The Excitement Of The Mundane

An Ode to Routine

I spent a lot of months in preparation for this adventure. This is something I always knew I wanted to do. I am living in Madrid. I am learning a new language. I am becoming an English Teacher. I am writing every day.

Before I stepped onto the plane that shipped me across the Atlantic, I spent a lot of time toiling in repeat conversations with people on the peripheral of my life. The questions people asked would frustrate me. I knew these curiosities came from a place of genuine interest, but I felt a disconnect between what people thought one in my position would be chasing and the reality of what I actually wanted.

I also felt it insincere and performative to constantly talk about something I was going to do that I hadn’t done yet. I didn’t have the answers to the questions I was being asked, but I felt a responsibility to paint a pretty picture anyway.

People would inquire – Where are you going to visit!? What countries are you most excited about exploring!? Do you have a place to live!? How’s your Spanish!? How long will you be there for!? Are you bringing your golf clubs!? Are you going to find a Spanish girl and stay forever!?

I recognize that I’m the asshole for allowing such harmless queries to upset me. It wasn’t a visible or audible reaction, but 8 months of the same conversation will jade you.

Now that I can finally speak from the experience of doing it, I feel more equipped to share my perspective.

Sure, I want to go places, do things, meet people. I am and I do. But the most exciting part to me has always been living the mundane in a place in which I can find fulfillment without the pressure of demanding perfection.

There is no barrier of expectation here. I feel free to experiment with embarrassment. Free to not know. Free to explore the beginner levels of trying new things.

I am most excited about finding my go to cafés. By going to the movie theaters and ambling through free museums. By aimlessly walking the streets with fascination and wonder. By writing in the park while watching the sunset. By having deep conversations with people who share some sense of displacement from the person they once were and the person they intend to be.

I’m most excited by the mundane.

Some days I dedicate to routine. I wake up at 7:45am. I consume a breakfast of coffee and a small helping of cereal, which I distribute into the coffee itself. It required a mentality shift at first, but I’ve grown accustomed to drinking my coffee with a crunch.

As an aside, Spanish breakfast is a curious thing. I actually lost 10 pounds during my first two weeks in Madrid. Since then, I’ve established a bit more of a process to which I dedicate this post.

Between sips of coffee, I empty the contents of my brain onto the college ruled lined paper of my brown leather journal with a uni-ball gel pen. I’ve fallen love with these fucking pens. They glide with effortless precision.

The essence of the words I spill fluctuate between daily gratitude’s, emphatic pump-me ups and ‘what the fuck was last night’s?’

Stories are gradually forming. Characters are being constructed. Conflicts are becoming clear but endings remain unknown.  

Around 8:15am, I evacuate my bowels and my bladder. I don’t give a fuck how vivid that image is. We all do it. Grow up.

Soon thereafter, I relive the longest 90 seconds of my life with a freezing cold shower that I embrace with the courage of a gladiator. It appears my Andrew Huberman days are not yet behind me.

At 8:45am, I wave a “Pasa un buen día” to my host mom, Mila, and allow my limbs to swim out the door. I strut down two flights of stairs, square up to a chilly morning breeze and sidewalk gobble my way to the Buenos Aires Metro Station that resides about a mile down the hill.

I tap my metro card at the gate and dive into the depths of the transportation infrastructure built below the surface. I try to enter a subway car toward the back of the train where there is more likely to be an open seat. If I am not so lucky, I happily stand. My headphone’s plug me into the soundtrack of the day. I try to keep the vibes upbeat and move with irrational positivity.  

I get off at Metro Station Antón Martín, which is conveniently close to my future apartment en La Calle de Atocha. I officially move in this Sunday and I am so eager to have a place to call my own.

I stop at the same local Frutería everyday, where I purchase an apple and a tub of watermelon. I nibble on these sweet treats on my way to class.

I proceed through one of my favorite streets in all of Madrid, La Calle de León. I bob and weave through 500-year-old buildings illuminated by the soft cascading glow of the rising sun. Eventually, I land at Tandem Language School for Spanish class.

From 9:30am to 1pm, I do the Spanish (with a 30-minute mingle break in between).

My professors are incredible. Every class relies on conversation. I thrive in such a setting, and I contribute my thoughts on every topic we encounter with an expressive freedom I don’t think I have ever felt before.

After class, I either snag lunch with friends or I music walk my way to lunch alone. I don’t mind either way. I don’t usually have a plan, and this phase of the day depends on the post class conversation linger. If I’m with a group, each lunch is filled with chatter. If I eat I alone, I make sure to write a bit more. Around 3pm, I trek home, taking the same metro route in the reverse direction.

