Travel Essay Excerpt: Madrid

Here's another excerpt from a travel essay.  This time I have documented an extended trip to Spain. I began this essay years ago. It's a coming of age story based on my study abroad in Madrid. Follow my adventures in Spain as I fulfill a prophecy, get tangled in an age old debate and more. The full-length travel essay appears in The Lily & The Aster.


As I made my way through Barajas International Airport and came down the final escalator, I noticed the taxi cabs just outside the automatic glass doors. The cars were painted white with a diagonal red stripe crossing the front passenger side door. Just as I had imagined them and, more practically, just as I had read in the travel guide.

Just then a man of roughly 50 came up to me and asked where I needed to go. “Eloy Gonzalo 23,” I said trying not to sound too American. “Ay, de acuredo. El centro.” I nodded not having a clue as to what he meant. Just as he went to grab my bag and head back up the escalator, I got smart. “What color is your car?” I mustered in Spanish. “Negro” he said. “I’m sorry,” I said, as I dutifully took my bag from him, and headed back down the stairs.

Sure, he could have driven a private car for clients, but I was not going to take any chances.

On the way to the apartment near the center of the city, I noticed a familiar site. There was graffiti under many of the overpasses. This place was seemingly less and less foreign. It said to me: Welcome to Madrid, a city of 4 million by the turn of the millennium, nearly a half a world away.

When I arrived at Eloy Gonzalo 23, I was impressed by the charming stairway and tiny elevator inside the building where I would live. The elevator paled in comparison to the tremendous size of our elevators in the United States. In the States one can fit several bicycles in a building’s elevator. While in Spain, one would be lucky to fit a small dog in the space. Teresa, my host mother, was there when I arrived. She took my bag and said “Bienvenidos.”

After I explained a little bit about my trip in my non-native Spanish, she explained to me that she had lived in Madrid with her husband and two daughters for twenty years but that she was from Seville. Seville was her home.

I had arrived in the afternoon just in time for siesta. Teresa offered me a snack—a late breakfast of tea and day-old bread—“pan y te.”  This was my first taste of the Spanish baguette.

After breakfast, Teresa showed me to my room for siesta. I was too tired to unpack. As I lay my head on my pillow, I realized that I was completely exhausted. But I did think about what a whirlwind the trip itself had been. As much as I reflected on the past, I looked toward the future.

There was so much I wanted out of Madrid—out of Spain. This was the Old World and study abroad was an open invitation to discover the culture, history and art that lurked around every corner. Immersion was my goal and I was fortunate to be staying with a host family that was generous of heart and of spirit. Not to mention that my host mother was a fabulous cook!

As I went about life in Madrid, doing errands and other day-to-day things, I noticed that American music seemed ubiquitous. All of the clubs, bars and Cortes Ingleses were filled with American music. There were American movies, tv shows and so many other forms of entertainment that were so decidedly American.

I wanted to see something outside of all of this. I felt like such a tourist. If I had a dollar for every time I found myself in a McDonalds, I would be one wealthy woman.  It was too easy to escape things Spanish and I wanted something very different.

One night I watched a movie with my host family called, Leaving Las Vegas. It is a sympathetic look at a romantic relationship between an alcoholic gambler and a prostitute. My host family was less than sympathetic. For Teresa, the story was too indulgent. The two protagonists were losing themselves in their vices, sex and alcohol, and deserved no pity. “Americans are infants,” she noted.  For Teresa, this movie made a broader statement about Americans, our weaknesses and our tastes.

I was so deeply conflicted. I did not fully understand Teresa’s comment. Certainly within the context of the story I could follow her reasoning, but why the broader judgment? It would take getting to know my host family and getting a bit closer to the Madrid I did not know. I knew that there was something missing.

One day, after lunch, one of my host sisters, who was the same age as me, took me aside and told me that my life was going to change. I had only known her for a few days, but we had similar ideas on many issues. I wanted to hear what she had to say.

“You know, you’re just like the last young woman we had here.”  Never reserved with her opinions, she went on, “Reticent, reserved, timid.” She smiled widely and I could tell she was well-meaning even if I was horrified. “Your life will change here in the next few weeks. You’ll be out late, you’ll drink, you’ll make new friends.“

How I longed for a change and how I hoped her prophecy would come true.

It was my first Friday night in Spain and I had the apartment to myself. I greeted the evening with great anticipation and even greater apprehension. I paced the length of the short hallway, taking deep breaths, wondering how I managed to get myself invited to a group outing outside of our orientation schedule. I guess someone in the group had warmed up to me.

At least it was only a short metro ride down to the center of the city—down to Puerta del Sol. I listened to The Roots play, “Things Fall Apart” on my Discman, hoping the group’s songs would inspire me, settle me down. Before I left I put on a touch too much make-up. I must have checked the mirror a half a dozen times on my way out of the door.

