A Life-Changing Vacation | Madrid, Spain
Despite budding professional success, my life in broadcasting took a sharp, unexpected turn. A long-awaited trip to Spain in 2001 would bring about that unforeseen change. Amid a world turning upside down with the events of 9/11, I was a tourist visiting landmarks in and around Madrid. While it was a long-awaited vacation, it was also a look-and-see exploratory mission to consider a move to the country to perfect my Spanish language skills, with the goal of achieving fluency. I wanted to become more marketable as a bilingual broadcast professional and thought September of 2001 was a good month to check things out. But when condolences were offered by a heavily accented Spaniard as I left the El Museo del Prado, I’m so sorry for what happened in your country, he said, I had no idea what this stranger was talking about, as my head was still in “museum-mode” and continued to swim in memorable images painted by Goya, Velázquez, and other great painters housed at the Prado. Nevertheless, that man’s words kept ringing my my ears. What was he talking about. (This was just before the days of text alerts on your phone for any and every breaking news story, so the mystery of what that person was referring to had to wait until I made to a television.) Immediately returning to my hotel room along the Paseo de la Castellaña, turning on the TV, I was confronted with an unfathomable reality. My heart sank. The United States had been attacked—my beloved New York City, my hometown of Washington, DC, and a plane that passengers wrestled for control from hijackers over a field in Shanksville, PA—were being broadcast in a horrifying succession of CNN news stories. The condolences of a concerned passerby foretold a horror that cut to my core. Were my friends and former co-workers in NYC still okay? My heart ached as my mind contemplated the hell that people I know might be going through.
Having managed a restaurant inside the well-known, green-capped building on West Street, a block south of the World Trade Center, I was a frequent visitor to Windows on the World at the top of the North Tower. This attack back home felt like the worst kind of despair. The heartache continued upon learning that the Pentagon—a structure I knew well as a DC Metro resident, born and raised—was also assaulted. With airports closed and no way to return to the States, the next couple of days were complete with handwringing and worry. The hotel staff at Madrid’s Intercontinental could not have been more sensitive and accommodating as they sought to comfort me as one of the few Americans who seemed to be checked in as a guest at the time. I recall wishing there were another American I could reach out to.
On 9/13, my wish was granted. Sitting at the hotel’s restaurant bar I was having a glass of Rioja and a conversation, in my sputtering Spanish, with the bartender I’d gotten to know over the previous couple of nights. I heard the words of a strong Chicago accent requesting a beer and a shot of tequila in broken Spanish: Un chupito y una cerveza, por favor. (He would tell me later that he heard me speaking Spanish to the bartender and he was trying to impress me and draw my attention his way. It worked!) As my ears absorbed his voice, my head turned and I saw a tan, attractive, and fit man enjoying a plate of grilled octopus. He turned my way; our eyes met. It was at that moment—even though I didn’t know it—that my life would move in an unanticipated, exciting, new direction.
His name was Danny. He was a Greek from Chicago. A patent attorney for big pharma, he was there visiting the Chicago-based company’s Madrid office. He seemed so familiar. I dated a Chicago Greek for years. There was something soothing about him. He had an easy, natural sense of humor. Some people have a knack for telling a funny story or chiming in with quips that lighten heavy moments and discussions. I don’t have that ability, but he did, just like another Greek I had known, but left in Chicago a few years earlier. It was exactly the lighthearted distraction and the kind of conversation I needed at that dire time.
We discovered our commonalities: Back home, he drove a Jeep; I drove a Jeep. I was familiar with Chicago; he knew DC and Virginia. I had soaked up Greek American culture, Chicago-style; he was fascinated with Black American culture and had an appreciation for it. After sharing his grilled octopus with me and laughing and chatting at the bar until 4:00 AM that night, he began to feel like a lifeline for me at a most difficult time. I had found my American in Madrid.
We spent five days concerned about our country while discovering Spain’s capital together. We walked countless miles uncovering every nook and cranny of the city, drenched in endless sunshine and mild temperatures. Our conversations were endless. I remember not being bashful about letting one of our discussions meander to the topic of children. I recall telling him about my desire to have at least three kids, as we walked down the Paseo to grab a San Miguel—our new shared-favorite thirst quencher as foreign tourists.
We made our way to the Plaza Mayor and were amazed by the gargantuan calamari rings the waiter placed on our red and white checkered tablecloth as we sat soaking up the late summer Spanish sun. We nibbled on the fried squid, chatting away the afternoon, sipping our new, preferred cerveza. Not once did I doubt this man had entered my life at just the right time, for just the right reason. We were a safe harbor, one for the other, during a time of complete uncertainty. I remember moving emotionally from agonizing about being shut out from our country to being completely okay with the uncertainty of when flights might resume. To our surprise—after a few picture-perfect days of sightseeing, exquisite dining, and Madrid nightlife—our status as stranded Americans in a foreign land was lifted. The airports had opened. It felt like a bittersweet end to a blossoming new relationship.
