I believe I can fly

by Charlotte Raymond (Australia)

A leap into the unknown Spain

A lifetime ago, at 19, I studied in Madrid and used the opportunity to explore Europe and its surroundings for the first time. With a chance to make use of my Spanish,, and with a recent travel log behind me, you bet I was up for adventure. So I bet you’re wondering, what was the biggest adventure of the better part of my year in Madrid? Well, I’ll tell you, it was not weekly Thursday night sangria pong, my ‘r’s barely rolling after unlimited 10 euro cervezas and sangria. It was not crossing paths with your ex-boyfriend's sister and being called devil spawn in a cathedral in Bremen. One that might I add, took far quicker than the still incomplete Sagrada Familia to construct into completion. It was not the weekend away inBarcelona for ‘Australia Day’ with other Aussies, getting free beer because of our citizenship, but being disappointed that they toasted the fairy bread and used sprinkles instead of 100’s and 1000’s. It was not spending the ferry back from Tarifa to Trafalgar spewing because you had too much shitty wine the night before, which given it was rolled to you by a cat at the bottle-o and you asked for the bottle in your best hybrid Spanish-Arabic-French you couldn’t really be surprised. It was not going to Valencia and having delectable paella more vibrant with saffron than any citrus in the vicinity. It was not being clearly identified as ‘the Australian’ by your flatmates because you wore thongs in the house in the wintertime or got excited by sprinkles of snow in Cantoblanco. It was not running into a fella Australian in a hostel in Dublin and to the disgust of your American friend, eating Vegemite together straight from the tube just for the culture. It was not the Irishmen taking the piss of everyone at the potluck in their honour and when everyone brought a cultural dish, they brought two raw spuds and had us convinced they were cooked as they wrapped them in foil. It was not the cat cafe, Or the weekly trips to El Museo Prado, Or uncharacteristically getting into soccer and referring to Real Madrid as ‘our boys’. Au contraire. Don’t get me wrong, all of these moments had their moments. But the moment, the biggest adventure, the kind you only get from living amongst the locals goes as such: The semester has finished and people have started to return home. That night our Canadian pal was set to head home, so we woefully prepared our goodbyes as she prepared her luggage. In a fleeting attempt to stall her departure, she mentioned, she wanted to say thanks to the men at the law firm across the street, who had served as eye candy during her months living in her flat in Madrid . Challenged by a walkway of apartments and being several storeys off the ground we concocted a foolproof plan to make the impossible possible: Write a note and send someone out the window to have it delivered. With no delivery pigeon in sight, and with me being the smallest human around, I took it upon my mission to go into battle and get this message to her beloved. With a scribbled note on A4 copy paper and a coat hanger in hand to wire jimmy the window open, I was suspended through the sky, a Canadian grabbing one leg, another Australian grabbing the other. The American walked in, shaking their head with disbelief, as though the American and America hadn’t got up to their fair share of mischief in their time. Like a scene out of ‘Spy Kids’ , I somehow worked my magic, no damage caused to myself, the buildings and who could forget, to our monumental memo. Our mission accomplished, we walked the Canadian across the same streets that only moments before I had flown across, now more woeful , sombre but hopeful that a new adventure together would await. They say the body regenerates every 7 years; it’s been 6 years since this adventure of mine took place. Here’s to embarking on another one, whilst there’s still that same sense of adventure left in me.