Upon entering one of the many bars in Puerta del Sol, I spotted Amy. We entered the bar and met the group. 

We were a small group, which made conversation easy. First we discussed the host families we were staying with. After only a week with our hosts, there were some startling revelations: Joey noted, “My hosts don’t do any cooking.” “My host mother is uncleanly,” said another. Silently I realized that what I experienced with my host family was relative peace and happiness. No one seemed to notice that I had not chimed in to complain.

The group of other American students from Duke University brought out a side of me I had never experienced before. I indulged a more adventurous, wilder side. This was the first of many reunions that would occur in Salamanca, Barcelona, Toledo and other cities in Spain for our group.

The next morning, the adventure took its toll. I had a terrible headache. My host sister said there would be drinking; she failed to mention that I would get sick— a startling oversight.

Key to Spanish culture was the nightlife. Everyone engaged in “la marcha” once in a while. It was not uncommon to leave the house at 12 am and return at 6 or 7 in the morning. This starts at a young age. For kids of 16 or 17, it wasn’t uncommon to go out in groups for dancing and merriment. Being social is critical to Spanish life.

I was quite a shy person, but I loved this about Spain. Whereas I was coddled in my shyness at Brown, in Spain, I was thrust out into the light and forced to face my fears head on. The trip to Spain and what happened there form a fundamental part of who I am.

Travel Essay Excerpt: Bucharest

Recently I uncovered a travel journal and I decided to put together an essay containing observations from a trip to then newly post-communist Romania. What follows is an excerpt from that travel essay which will make up part of a longer memoir.

We had no trouble with our flight into Bucharest the next morning. We sailed in smoothly. When we landed, I realized how grateful I was to my Aunt Lucy for inviting me on what would be a life changing trip. And immediately as I arrived, I could see that Bucharest was both like and unlike anywhere I had been. I was alarmed at the amount of litter in the streets, at the poverty and how seemingly old the city was. Perhaps it should have come as no surprise but take nothing for granted when you travel. And I was scared. Scared in the way only a 15 year-old could be. Scared of the unknown. I was taking a big step by just coming on the trip.

When we arrived at the house, I was surprised to note the spaciousness of our host’s living quarters. Bob was a diplomat and Teresa was a dutiful mother, but that meant very little to a 15 year-old. They had a son, John, who was not much younger than I was. There were other guests at the house: Lauren, who was just a bit older than me and who had traveled to Romania independently. She would become a trusted ally for me during the trip. Margaret, the Catholic-American nun, who looked after children living with HIV/AIDS during her time in Romania.  She would remain a sage, sharing her insights about Romanians and all matters of human nature. She was a dynamic woman.

Before dinner, we took the car out to run errands, like exchange money and get photocopies made of our passports. And, finally, looking at the relative poverty that existed next to extreme wealth, I had a point of comparison. I grew up until the age of 7 in the city of Philadelphia in Germantown, which had an amazing variety of old architecture next to new. What I was not conscious of at such a tender age was that, like in any city, extreme poverty could exist just blocks away from instances of extreme wealth. Co-existence is typical in any city. 

No example is more appalling than the parliament building in Bucharest, which we visited on our second day. The building is the second largest in the world – second only to the Pentagon in size – and is a stunning feat of architecture and interior design. Gold and marble were used in nearly every room of the building. Moreover, it is a stunning sign of waste and extravagance.  On the second day of my arrival, I witnessed up-close all of a city’s potential squandered in just one building. The juxtaposition of relative poverty to the parliament building was unsightly.

After the parliament building, we visited various churches. It was not unusual to find a church built inside a synagogue, built inside a mosque. My aunt and I came across one such monstrosity, and who was waiting at the front entrance, but a young girl with her younger brother. I will never forget them. They were alone and much too young to be alone. The young girl was wearing red patent leather shoes and the boy had a newly shaved head, exposing large, raised white bumps. One thing I was sure of was that with the demise of communism many government programs broke down, including the healthcare system. What I was not sure of was if this little boy would get the care he needed, when he needed it. First world healthcare was a world away.

During our excursions, we visited a Holocaust Museum which caused me to ask myself, why the Jewish people were persecuted? As I traveled from museum to museum the reasons multiplied. Upon reflection, I recognize just how deep, complex and unfortunate the rift was between Jewish people and some other Europeans.

Through it all, we still found time to shop. There was always time for clothes, shoes and souvenirs. And I found a dress and platform cork-bottom sandals that I adored. The more I saw of this city, the more I became certain of its potential. I admired the fashion sense of women in Bucharest. I wondered where they found their clothes. As I looked at the buildings, I realized that with a coat of paint and a good cleaning, many of the city’s buildings could be quite beautiful. What I could not understand then was that, in such a centralized system, it took the well oiled mechanics of working city politics to achieve that uniformly across the entire city. “What a dream the city of Bucharest would be,” I said to myself. I also noted that poverty did not appear to be quite the problem that I noticed around the airport. As a result, eventually, I felt as comfortable on the city streets of Bucharest as I felt in New York City.

