Jet Lag in Madrid

Trapped in a cloud of jet lag, I lug my suitcase up the sleeping street. La Calle García de Paredes will become my first comfort in this country. Within days, I will recognize the mountains of pastel-colored pastries laid out in the glass windows leading to my door, their sweet smell lingering in the air outside. I will know the worn face of the woman resting on the pharmacy’s steps, hunched over and offering a moan to passersby. The same church bells, looking down from their high perch, will announce my return each day.

But this morning, the street reveals no signs of its life after sunrise. Its colors muted and its voice silent under the thick morning air, la Calle García de Paredes leans uphill against my efforts to reach her door. When I arrive at building 64 and push the buzzer for apartment 6E, I do not know who will answer.

Carmen makes her way down to me. Her legs too weary for the six flights of stairs, she rides an ancient elevator to the first floor. I watch her walk into the unlit hall through the cracks in the door. The first light of the day leaks into the building and brushes at her cheek. I look down at this new mother, startled by the contrast between her weathered face and dyed blonde hair. She opens the door and hobbles back from where she came, confident that I will follow.

As I glance over my shoulder and past the iron door, to the sun rising behind me, I think of my mother at home. At 2a.m., she is probably sipping wine and listening to music, enjoying the stillness of the house. Maybe she is smoking a cigarette, worrying if I have made it to this stranger’s home safely.

Carmen opens the door to her apartment and brings me to a table inside. Around the same table, over five-course meals that last hours, I will meet the many people who populate the old woman’s life. I will share loaves of fluffy bread with her snow-haired boyfriend. I will eat bowls of fresh cold salad and heaps of yellow paella with her only son and his boisterous family. I will enjoy plates of bright strawberries and kiwis with the other students living in her home.

But for now, it is just the two of us. This morning is the stillest I will ever see the house. She pushes a cup of coffee towards me and offers me a bowl of chocolate cereal, not sure which I will prefer. Tired from the journey, I interrupt the quietness to tell her in broken Spanish that I must sleep. When I wake up, la Calle García de Paredes hums alive outside my window.