I am such a nostalgia-prone person that I actively avoid situations that may trigger it. I used to cry at the end of every school year, already nostalgic for a time that had only just ended. I can look at an old movie ticket and remember my first date. I used to keep these mementos on display, but for my sanity I now keep them in a box where I can go over them when I am in the right mindset. This is why I was a little nervous to go back to Madrid. Would it be the same? What if it wasn’t?
I left on Thursday after class to meet up with some friends in Madrid who I had studied abroad with. They were visiting their siblings who were currently studying abroad, and it all aligned perfectly so that we could have a mini-reunion of sorts. I knew that I was in an emotional place already. Just that day, I had turned away during a students’ presentation to cry. I was crying because this student, who typically struggles quite a bit in school, had just given a perfect presentation and was beaming with pride. Teaching is turning me into a softie, something I never thought I’d say.
As I was walking into our AirBnB the first night, I realized that I hadn’t seen these friends in over a year and a half, and it had been three years since we studied abroad. There was a brief moment of awkwardness before I realized that everything was basically the same. We had the same rapport and brought up the same inside jokes from our time abroad. Sure, we all lived in different parts of the world now, but in the grand scheme of things, I am realizing that three years really isn’t all that much.
That first night we had pizza and hit up our old favorite bar, El Tigre. They charge 6 Euros for a sangria or kalimotxo (red wine and Coke—sounds gross, but I swear it’s amazing), but the drinks are nearly half a liter and come with a giant plate of greasy tapas. It’s not fine dining or anything, but it was the best place to get the most on a study abroad budget.
On Saturday, we woke up late, in the Spanish style, and had a leisurely breakfast at an old favorite café called Harina (“Flour” in Spanish) before strolling through Retiro. Retiro was always my favorite place in Madrid, and I spent many afternoons reading in the sun and drinking tinto de verano. I even went on a date there once, rowing boats around the little pond. We found our old favorite meeting spot, this secret platform in a tree that was shielded from the sun and the sight of others where we used to spend hours just talking.
I was meeting my host mom and host sister for coffee later that day, and I was nervous for hours leading up to it. I was worried that my Spanish wouldn’t be good enough or that they wouldn’t want to see me. But when they walked in, I had to stop myself from crying, because I felt this huge wave of relief come over me. They were the same, older, but the same. Part of me was so emotional because of how much my host mom had meant to me when I was abroad. I went through a lot with her. She supported me through the grief of my father’s death and the many flus and colds that came with my recent diagnosis of cyclic neutropenia.
She had never made me feel like a burden and had taken care of me like her own daughter. I am sure that had I had a different host mom, I might have quit the program. It was so nice to see them again, even if I did falter in Spanish and things were a bit awkward at first. The whole experience was surreal, but I was happy to see how well they were doing. My host mom was happy to see that I was doing well too (certainly, I couldn’t be doing much worse than I had then) and said that I always had been a “luchadora” or a “fighter.” This reinvigorated me and reminded me that I am strong despite the challenges that I’ve made clear on this blog. It was nice to have someone who has seen me at my lowest, finally see me in a better place. It was an incredibly validating experience.
The rest of the weekend in Madrid was filled with hopping from favorite café to favorite bar to favorite restaurant. I consumed endless calories and spent way too much money, but it was 100% worth it. I honestly could not have guessed how much Madrid had come to feel like a second home. Even three years later, I knew every street by heart and never once looked at my maps. 
We did the typical Spanish nights out at the club, and I nearly died. Holy shit, is there a difference between staying out all night when you’re 20 and when you’re 23. I found that I no longer have the desire to or the energy to. Sure enough, I am sick…again. My doctor would scold me and tell me that people with my immune system shouldn’t push themselves to such extremes, but I couldn’t help it. I was only there for three days, but I wanted to see everything. I didn’t see everything, but I saw enough to hold me over until next time.