One thing I was sure of was that the average driver in Bucharest drove rather quickly and erratically. Margaret figured, “it was as if the drivers were adolescents getting a new taste of freedom. They were rebelling because they could.”

I think that what Margaret meant was that, because society was not as closed as it had been and the state retreated from everyday life, Romanians were just getting a feel for who they were. That said, I did not witness any accidents during my time in Romania even though drivers drove as if there were no speed limit. Learning to become responsible drivers would come with time.

Africa as muse...

What follows is a proofread but unedited account of three months spent in Ghana, West Africa. Feel free to comment on this early draft of an essay which appears in my third book of poetry, The Lily & The Aster.

My feet find new

Rhythms on

Foreign soil. 

"The best thing about going to Ghana was coming home.” This is what I said to my brother half-seriously upon arriving home from the airport. Indeed it had been a tough three months working in Kumasi, Ghana, but I could not deny that the friendships I developed and the many discoveries I made had changed the course of my life. It also changed the way I looked at poverty in Africa. 

Imagine attending graduate school in the bustling and sophisticated city of Washington, DC and stepping off of a plane, after an 11 hour flight into a largely rural country for a three month internship working for a not-for-profit microfinance institution. I experienced culture shock on a number of levels.

Despite the hard months I spent adjusting to the fundamentally different culture, food and language, I made the best decision possible in choosing to work in Ghana.

Although my trip to Ghana had been an adventure, I was glad to be home. What I failed to realize in my exasperation upon arriving home, was that the trip had a positive impact on me. New insights inform my poetry and, more broadly, my daily life.  This essay follows me through a typical day in the field with microfinance clients in Ghana in the final month of the trip. The essay captures many of the discoveries and insights I made during my time in Ghana.

The year was 2006. It was the rainy season. I woke up next to a dear friend, Sam, a friend I had made since I arrived in Kumasi. Ghana was the land of possibility. Each day brought new insight. On this particular day, I had to go into the office before heading out to the villages on the outskirts of the city. So, I dressed. I left the apartment with Sam and climbed into a "tiki-taxi," a coupe with a tiny back seat. The taxi driver found a way to accommodate four adults, anything to make some extra money. It was a cozy ride to the office, but it suited our needs. We were in a rush.

Along the way, I remarked upon how differently I saw the people in cars and pedestrians that we passed by every day. I had a general knowledge about the people around me that I did not have upon arriving in Ghana.

On our way to the office, we passed tro-tros, 1970s mini-vans used as local buses, and pedestrians dressed in either second-hand clothes from the United States or traditional garb. (While in Ghana I learned quickly that donated clothes, vehicles and other items from the States ended up here. Nothing was thrown away.)

The streets were also populated with women transporting pails full of clothes or food on their heads. I asked Sam, why I did not see more laughter, more smiling faces. "Kumasi is a city of hard working farmers on their way back from rural areas. There is a different standard of beauty here. One you

can only appreciate by living here.” he responded. “Dirt on the hands or dirt on the clothes signifies a hard day’s work. It is a sign of strength and conviction. Too much smiling or laughter can be the sign that one takes his work lightly. It reflects a lack of seriousness.  Laughter is a feature of the personality that is reserved for the home.”

Once we arrived in Ahodowo, our destination, I made sure to tip the cab driver generously. I had been given a large stipend for eating - one larger than I could fathom using in three months - so, I wanted to share what I had with hardworking Ghanaians who provided their services to me. I thought that perhaps they could stretch a cedi further than I could.

Just outside the office, I could not help but notice the marked contrasts in the marketplace. On the one hand, men in well-pressed suits were lined up at food stands. They were the professionals - the doctors, the lawyers and the accountants, who received regular paychecks and who lived in gated communities far away from the city center. These men shopped for food where nearby sewage ran in the open and behind which the neighborhood’s children chased goats for sport. Meanwhile market women, eager to sell their wares, stood, and sometimes squatted, at food stands, their children hidden in the shadows. These market women were a neighborhood’s most important business people; these were the entrepreneurs, who wielded significant political power. Here in this city center, conspicuous wealth was juxtaposed to wretched poverty.

To get at the stories of the men in well- pressed suits and eager market women, I had to scratch beneath the surface. I had to ask the right questions to get at the stories that belied quick judgment. Such questions are critical to any travel experience and brought me a step closer to understanding the unfamiliar world which surrounded me.

