The Day You Leave Madrid

If you’re reading this blog post, you’re either one of three people: a wide-eyed CIEE recruit who is excited for Madrid; a friend I sent this blog to (thanks for clicking the link!); or – like me – a departing language assistant who strains for a last glimpse of the city.

How you say goodbye to Madrid is in many ways how you say hello. You walk the streets, you drink in plazas, and you realize you did something right to wind up here.

Billy Brunch

On my final day in Spain, I breakfasted at Billy Brunch. Despite not living far from Billy’s, I never knew it existed until the day before I left. I ordered pancakes and sausages – quite an American meal for my last day in Spain. When the waiter arrived with the pancakes, a peculiar sight awaited me: the mascot of Billy Brunch – whom I can only assume is Billy himself – stared back at me, his iconic face drawn with powdered sugar on the pancake’s smooth surface. Billy, a sweet yellow chicken, has iconography all throughout the restaurant. His face even hangs over the sidewalk and is a familiar landmark to those who regularly walk calle de Fuencarral. But for Billy to print his face on my food felt a step too far, as though we passed through the looking glass except rather than a Mad Hatter and Cheshire Cat, we were greeted by a Megalomaniac Chicken.

I slowly cut into Billy’s face and sampled a bite of his sugary chin. Pure delicious delight. In quick successive bites, I scarfed down the remaining pancakes until just a maple-splotched crime scene remained. When I asked for the check, the waitress handed me two stickers of Billy’s face. The chicken was to follow me home! At the entrance, a line stretched half a block nearly to the Tribunal metro stop. Customers barely batted an eye at the thirty-minute wait time. What nefarious hold did Billy have over these people? Why did he brand everything – even the food – with his beak? And perhaps the most important question of all, how had I never heard of Billy Brunch before?

 

Billy the Chicken's face in powdered sugar on my delicious pancakes.

 

The plan for the day was to visit the places nearest and dearest to my heart, but that suddenly felt pointless. Why seek old glory when around each corner were hidden gems and egotistical chickens waiting to be found?

Many of my previous blog posts have encouraged future teaching assistants to get out of their comfort zones and move to another country. I’ve discussed how moving abroad changes your brain and how even when things go wrong you’ll be okay. Now, on the verge of leaving Madrid, I was committing the most common folly known to mankind: I wasn’t taking my own advice.

Leaving Madrid terrified me. Partly because of all I will miss: the late-night socializing, the perfect blue sky, the jamon serrano, the beeping of the metro doors. Mostly though, I feared losing my routine. I feared losing the comfort of my favorite cafe. I feared taking the leap to the next adventure.

Plaza de Olavide

Far and away my favorite plaza in Madrid and a great reading spot, when I arrived at Plaza de Olavide on my final day in Spain, the usually bustling crowd was nowhere in sight. The scene harkened back to Covid lockdowns, but today it wasn’t infectious diseases that kept people indoors. A heatwave had descended on Spain. The 100° temperatures were scattering madrileños to the shade or off vacationing elsewhere in Europe.

 

Plaza de Olavide was packed during the apagón (power outage).

 

Despite the blaze, I sat and enjoyed the views of the plaza. A soft breeze shook leaves and pollen from the nearby trees. My Spotify cycled through my most recent playlist. The Air that I Breathe by The Hollies shuffled on.

          Sometimes,

          All I need is the air that I breathe,

          And to love you.

Though ostensibly a romantic love song, in that moment the Hollies were singing about none other than Madrid. All I needed was to sit there, breathe the air, and love Madrid. And then the song was over, and the heat was scorching. Goodbye, Olavide.

I walked past the apartment of a friend who already moved away, along the familiar calle de Santa Engracia, until I reached Klare, a specialty coffee shop with a gumball machine out front that dispensed prints of iconic Madrid foods, locations, and monuments. I had visited the machine before and already collected my favorite drawings, but I hoped to get quick, easily-packable souvenirs for friends and family.

A woman and her daughter emerged from the coffee shop. I caught snippets of an American accent. I stepped away from the gumball machine while I fumbled for coins. “Go ahead.”

“Thanks,” the woman said, and her daughter spun the crank. The machine spit out a shiny, smooth cover that encased the mystery print, which the daughter handed to her mom without looking at the contents. “Do they have these machines all over Madrid?” the woman asked.

“I only know of this one.”

“In New York, Grand Central Station has one.”

“Are you from New York?”

“We are.” The woman’s daughter slotted in her last euro.

“I’m from California,” I added. I wasn’t sure why. Maybe I hoped for camaraderie with a fellow American.

“Oh,” the woman said. “I think these machines are in Los Angeles. They’re all over.”

“I never knew of them until Madrid.”

The woman opened the door to Klare’s for her daughter. The bell chimed, and the woman smiled warmly. “Enjoy the rest of your vacation.”

I was caught off guard. My normal response – usually to Spaniards who confuse me for a tourist – is to say that I live in Madrid. Estoy viviendo en Madrid. But today that clarification sounded hollow. What would I say? “Oh, I’m not vacationing. I live here, although in less than 24 hours I’ll be 35,000 feet above sea level, leaving Spain behind forever.”

For 5 euros, the gumball machine gave me two original prints and three repeats. As I left, I caught myself and rushed back to Klare’s to where the woman sat with her family. I offered to trade my duplicates so that the woman’s daughter could complete her collection. She traded a churro for a bocadillo, but had no other duplicates to trade for the Tío Pepe sign. The woman dug in her purse for a euro and thanked me. On my way out, I spun the gumball machine again. I left with one duplicate and four originals.

Centro

On the same block as Cine Dore is Amezkua, a clothes store that also sells trinkets and posters. My roommate recommended I visit because they sell maps of different neighborhoods in Madrid, including our own. I pointed out our building to the cashier, and she asked if it was a gift for the apartment. I said no. For myself. Since I was leaving Spain the next day. She said to enjoy the summer and return soon.

As I headed back to my apartment, I passed Fontana del Oro, a bar near Sol where I participate in many language exchanges. After nearly a year abroad, I felt confident in my Spanish. Most accents weren’t difficult to parse, and I was striking up conversations more frequently. I’ll miss practicing daily. To keep my level or improve will require more conscious effort.

In Sol, workers with hard hats, orange vests, and beads of sweat clinging to their foreheads constructed a stage for a concert I’d never hear. The metro was crowded with commuters who sought refuge from the heat. I walked to Lolina Vintage and worked on this blog for a few hours before dinner.

My last time at Lolina. My last dinner. My last time climbing the stairs to my apartment. When you do something for the last time, the action rubs up against the memories of doing it over and over again. You realize that the last time isn’t important. Every time was, you just didn’t realize.

 

The Lolina Vintage menu and new offerings I learned of that day (also featured, my ballpoint pen).

 

You want to extend your stay. You want to not unlock your apartment door and pack your final few trinkets. You want to wander the streets until you stumble on that bar you meant to try but never got around to, or the museum that alluded you, or the thousands of Billy Brunches you’ll never know exist.

But my ticket is bought, and I’m too reasonable to burn plans last minute. Even when there’s so much left to do, so much left to say, but now I’m at the airport.

Now on the plane.

We’re on the runway.

We’ll soon leave the ground.

Even if it all feels unfinished, even if I’m not ready, I must say goodbye.