinders. I looked at the clerk with a blank stare and said, “¿Más despacio, por favor?” She smiled at me kindly and said, “Will you be returning from Toledo? It is cheaper if you book your return trip now.” I answered, “Sí, miercoles.” and she continued the rest of the conversation slowly, in Spanish. Huge shout out to everyone who won’t let me get away with speaking English.

After wandering around confused for 15 minutes (which seems to be a recurring theme in my life) I found my gate and hopped on my train. As we bounced through the Spanish countryside rain poured down the window, and I admired my own reflection with a smirk. How cliché.

When I arrived in Toledo, immediately I walked the wrong direction for 20 minutes carrying my behemoth of a bag and a sense of urgency. Once I realized that I was in a pretty residential area (and definitely looked out of place) I started trucking it in the opposite direction. I had taken screenshots of a map and thought it would be enough for me to find my way, but… I can mess anything up if I’m given enough time.

The hike to Oasis Backpacker’s Hostel isn’t an effortless one. Toledo is a small (89.6 square miles), beautiful old city perched on a hillside in central Spain. If you grew up in the Midwest like I did, then you’re probably not even sure what a hill is. I didn’t realize what it would be like to hike for 45 minutes on a relatively steep incline carrying an extra 30 pounds, but there I stood, amidst all the beauty of a World Heritage Site, wheezing in the drizzling rain with my ass-cheeks burning and sweat soaking my clothes from the inside out.

Despite the fact that it’s relatively small, Toledo is exceedingly easy to get lost in. A maze of tiny, slippery streets with little-to-no signage ensured that when I careened onto a recognizable street it disappeared within minutes. Not only did my map fail to make any sense, but nobody else seemed to know where I was going, either. Cursing my father’s name, I went and sat on a ledge and tried to create a plan of action. In total, I had been wandering around for two hours.

Then, I saw it. The shining, neon beacon that seems to play a supporting role in all of my travels: a bar. I humped my way Quasimodo-style up another cliff and took the closest seat to the door, praying for Wi-Fi. I was, quite clearly, not the most welcome traveler. Various eyes darted back and forth between my backpack and the sweat-stains on my hips. If my future husband was in that bar, we’ll never know.

A young man came up to me and asked how I was doing. I told him I was extremely lost and I needed a beer, a sparkling water and a plate of food. He asked what I would like to eat and drink. I told him to choose from his favorites and rejoiced in the glory of a strong Wi-Fi connection.

To my pleasant surprise I received a malty local beer and a plate full of smoked salmon. As is tapas tradition I also received a helping of potato salad, which I inhaled in the politest way possible. I am trying to un-learn how to eat like an American.

According to my GPS I was 5 minutes away from my hostel. I had managed to walk around it countless times. With one last sigh of frustration I paid my 6E and willed my legs to give me one last push before collapsing in defeat. When I finally arrived at my destination (2 hours late) the receptionist quickly informed me that there was a spacious bus that I could have taken for a few Euros. Oh well.

I just finished my breakfast and I’m ready for a day of sightseeing. Hopefully it’ll be half as eventful as my hike up Monte Rainier.

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Time is disjointed. That’s how I feel, anyway, as I sit at the aptly named “OK Hostel” in Madrid trying to gorge myself on the all you can eat, 3-euro breakfast. I’ve been grinding my teeth at night and drinking too much, so I guess that’s to be expected. I’ve also turned my life upside-down.

My flight here was long, sweaty and dirty. I smelled terrible by the time I wandered into the hostel and I felt like I was hit by a caravan of overenthusiastic Spaniards. I walked in after making the 2 hour commute from the airport to the city center and was told I couldn’t check in for another 2 hours. In an attempt to maintain consciousness I went and had two glasses of vermouth at the same dingy little tapas bar I discovered last November, stumbling on it entirely by accident while marveling at the 45-degree weather. It’s not the middle of the summer but it’s not Minnesota, either. I sat on the patio.

 The moments between those two drinks and shutting my eyes in bed felt like an eternity. I couldn’t form proper sentences, let alone try and communicate with those around me in Spanish. After forcing myself to wash off the stench of 24-hour travel and attempting to shave my legs with the backside of the razor, I slept for three short hours.

My first thought upon opening my eyes was, “What the fuck have I done?” I suppose I wouldn’t be human if I wasn’t at least a little terrified of the fact that I sold all of my belongings and hopped a flight to Spain. I felt like shit and knew that I couldn’t just lay in bed and contemplate the meaning of life, so I decided to pull myself together and remember why I was so enamored with Madrid.

When I stepped outside I immediately felt relieved. The streets were filled with low-humming words too quick to for me to comprehend, but I knew that they were warm and filled with encouragement. People strolled down the middle of the road, moving only when a car veered close enough to nip at their heels. I met my buddy for dinner at a brightly lit tapas joint and we ordered massive plates of calamari and some strange potato/sauce combo that wasn’t entirely terrible.

Most tapas served are meat-related. Severed limbs hang casually from the brick walls until they are occasionally disturbed for a pound or two of flesh-removal. If you order a beer (typically for 2 euros), you’ll receive a small plate of food, often resembling a bread, meat and cheese combo. If you order another beer, you receive another plate of food. Tapas are the perfect excuse to drink, because you’d rather have a coffee but you’ll order a beer because it’s your fiscal responsibility.

After tapas we headed to an Irish pub for open mic night and wandered down a series of decrepit wooden stairs before encountering a man on a stage playing a kazoo and rhythmically “singing” in monotone. He was dressed in a red tuxedo with a top hat. After a few more inspiring performances I sang backup vocals to “Lonely Boy” by the Black Keys and enjoyed what were most definitely my 15 seconds of Spanish fame.

We held a few broken conversations with drunken locals and then worked our way over to an insanely vibrant basement jazz bar. Sunflower seed shells were strewn across the floor and people bounced enthusiastically (and recklessly) to the bleary-eyed band. My red wine quickly became a new feature of my outfit as I joined the chaos. When the music ended the dancing didn’t; whether this was because they didn’t care or because they failed to notice is beyond me.

A group of raucous Irishmen were ushered in by their hostel-appointed leader and we decided to have a few street beers in an unoccupied park. I assumed that in order to drink beers on the street we would have to walk into a store and purchase them, but instead we were greeted by a man with a plastic bag filled with cervesas. After filling his pockets with our change he strolled away, promising to return for round two. I regaled my company with stories of duck hunting and fishing in the motherland and the rest of the evening fell away.

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