What awaited us at the office was an unexpected lecture from my co-worker, Gyan. Upon seeing a photograph from my visits with local farmers in nearby villages, he had the following insights to share about the photograph:

"Ah," he said. "The image of poverty." He paused to take a closer look at the photo. "You must not forget that this woman is a farmer and an Ashanti. She does not wear her wealth." He looked at me intently, as his voice rose, "This farmer may own 25 acres of land covered with palm trees, which are a precious commodity. But you see something different. You have no idea. She may be a powerful sorcerer! You are no judge of this woman’s power."

I had learned that what Gyan said was true. One could not judge a person by his or her outward appearance or according to a Western standard. But it is more difficult than it might seem to step out of oneself and to see the world through the eyes of another, whose daily existence, as a farmer, as a mother, as an Ashanti bears little resemblance to one’s own.

After an enlightening early morning lecture, our driver took us in the not-for-profit organization’s SUV (standard for driving the "unfinished roads" and inter-regional highways, full of potholes and sometimes paved, oftentimes not) to our destination.

Our job, that is, Sam and I’s job, was to assess the adequacy of financing provided to local farmers by our not-for-profit. We worked for a large microfinance organization that made small loans to women farmers. These small or micro-loans funded small businesses related to harvesting or selling agricultural goods.

We arrived in Wassa West, just outside of Kumasi, to find a group of 30 women and a male translator seated in chairs in the vacant space outside among the village's mud houses.  Each woman in the village spoke her native Twi, while a young man translated for Sam and I who spoke English.

The group was one of farmers and their product was palm oil made from the palm nut, which is used particularly in chocolate. We spent one day assessing the effectiveness of the small loans administered to them which would finance equipment, materials and other goods related to raising and producing palm oil.

Sam and I were employed by a local not-for-profit microfinance institution. What distinguished us from mainstream banks was our clientele, who were poor farmers, and the low interest rates charged for small loans. This is microfinance. It is a tool used to fight poverty in that it provides women with the working capital to finance business activities, like buying seeds and equipment.

Every woman deserves a livelihood, a way to enhance her means, a job. This is where global change begins. If every woman (or group of women) in the developing world had access to a small loan to start a business and could gain the training to sustain it, the developing world would be a different place. Lending to this underprivileged population is a complex proposition, however, because it requires the same respect, trust and proximity that traditional banks refuse poor women. But, as you will see, the returns can be tremendous when serving this population.

The group of farmers Sam and I met with was, understandably, a determined group. The group knew exactly what it wanted and asserted its will. Women spoke firmly about the limitations of the financing they received. They noted that their assets, production equipment and 15 acres of land, might serve as collateral to fetch them a larger loan over a longer time period. A larger loan would better suit their needs.

A larger loan would allow the farmers to replace their outdated equipment, to purchase a new truck for transporting goods, to meet growing demand for their goods across Ghana and across the world and to ride out a sparse harvest or low sales during the rainy season. The problem was that my organization did not offer larger loans than the one the farmers had received. This was a matter I addressed in my assessment of the financing program.

Ultimately, over the years, the social impact of profits generated from the group’s small agribusiness in Wassa West helped send children to secondary school and to college. (This in a country where completing primary school is an educational and financial challenge for children and families.) Women in the group helped pay the bills, offered more nutritious meals to their families and were less dependent on their husbands.

With this in mind, I approached the assessment with a certain optimism. The impact financing had and could have for farmers and their families was inspiring. If the not-for-profit I worked for could remain self-sufficient, it could continue to provide low-interest loans to a population in need of hope. If it were a wise and dynamic organization, it would transform to better meet the needs of its clients. Eager lessons I would take with me on a trip to Guatemala.

I took photos of the group of farmers once we were finished with the interviews and focus groups. And I heard a familiar word from one woman, "obruni", meaning white person or foreigner. As a native explained to me later, the attitude among the villagers, and one woman in particular, was that taking photos is not something an "Ashanti" or "African" person might do. It is simply not tolerated culturally and was a sign of just how foreign I was.

After visiting numerous groups of women farmers, we set out late in the afternoon for Kumasi. Sam, the driver and I arrived late, but just in time for dinner. Sam and I finally had some private time. We visited an Ivorian restaurant. We shared a plate of fried fish with fresh vegetables and atieke (a starch which resembles cornmeal.)

Kumasi was a city of contrasts. Ghana was the land of possibility. "Africa to me" was a place of old stories. A place where women, heads heavy with water-filled urns, stood statuesque on the bank of a river exchanging local gossip with women from neighboring villages. This is a simple yet familiar image, but also one that tells an old story that is common across the continent of Africa. This story hints at a rich culture; this is not a story of poverty.

While when I arrived in Kumasi I shuttered at such an image or, more, at the idea of women drinking unclean drinking water, I soon came to share the perspective of locals. One woman from a nearby village put it this way: “We are our households’ local newscasters. We listen to and share the latest news with friends, family and others we might stumble upon along the way to a watering hole.” Upon leaving Ghana, I decided that this was exactly the way things are supposed to be.