When I was a junior in college, I had the chance to study abroad. I was an International Business student, minoring in Spanish, so I chose Madrid. The program mandated students to stay with a host family, which is something I would not have chosen myself, but was open to. Other than college, this was my first significant time away from home. I was secretly terrified, yet exuded the swagger and confidence only a 20-year-old can. From what I’d heard, study abroad was for socializing and partying, not for worrying about grades or the daily struggles of regular student life. I anxiously awaited the travel and new friendships I would make during my six months. This was 2007. The beginning of Google Maps and Facebook. International travel meant buying a local SIM card for cell phones; texting or calling, especially while in transit, wasn’t easy. I landed in Madrid with an address scribbled on paper, relying on eight years of classroom Spanish to direct my taxi. Forty-five minutes later, I arrived at an apartment building in Salamanca, a charming, friendly barrio. My host mom and her 13-year-old son greeted me. Neither spoke English, and to my surprise, I barely understood Spanish. They spoke fast, with local slang and the distinct Madrid “th” lisp on their ‘c’s and ‘z’s. The apartment was a modest three-bedroom with a lovely balcony. The foyer held books, self-portraits, trinkets, and a hamster cage in the corner. My room, a small space off the foyer, featured a twin bed under a large window, old armoire, colorful marble tiles, and a desk piled with Spanish literature. This would be my home, and they, my family, for the next six months.My host mom cooked and did my laundry. She was often stressed but knew how to unwind, frequently hosting friends and engaging in lively conversations about books, movies, and politics. While she tried to make me feel as comfortable as possible, I often felt awkward and a burden. She and her son had frequent, loud arguments. From what I could make out, they were seemingly typical mother-son clashes over a teenager’s desire for independence versus a Spanish mother’s protective instincts. She owned a pet grooming business and watched her clients’ dogs on weekends, and every weekend we had a different dog staying with us, which brought me comfort. Madrid felt like Spain’s New York City—bustling and hardworking, yet adept at relaxation and leisure. I tried my best to speak Spanish, but felt deflated when people responded in English. Weekdays involved an hour-long metro commute to and from school. My class schedule was more intense than expected; Full school days, mostly in Spanish, and certainly not “blow-off” courses. I was envious of a group of American students in my program, mostly living in a house together, having a much more typical study abroad experience…a fun one. I longed to hang out with friends after school, not feel on edge around a new “mom” I couldn’t communicate with. Yearning for home comforts, I would spend afternoons re-watching DVDs of Friends I had brought from home (remember, no Netflix yet) and walking past twenty cafes just to find a Starbucks for a vanilla latte, seeking a familiar comfort. It was a kind of loneliness I had never known. I waited to settle into a rhythm, for the homesickness to subside, hoping to be swept away by my journey instead of counting the days until I returned home, but the language barrier created a profound sense of isolation. My lack of confidence prevented me from looking like the fool I needed to be in order to truly speak learn the language. I called my parents weekly for as many minutes as I could afford. Looking back, I spent much of those calls complaining about the cultural differences, the food, and my host family, when the truth was I was simply lonely, missing home, and unable to articulate it. I felt excluded, admiring this culture from the outside, but not truly feeling a part of it. Unsettled, yet still feeling immense intellectual and creative stimulation from the city I was in. On my loneliest days, I began forcing myself to leave my Friends DVDs and my small bedroom. I would walk the city streets, observe people in the park, and absorb the city’s sounds. I started to embrace being solo and enjoying the aspects of the culture I loved: the languid days, the siesta, the botellón, the tapas and bar culture, the architecture, museums, old bookstores, and the general way of life the Spanish people lead. Looking back nearly two decades later, Madrid didn’t change me in the ways I expected. I didn’t return home speaking fluent Spanish, nor did I leave with a host of new friends. Madrid taught me how to be with myself. It showed me that to escape the deep black hole of loneliness, you must literally get out—out of your home, out of your comfort zone, out of your head. To look foolish sometimes. Madrid, you are where I learned I don’t have to be lonely being alone.