MADRID—Maybe I had a bad case of wanderlust, or maybe I had eaten too many baguettes for one summer. Whatever the reason, the sight of Madrid exhilarated me. The beautiful streets filled with ornaments and decorations, the shop doors made artistic by graffiti, the plazas bursting with life even at two o’clock in the morning—they beckoned me sweetly to enter the city and find adventure.

They didn’t lie. Despite arriving in the late evening, I found myself exploring Madrid at night. That exploration only escalated as my three days in Spain passed by. I spent many hours at the two large museums and even more at restaurants, where I marveled at the large and appetizing dishes. A day sped past in Toledo, where my group and I tried to squeeze every tourist attraction into the little time we had. I felt the excitement I had used to expect when traveling to foreign countries—an excitement I hadn’t felt for a long while in Paris.    

By now, the notes of Paris moved in familiar ways for me; it had become simple to follow the daily melody. I dared to venture into the outskirts and suburbs of the city. I knew most of the metro lines and could jump from one station to another without looking at a map. And while originally attentive on buses and trains, I now read books and listened to music like every other Parisian. I was fluent in the language for the most part, had accumulated favorite sites to visit, and paced myself in visiting the must-see areas. The magic of Paris had evaporated.

Madrid was different. For three days, I followed my group, completely confused about where our feet were taking us but trusting the others’ sense of direction. For six meals, I allowed my Spanish-speaking classmates to order for me. I waved my hands in complex signs to communicate with locals, took pictures at every intersection, and raised my eyebrows in uncertainty whenever we took the metro.

My eyes were wide, my heart ready to embrace Spain with open arms. I was head over heels in love with the shopping, the food, and the museums. As I stood on the Circulo de Bellas Artes and gazed down at the cityscape, I breathed a sigh of awe. A few days before, I had stood on Tour Montparnasse, and while the view was mystifying, I had looked at it fondly, adoringly, like an old acquaintance.

I left Madrid with reluctance. But as I returned to Paris and saw its Haussmann-influenced streets and vibrant lights, some enthusiasm rekindled. Spain was new, but Paris would always be my first love, the first European city I set my sights on.

Sometimes you need distance, even if it is from the City of Lights. In Madrid, I got mine.

Ha D.H. Le ’17, a Crimson arts editor, lives in Dunster House.