In light of the Anthony Bourdain biopic, Tony, set to release this summer, I found it fitting to share an experience from my visit to Spain three years ago.
Prior to my departure, I had read Kitchen Confidential and immersed myself in his travel and food show, Anthony Bourdain: Parts Unknown. I planned my excursion solely around his traveling advice; However, trying to “be a traveler, not a tourist” would be difficult as this was a school organized trip.
For nearly three years, I worked after school and on the weekends to save up enough money for a passport and ticket to Spain. It was my first chance to leave the country, and I remember thinking I would never forgive myself if I let the chance slip by.
Those years came to an end. I was 18, freshly graduated, and I had scraped enough money together to travel alongside my friends to Spain.
We embarked on an eight-hour flight from Chicago to Munich before landing in Barcelona. The surrounding geography in Barcelona resembled something close to how I imagined South America to look; a lush and green mountain line draped with an overcast sky, and beige apartment buildings in the foreground.
Our two days in Barcelona were spent visiting landmarks and wandering in and out of cafes that lined the streets. At one point, I remember purchasing a small, jaded bracelet from a street merchant whose blanket displayed a collection of miscellaneous objects. It was the little things like this I enjoyed most about traveling.
Soon enough, our days in Barcelona had come and gone, and we made our way to Madrid. The scenery along the way consisted of fields painted in shades of yellow and brown. Pastures were blotched with little houses with red roofs, and ruins of what once resembled the Franco era stood motionless and ghostly. Coincidently, Gil Scott-Heron's “This Can't be Real” played through my headphones.
Once we arrived in Madrid, we checked in at our hotel and immediately headed downtown to grab dinner. We were surprised to find how crowded the streets were, only to discover that Madrid was hosting its annual Pride parade that evening. As the second-largest Pride celebration in the world, it felt less like a parade and more like the biggest party I’d ever been to. Unfortunately, we had to return to the hotel earlier than expected, and the party was cut short.
Exhausted and a bit inebriated, I collapsed into bed once I entered my hotel room. About an hour and a half later, I woke up to find my room empty. My friends had left to grab dinner, leaving me alone.
Restless and eager to explore, I decided to venture into the city by myself.
With only a basic understanding of Spanish and twenty euros in my pocket, I walked towards the nearest residential area where a variety of bodegas and restaurants were. This was my moment to move freely- no tourist traps, no hotel dinners, just me and the dimly lit streets ahead.
As I meandered down the sidewalks and one-way streets, I realized finding a place open at this hour would be a challenge. My watch read 11:23 and I had to act quickly before any more places closed.
I popped into a fast-food style eatery that resembled Dominoes or Pizza Hut back home. It was fine, but not what I was looking for. I craved more: an experience. An actual eatery I could look back on and relish how great it was.
So, I carried on with my midnight excursion.
I came across a tiny hole in the wall tucked away near a descending staircase, luminating with the words "Doner Kebab Comida Turca" above.
This was it.
Skittishly, I walked into the restaurant. It was hot inside and luminescent lights hung overhead. The only cool air came from a portable fan perched atop a refrigerator. Behind the counter, the storeowner sweated over shaved slices of lamb. One man sat at the bar drinking his cerveza, while a couple near the back picked away at a plate of patatas y arroz.
I approached the counter and purchased an order of shawarma and a can of coke.
After a brief conversation with the store owner, I exited the restaurant and sat on a nearby bench. Slowly unwrapping the shawarma, I tore into it like a wildebeest, consuming every morsel that presented itself.
In that moment, I felt content.
It wasn’t the meal itself, but the experience that brought me there. The interactions I shared with locals and exploring on my own was a whole new feeling to me.
To some, it may have felt insignificant. But somewhere in that sultry midnight, Bourdain’s wisdom rang out to me.
I was a traveler for the first time in my life, and not a tourist.
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