Madrid

Madrid was a lesson in knowing better... and booking the trip anyway. I had just floated through Le Var, Corsica, Sardinia, and Tuscany, one salty breeze and spritz at a time. I was high on summer. So I came home, opened my laptop, and booked the cheapest flight I could find vaguely near where I had just been: Madrid. In August. If I thought Rome had heat, Madrid laughed in my face. Oh, and almost everything was closed. Duh!

I spent most of the trip ducking indoors, only venturing out at sunrise or after dark. But I’m resourceful, and I know what I love, so I leaned in. I went antiquing in La Latina, where I spoke Spanish with a gallery owner about his art collection (Spanish art history is a secret specialty of mine, thank you, Universidad de Salamanca). I speak Spanish, and Spain has always felt like a kind of homecoming, fitting, since it was the first country I ever visited in Europe. I watched flamenco in a cool cave, and yes, I shopped. Because there’s Zara, and then there’s the Zara. If you know, you know.

Madrid wasn’t the dreamy Mediterranean encore I hoped for, but it had its moments. And it reminded me that travel lessons aren’t always found in the perfect trip. Sometimes they show up in 100-degree heat, through the doors of a secondhand bookstore. Will I ever go back to Madrid in August? Never say never.