When I was 16 and already three years into studying French, my grandfather wrote me a letter. In it, he outlined the rising popularity and importance of Spanish in the United States and advised me to drop French immediately in order to pursue the more "useful" language.
Spiteful and confused (I never knew why he sent a letter - he lived only 10 minutes away), I was only all the more determined to continue defiantly with my French, however impractical or irrelevant. After all, carrying on in the face of irrelevance and common sense is a hallmark of French virtue.
The consequences of that decision ultimately guided me to life in Paris, and with that, the opportunity to see some of the rest of Europe. Recently, I traveled to Madrid, Spain, the origin of my grandpa's vaunted Spanish language.
It was good to escape Paris for a few days. Arriving in the Spanish capital after a refreshingly short plane ride, I was immediately struck by the crisp coolness of the air and the sight of the rising purple mountain ranges beside which Madrid is set. It reminded me powerfully of the Rocky Mountains of my native Colorado. I was already liking Spain.
That first night, too, I was surprised by how readily Spanish life suited me. The Spanish eat notoriously late (dinner at 11 or 12 is typical) and then stay out all night until the sun rises again.
It's the type of lifestyle which has always suited me, an incurable insomniac who feels only truly alive at night. Not to mention the fact that Spain is moderately cheaper than France, and my Euros went surprisingly far, whether it was at the bar or a surprisingly good Mexican restaurant.
By day, however, Madrid was a slightly different creature. Taking in the city on foot the next morning, I found it to be somewhat lackluster. The city simply lacks the aesthetic grandeur of Paris.
Sure, it has its fair share of beautiful old buildings and cathedrals, but more often one comes across a sprawling, more-modern-but-not-in-a-good-way metropolis. Squat, ugly apartment blocks and taller skyscraper eyesores are simply no match for Paris's stately haussmanian boulevards, quaint cobblestone backstreets and majestic monuments and parks.
Likewise, Paris is anchored and bisected into roughly equal halves by the picturesque Seine River, and contained tidily within a nearly perfect circular shape. Madrid has no major river and spreads itself wide in a haphazard way. However, one must praise Madrid's metro system, an extremely clean, reliable, and cheerily-colored service.
And on second thought, though still cheap, Spanish cuisine tends to rely heavily (too heavily) on ham (a national treasure so dear there is a popular museum dedicated to it) and fried foods. These two obsessions are lovingly combined in croquettes, deep-fried balls of cheese, potato and ham, in just one of the limitless combinations.
Still, I admit a weakness for one fried Spanish treat, the crispy batter tubes known as churros. While they would have been better with some cinnamon and sugar sprinkled on them, they are addicting when dipped into Spanish hot chocolate, which makes American hot chocolate look like watered-down chocolate milk. In Spain, the hot chocolate is as thick as pudding, decadent, and eaten with a spoon. The contrast between the salty dough and the sweet richness of the chocolate is incredible.
While the churros were a consolation, the language barrier was not. I had become accustomed to being able to communicate at least somewhat successfully with the locals in Paris, but in Spain I was completely dumbfounded anew.
Probably due to lingering resentment from my grandfather's pushiness, I had pushed out even the most rudimentary Spanish words from my vocabulary, and I can retain nothing besides gracias and hola. At restaurants, the menus could have been in Cyrillic for all I cared, and without a translator who knows what I would have ordered.
Interestingly, it seemed that fewer people in Spain spoke English than in France. In Paris, a Frenchman will usually switch to English if he notices you're not a native French speaker (and he almost always will). In Spain, this happened far less often. And to my amazement, I missed this little condescending habit.
In fact, even as I was enjoying Madrid, I realized I was missing Paris more.
I missed all those little smug Parisians smirking and correcting my language or showing off their English. I missed the intellectual excitement of Paris and its obsessions with politics, art and theater, even if it is sometimes too avant-garde. And I missed how even on the cloudiest days (and there are many in Paris), the city manages to exude a dignified beauty; its stately facades as fastidiously maintained as its citizens' chic wardrobes.
Madrid, in my limited experience, was more of a plain Jane: A little shabby around the edges, not as well-dressed, but probably a little more down-to-earth. And that's not bad a thing.
Obviously, if I had taken my grandfather's advice all those years ago I might have felt the same about Madrid as I do about Paris today. But for me at least, Madrid will always be the lisping friend in the corner who only looks good in dim lighting and after a few drinks, while Paris will always be the head-turner who looks beautiful in any light.
