I MOVED TO SPAIN!

So, I live in Madrid now. After frantically buying into a T-Mobile hotspot in the Frankfurt Airport with the fervor of a crack addict coming down, I reported a smooth international transition. Ha!

When my ATM card couldn't produce cash at the taxi stand in Barajas Airport, a near-complete emotional meltdown erupted. Several calls were made at an international pay phone a few yards away from the withering looks of the information booth attendant who, after looking at my 250 pounds of luggage stacked up to head-height on a squeaky cart, told me that the currency exchange counter was, in fact, in Terminal 1, and I was in Terminal 3. And I would not, under any circumstances that she could dream up, haul a large American man's worth of clothes from Terminal 1 to Terminal 3 to get my currency changed.

On the phone with USAA bank representative Laura, I fairly convincingly portrayed an abductee caught in some poorly planned human trafficking scheme. This was not my intent. That is to say, when she asked, "Are you alright?" in response to my shrill, tearful request to "turn on my debit card in Europe please," I did not mean to give the impression that a mulleted kidnapper was holding me at gunpoint. Although, in retrospect, that's probably what it sounded like.

When I finally arrived at Hostal Tijcal, just off the Plaza Mayor and next to Sol metro station, I filled the tiny one-and-a-half-person wide elevator with an...aspirational amount of luggage. Before liftoff, a heaping pile of my suitcases toppled over, trapping me inside the the little utility closet of an elevator. You know when a man is trapped underneath an overturned vehicle, and some 80 year old woman comes along and, with a rush of adrenaline, lifts the two-axle car and frees the captive victim? That's more or less what happened inside of the elevator. Multiple trips, with the attendant more realistic luggage loads, were then required.

Now it's 10 PM, and I've just returned from looking at pisos with my future roommate, Margit (one more roommate, Whitney, is on the way). We saw a light-filled, pretty big atico (Spanish for penthouse!! sort of) apartment with a huge terrace, two bathrooms, and a bathtub. A bathtub! De lujo! I've been charged with meeting the owner tomorrow morning in my most responsible looking outfit. We're crossing our fingers--it would be ideal to have a piso signed for by Friday.

Going to meet Keith, my senior year homecoming date, for drinks in Plaza Mayor now. He's lived here for a couple of years and I haven't seen him since high school. Also, I'm jet lagged. But I love it here so far.

C