Madrid to Barcelona

The day I faced the ever present Spanish look of disappointment and lived to tell the tale.

I woke up kicking myself for going to bed at such an ungodly hour. I kicked myself even harder for scheduling a flight at an even more ungodly hour. I am so glad I did both. Fortunately, in my inebriated state, I had the foresight to pre-scheduled my ride to the airport. My preparations were made in vain. Not one of my many payment methods on the app worked. A dilemma that will plague me in every country I attempt to Uber in, at this moment, I think it’s just a fluke. 20 minutes pass, I’m sweating from last night’s overconsumption and this morning’s Uber-induced anxiety. Finally, it works.

The car arrives almost immediately. A Tesla. The driver gets out of the car to help me with my bookbag; he looks at me with disappointment. He pointed to my feet before I step in the car. I do my best to dramatically wipe them off on the concrete before sliding inside of his luxury vehicle. The car was far more glamorous than any other car I’d ever been in before. Even more remarkable than the car was the sunrise that began to show halfway through the commute. I forget my tension and insecurity about my shoes as I adjust my eyes to the slow orange glow of the sunrise.

The car abruptly stops. He turns to look at me and nods in the direction of the car door. My tension and insecurity…