[h2]The journey was long—I crossed an ocean. But I’m not tired, thanks to being used to these kinds of flights and knowing how to sleep for several hours, even out of sync, on uncomfortable seats surrounded by strangers. The schedule is punctual and simple: check in at a hotel near Puerta del Sol, meet clients at their offices, attend the annual hardware showcase, spend one night at the hotel, and travel the next morning to the next commitment.[/h2] [h2] [/h2] [h2]Upon arriving at the airport, I go to the bathroom and realize I forgot to bring a toothbrush. I brush my teeth with my index finger wet with tap water. Tap water tastes different in every city. Then, I settle into a stall; the journey was long, and I ate fish. As I pull down my pants, my phone falls out of the side pocket and straight into the toilet. I rescue it, but the water renders it useless. I think I synced the calendar with the laptop in my suitcase—or at least I hope I did, because that’s where I have the addresses and schedules for the trip. I don’t know them by heart.[/h2] [h2] [/h2] [h2]I need to get to the hotel. There, I can charge the laptop battery and use the courtesy toothbrush. I’ll also use the bathroom, as I didn’t get the chance earlier. I need a Metro ticket, the quickest way to get to the hotel. I find a ticket machine and insert my credit card since I haven’t bought any euros yet. A one-way ticket pops out, but my card gets stuck in the machine. The screen says nothing. I press all the buttons, but I can’t retrieve my card. I jot down the customer service number from the machine onto a random piece of paper I find in my pocket. I think there’s a branch of my bank near the hotel. Curiously, nothing that has happened on this trip so far is bothering me.[/h2] [h2] [/h2] [h2]I get off the Metro just as the sun is rising over Puerta del Sol. Due to a labor strike by Madrid’s sanitation workers, the square is filthy. I accidentally step on an entire pizza lying on the ground. It has anchovies. I look up, and the warm rays of the spring sun welcome me—they’re not the only ones. An old homeless man yells at me from the foot of the Bear and the Strawberry Tree statue.[/h2] [h2] [/h2] [h2]“Welcome, neighbor!”[/h2] [h2] [/h2] [h2]I approach him and thank him for the welcome with some leftover coins from my previous trip to Europe. When I look into his eyes, I feel a strong sense of déjà vu. I have to get to the hotel, so I bid him farewell and head down Calle del Arenal.[/h2] [h2] [/h2] [h2]When I reach the block where the hotel is located, my nose wrinkles at an intense burnt smell. Police tape blocks my way, and I already have a hunch about what’s going on. A firefighter approaches to confirm my suspicion: the hotel where I have a reservation caught fire last night.[/h2] [h2] [/h2] [h2]Back in Puerta del Sol, I saw a fast-food restaurant that, with a bit of ingenuity, could serve as a temporary hotel room. I find the manager just as she’s opening the doors. I greet her with a smile and explain the situation with the hotel. She kindly allows me to charge my laptop and use the women’s restroom, as the men’s is temporarily out of order. The bathroom is freshly cleaned, and I’ll be the first to use it today.[/h2] [h2] [/h2] [h2]As I leave the stall, fastening my pants, I look up to see an attractive woman dressed in a white medical coat waiting her turn to enter the restroom I just vacated. The doctor gives me a reproachful look. I mumble something about a closed bathroom and a fire, then leave before the conversation becomes more awkward. I open my laptop, which has just 5% battery, and search my calendar for the meeting details. I jot down the name, address, time, and phone number of my contact on a napkin. His name is Pedro Almeidas.[/h2] [h2] [/h2] [h2]The meeting isn’t far. I can walk there from where I am, saving my tight budget of twelve euros and some coins. I ask the fast-food employee for one last favor: to store my suitcase for a few hours. She agrees happily, saying she finds my unlikely story amusing. I think she doesn’t believe me and assumes this is some kind of pick-up line.[/h2] [h2] [/h2] [h2]I walk down Carretas to Atocha and head south a few blocks, passing the Museo del Jamón. Didn’t I see another Museo del Jamón near Puerta del Sol? How many are there? Are they a franchise? I arrive at the address fifteen minutes early and announce myself professionally at an elegant reception desk. Luckily, I put on deodorant in the fast-food restaurant’s bathroom. Pedro Almeidas greets me with a forced smile. He gives me a warm handshake, almost fraternal, carrying under his arm today’s copy of [i]El País[/i]. He shows me page 22, where the printed words state that the company I work for has gone bankrupt, leaving hundreds of employees out of work. At this point, nothing surprises me anymore. Pedro invites me to a coffee from the machine, which I accept with a smile, and we chat for about twenty minutes about trivial matters. We part with a warm hug, and I leave whistling to retrieve my suitcase from Puerta del Sol.[/h2] [h2] [/h2] [h2]Arriving at the fast-food restaurant, I notice the square is cleaner. I pass the Bear and the Strawberry Tree statue, and the homeless man from earlier greets me again.[/h2] [h2] [/h2] [h2]“Welcome, neighbor! I saved your spot.”[/h2] [h2] [/h2] [h2]The man points to a piece of cardboard with a blanket next to him. I sit on the cardboard and look into his eyes. Up close, I recognize him. He’s my neighbor from apartment 5C—or rather, he was. Four years ago, he went on a business trip and never returned. No one ever knew what happened to him.[/h2] [h2] [/h2] [h2]“Thank you, neighbor,” I reply, lying down beside him on the cardboard. The makeshift bed feels more comfortable than the finest chair. We remain silent, genuine smiles adorning our faces. My gaze drifts to the starry sky above Madrid. I play at spotting the Southern Cross until I feel drowsy. I reach into my pocket and find a piece of paper with a phone number that no longer means anything to me. [/h2] [h2] [/h2] [h2]Tonight, I’ll sleep here. Tomorrow, I’ll look for the suitcase—or maybe not.[/h2]