Once I get back to Puente de Vallecas, a very working-class neighborhood to the east of Madrid’s city center, I honor the tradition of siesta. I usually rise between 5pm and 6pm, and muster the courage to trek to the Basic Fit Gym. I’ve finally acquired a physical card to scan which allows me to enter and exit as I please.

I follow up on my exercise by grabbing two empanadas at the Sabores Express. One Carne Picante and one Pollo Picante. They don’t really do the spice the way we do in the States. Sometimes Spice Fans are left wondering, where is the spice?

I walk back to my Host Family’s apartment, grab my laptop and my journal, and head out the door once again to one of the 3 cafes of which I’ve cemented myself as a regular.

My favorite is the one that is closest in proximity – the tables and chairs are situated atop an open field of sand and rock where kids play soccer and accompanying parents drink beer, smoke cigarettes and yell Ten Cuidado.

Sergio is usually my server. He’s from Venezuela. He is very kind.

I write for as long as I have something I deem worth converting into a digital artifact.

After a coffee, a beer, or both, I saunter through the nearby park and admire the best view of the sunset in all of Madrid.

When I return home, I chill for a bit. I shower. I shave. Maybe pop a zyn (or a velo). I read. And here and there I’ll watch a Comedy Special on my computer. The sounds of laughter from the playground area outside my window infiltrate my room with cheerfulness.

At 9:30pm, we eat dinner. This too was an adjustment. But I’ve come to appreciate the schedule.

Mila and I chat while my housemates glance in disbelief at how much chemistry there is between me and my 74 year old Spanish host mom. I share quite a bit with her. And she reciprocates with the wisdom of a woman who knows exactly who she is and does exactly what she wants. I respect the shit out of her.

Usually about 45 minutes after my housemates have already left the table, I offer Mila a sincere and grateful thank you for the soulful exchange and bid her farewell until tomorrow. This is usually around 11pm. “Venga,” she says. “Allá.” Rough translation: “To your room!”

After dinner, I lay in bed with a sense of gratitude that I’m ashamed to admit once proved so elusive. I read a bit more. I write a bit more. And I slowly transition to a dream state. My sleep never feels quite complete, but I wake up the next morning with the determination to reclaim last night’s satisfaction.

This is a day of routine. Not sure why I felt the need to spell it out. But there it is. That’s the day in the life that I consider most important. That’s the day I am most proud of.

Is there more to my life in Madrid than just routine? Of course! But the thrills of exploration and discovery and memory-making are meant to be experienced. They are not always meant to be documented.

For me, it’s the in between days. The “boring” days. The days of regimen that lay the foundation for my experience here. The mundane that gives shape to the moments that are meant to feel special. The humdrum of life that helps me recognize the debt I owe to all the uniquely extraordinary moments I feel so blessed to live.

I am proud to say that I am living a great many of them.

A Poem

The Space Between

The space between.

Where there's an energy to hoard. 
A permeating sentiment to live with and to levy.

The space between is rich with nostalgic wonder that oscillates between hope and fear.

Fear of time lost.
Fear of missed opportunity.
Fear of undesired change. 

I work tirelessly to lean into the side of hope. 

But positivity can be difficult to maintain whilst living in the space between.
Uncertainty can weave a spider's nest of trapped dreams. 
Visions of futures that one decides will never come to be.

And thus, said futures become idealized fictions.
Perfected in the mind's eye with the thunderous fervor of what could be.
With the dreadful supplication of what should be. 

All this thought dedicated to the unavailing escape of what is. 

I run from nothing to nowhere. 
I yearn to change the outcomes that were always going to be.

How powerless I am.
How misguided are my efforts.
How shameful I should feel. 

There is no life outside the space between. 
We inhale and exhale nowhere but within the realities that border our own. 

If I am here, then you are there. 

No. You are there. And thus, I am here.

Yo soy porque tú eres.

Two random observations:

1. Somehow, it’s already soup season in Spain. It’s still 85 degrees at 5pm, but it drops to 60ish degrees by nightfall. Yes, I am still working with Fahrenheit. I don’t really love soup, but I drink it anyway (or do I eat it anyway?). I guess I just didn’t expect to be surrounded by so much soup. That’s the observation.

2. Asparagus pee is crazy. A physiological phenomenon that needs to be studied in a lab and I volunteer to be the first subject. I had an asparagus soup for dinner last night. So just imagine that scent. It was like, a lot of asparagus. That’s the second observation.

Sign-Off

My heart is full of life and love and hope. I am whole. There are things that I want that I don’t yet have, but I am willing to rely on my current wholeness to attract them.

Remember to embrace your mundane. It’s the moments of quiet, even off-ness, that make the loud moments worth hearing.

With love,

Distinctly yours,

Raig