The wrong door that led me home: my Spanish journey
- olveraatyourpace
- Nov 17
- 2 min read
It wasn’t destiny. There was no cosmic wink, no secret sign pointing me toward a future under Spanish skies. On the contrary: at forty-eight Spain was still a name on the map, a place my feet had yet to find. Andy yet, as Bredero wisely said: “Things can change”.
The first twist in the story came at the “Cactus Festival” in Bruges. Patti Smith – the godmother of punk – was on the line up, and for a lifelong music addict like me, seeing her live at least once was non-negotiable. The night was electric, her voice rough and holy in equal measure, and I drifted through the crowd with that heady sense that something – though i didn’t know what – was shifting.
When the music faded, I found myself at the youth hostel “Charlie Rockets”. Here’s where things get hazy: at some point between check-in and bedtime, I completely forgot my room number. Not exactly a crisis – hostel dorms are free-for-all sleeping zones – so i just wandered into the first one with a spare bed and crashed.
Morning came with a shock. I woke to sunlight streaming across a room that was…not mine. Arrayed around me were several young Spanish women in varying states of undress, chattering and laughing in rapid-fire Spanish.
For a moment I thought I might be dreaming – this was, after all, the stuff of certain youthful fantasies. But reality has a way of taming such moments; the looks on their faces made it clear I was not part of the plan.
And then there was the language barrier: I didn’t speak a single word of Spanish. Some how, that embarrasment planted a seed.It was the push I needed to dive headfirst into the language of Cervantes, a leap that would lead me to an unforgettable journey and a train I had no intention of stopping.
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