A Madrid Thanksgiving

            My fourth year into living in Spain, my best gal from Buenos Aires wanted to experience Thanksgiving.

“What do all of you do in the U.S.?” She asked. “Cook an enormous turkey?” She extended her arms out. “I want to do that.”

“I don’t think they have turkeys in Madrid,” I said.

I learned after the holiday that there was a scatter of Irish pubs that had found some, but I wasn’t bummed to have missed out, content in my new life and new holidays. I was also returning to veganism and didn’t want to finagle a poor bird into my friend’s miniscule oven. 

“We’ll do everything else,” she said. “The whole ordeal.” I’d never seen her this excited.

I went to The American Store on Paseo de San Francisco, Metro stop: Guzmán El Bueno. I couldn’t find fried onions for the top of the green bean casserole. I couldn’t find anything, which meant it would taste fresh. I did stock up on peanut butter. I debated over sugar cereal, which I evaded successfully. Everything in The American Store was composed of sugar and it astonished me more each year that passed.

            At my apartment in Vinateros, I prepared the side dish and also made sweet potatoes. I carried both containers on the Metro, changing trains at Príncipe de Vergara and then got off at Opera. The walk from there to Plaza de España was my favorite in Madrid, especially at night when the moon rose full over the opera house. Opposite was the royal palace. Being center to such opulence always felt novel. After hiking up the wide, wooden stairs to my friend’s flat on the third floor, conspicuously called the second floor in Spain, I dropped off my Thanksgiving contribution and then popped back downstairs to the end of the block to the Chinos. Many convenience stores, in both Madrid and Buenos Aires, are owned and ran by Chinese, and since Argentinians love naming things as they first see them—among our friend group we had a gordo (fatty), a flaco (skinny), I was a Yankee (even though I was from Texas), and many other outward identifiers—the corner stores were called Chinos. I always greeted the grocers in Chinese and asked how they were doing: “Nǐ hǎo. Nǐ hǎo ma?” I purchased chilled beers and red and white wine and then thanked them on my way out: “Xièxiè.”

Since we didn’t have a turkey, my friend was rolling empanadas. She had also made milanesas. “Just in case,” she said, and I laughed. There was always too much food.

            I squeezed in next to her and we pressed in the doughy mouths with our thumbs until they resembled plump fans. Once browned in the tiny oven, we unfolded a plastic table and our cheerful group sat among two countries of food. As I scooped and passed, I answered ingredient questions. The night made me forget about what I was ignoring: a holiday that annoyed me, and even so, loved ones I wasn’t eating with five-thousand miles away. Once again, I felt at home in Madrid, and these people were the family in that home. My gratitude wasn’t intentional nor was it limited to that day.  I was constantly in awe that I could speak Spanish, that I could connect so deeply with people from a different country and culture, and that I didn’t need a car to get anywhere in the city or the country. Our dinner plates remained on the table after eating and we talked over them for hours. They would go into the sink to be cleaned the following day, and this would happen indefinitely. Not doing dishes right away was what I valued most in Spain.