did i really miss my train?

the illusion of missed opportunities and the holy church of noticing

Oct 21, 2024

I’m currently riding a train to Barcelona after missing the one we had originally planned to take. I spent what felt like two frustrating hours arguing with four different customer representatives, who–for all I know–could've been laughing at my demise after they each said some variation of "I'm sorry you're going to have to call the company you booked your train with".

"YOU ARE IT–you're the company I booked the train with!"

"No, no. You see— we're the agency you booked through, not the train carrier per se. So technically, we're not liable for the carrier's policy on… well, giving a fuck.” To be fair, she didn't say it verbatim but that's what I heard.

They all had that same tone of complete detachment. The kind you get from a college professor about your absences or from a coworker who has their own time zone and pings you at 3:43 pm with “I’d love to have this EOD!” and then follows up at 4:57 pm with, “So, what’s the ETA on that?”–while you’re already calculating your estimated time of arrival home.

"This call will be recorded for training purposes," says the automatic voice. Can you imagine training with the scale that measures: ‘How infuriated is your customer from 1 through absolutely ready to punch a hole through a wall?’ If it’s a 10, just remember to use these pre-approved responses, honed after years of successfully not solving concerns. ‘Ah yes, I can understand your frustration.’ And of course, the classic: ‘Alas, that is not our policy,’ even though it was the policy before they bought what they now lack.

I spent the night in Madrid before heading to Barcelona to watch my best friend marry someone that knows her so well, he didn't blink when she missed one of her flights. He just asked, “So, when’s the next one?” To be loved is to be known.

For a time, I got to call this place home, at the very impressionable age of twenty-one. Between Malasaña and Chueca, I walked the same cobbled streets, which have seen me heartbroken, depressed, ecstatic, enthralled, inspired, single, infatuated, in a toxic relationship, in a healthy one, engaged, and now married.

The distinct stench of rolled tobacco and the occasional whiff of urine serve as extras in the background of the spectacular show this city performs for you–if you’re simply willing to look. It doesn’t carry the justifiable pretension or hopeless romantic Je ne sais quoi of Paris. Nor does it echo with the maestros and artists of Florence and Rome, or boast the admirably experimental architecture of Barcelona. But there’s a brilliance here, a particular sense of sonder hidden in the corner of its streets.

Some might argue there isn't much to do or see in Madrid, but that’s precisely one of its most powerful draws. The appeal lies in the echo chamber of the beauty of ordinary days. Your mundane moments are imbued with a sense of fulfilling contentment and meaning. There’s a sweetness in the idleness of walking through sun-drenched buildings with their intricate moldings and well-defined symmetry, allowing the city to offer itself to you.

A 2-euro caña on a breezy terrace where golden retrievers patiently wait for their owners under the chairs, watching the pigeons pass by. Playing Russian roulette with Pimientos Padron–one I lost, and my tongue paid for in pain and vanilla ice cream. An old couple holds each other tightly across uneven cobblestones. The libreros sell second-hand books, and artisans jewelers set up shop in Plaza Dos de Mayo. A father tries to outrun his son to wrap him in a warm blanket. Watching a friend slurp thick, salty oysters and wishing I hadn't been poisoned by them–not once, but multiple, equally painful times. Strolling through cypress trees and white marble statues in Parque del Retiro. Finishing the night at Toni2, singing loudly in unison around a massive oval mahogany table, following the piano man's lead. Singing old-school ballads and breakout hits, songs so popular they have surpassed one nation’s claim and become part of everyone’s bid for connection, regardless of nationality. A boy sways side to side, arms wrapped around his friend’s shoulders. An emotional outpouring from Spaniards’ usual concise warmth. Girls twirl their hair and nod their heads in absolute affirmation, using their friend's hand as a microphone.

People who know me say I have a tendency to romanticize anything–a hopelessly romantic cynic. What seems so inherently unromantic, so completely ordinary, is what I deem inklings of beauty—the closest I get to God. The holy church of noticing.

I see polished silver utensils as a small act of devotion, straight from the dishwasher’s hand. A local’s passionate recommendations are an act of kindness to the naive tourist. Our innate curiosity in blindly trusting a waiter’s suggestions is a small nod of faith.

I missed the train to Barcelona because I was sipping on a warm flat white while my best friend slurped on gel-like silicone that, according to the local pharmacist, aided her persistent nausea after one too many glasses of orange wine. If we had arrived exactly 3 minutes earlier at the Atocha station, wouldn’t I have missed that moment with a dear friend? A moment spent sitting on a wooden bench outside Pan & Pepinillos Café, watching small dogs wag their tails in preemptive excitement at the possibility of touch, and people equally excited for more or less the same reason–a bid for connection in the guise of a morning coffee. I doubt I missed anything at all. What builds us and gives us character isn’t nurtured by the accumulations of “must-sees” and “must-dos,” hoarded as keepsakes and locations to tag on your socials. The fulfillment we seek in every life experience doesn’t lie in a bucket list or the tourist attractions of major European cities. Even when we think they do because of their walkable streets, 2 pm siestas, and 2-euro beer.

It’s the small, mundane–and at times dull–moments that, almost through osmosis, shape us. Contrary to popular belief, our friend’s Instagram stories, and strangers' Tiktoks on your fyp, we don’t become better people simply by standing in front of masterpieces. We’re not automatically more well-rounded because we’ve seen Degas’ paintings in the Prado museum or Gaudí’s houses in Barcelona. What makes us so much more is how we listen to a friend who is speaking. The frustration shared over a missed train breeds more connection than the immediate gratification of catching it. These small moments are what build our story and move the plot along. And yes, I may have lost some money, but I gained a few more minutes with a friend–and we don't ever really know how many of those we have left, do we? Or maybe, as my friends might say, I really just missed my train.