My Year Abroad- Flo in Madrid

One hazy Tuesday morning in mid-September, I found myself, sleep-deprived and emotional, at the security gate of Gatwick airport, about to start my year abroad in Madrid. Turning away from my family and walking through those gates was one of the most difficult things I have ever had to do. Facing that pain barrier suddenly made it glaringly obvious that all those months I had spent gearing myself up to deal with my year abroad in a mature and emotionally together fashion had done absolutely nothing to diminish the ache that comes with great change. Despite the reassurances from friends and tutors and the chats with previous language students which always end with the slightly smug impartation of the year abroad mantra – “trust me – it will be the best year of your life” -, at that crucial moment it suddenly becomes very difficult to trust your own ability to cope with something – and somewhere – so alien.

The truth is, as well-equipped as you think you are for living abroad, there is an unavoidable moment of weakness when optimism is overwhelmed by self-doubt. You inwardly curse all the life choices that have led you to this moment, a bitter cry of ‘I knew I should have studied History’ erupting from your lips. Luckily for me, this moment was short-lived. Somehow, despite my mental floundering, my body went into automatic pilot, and I stumbled towards the departure lounge, force-feeding myself visions of siestas and sangria in a bid to get excited. And, astonishingly, it worked.

By some miracle, I found myself a flat on my first afternoon in Madrid; tempting as it was to wallow in my disorientation, I threw myself in at the proverbial deep end and went on a caffeine- fuelled flat hunt with a madrileño friend. Having experienced the ordeal that is flat hunting abroad, my advice would always be – unless, of course, you are fluent in the language – to find yourself some locals to look with. It makes it all a whole lot easier, especially when your technique is spontaneous to say the least (ours consisted of spotting ‘Alquiler’ signs on buildings, calling the numbers and hoping that the person on the other end of the line wasn’t a raging psychopath). We saw about a trillion flats in two hours, including one which looked promising until we realised that the decrepit old bat showing us around wasn’t simply the landlady, but was actually seeking a female companion with whom to share her small single room. Needless to say, we didn’t stick around to find out exactly what that would entail. Amongst a sea of narrow corridors, cramped staircases and light deprivation, the final flat of the day was a breath of fresh air. It was somewhere between Argüelles and Malasaña – two ultra-hip-and-groovy districts – with a kitchen large enough to fit two people at the same time. The dream. I won’t bore you with the details of the endless haggling over the terms of the contract– suffice to say that when my
Spanish friend offered to take up the fight on my behalf, I didn’t need asking twice. My currently questionable Spanish was definitely not yet up to bartering. After some violent gesticulating, a touch of shouting and a whole lot of ‘claro’s’, I signed for my new home, feeling a tad hysterical with relief.

Of course, that was before I discovered that the lock on the front door was broken, that using the oven made the lights turn off and that the Spanish don’t believe in smoke alarms. But ni modo- it’s all part of the adventure.