I swear I'm a fun girl

I swear, in real life, I'm actually a fun person. Honestly, no one who only reads my writing would think so. Usually, what drives me to write is nostalgia, fear, and anger. But what lights up inside me when I'm holding a vermouth (or a gin and tonic) is something else entirely.

Today, I've come to rebel against myself and let my 14-year-old alter ego—who has been my constant companion these last four weeks in Madrid—do the writing. The worst part is I don't even know how to start. It’s been so much fun that I feel like I don't know how to write about something like this. I have a problem (!!!).

I’ve always been a fan of doing things just for the anecdote, for questionable decisions, and for walking the line of “I might regret this later,” but I’ve always preached that it’s better to regret doing it than to regret not doing it. There comes a point in life when everything gets more serious and people start saying they “want to make the most of the day tomorrow.” Adult life becomes sticky, and we forget one very important thing: We can do whatever we want!!

How could I be negotiating my curfew at 14, and now at 30, I’m the one imposing it on myself? What have I become?

I live in a country where the nightlife just doesn’t do it for me. It’s lacking lyrics and rhythm. I had started to believe that I’d outgrown it, that I just didn’t feel like it anymore, but after spending a month in Madrid, I’ve confirmed that I was quite wrong. It’s not that I don’t like going out; it’s that I don’t like going out in the Netherlands.

I’d been in the city for little more than 24 hours when, after finishing dinner and drinks with friends, everyone went home. I didn’t have big plans for the night, nor high expectations, but I couldn't go to bed after a gin and tonic as if it were a glass of warm milk. I texted C, who happened to be at a bar 10 minutes from where I was. I hopped groups, and the night was just beginning.

We requested such good songs—reggaeton, obviously—from the bartender styling as a DJ that he started asking us for more suggestions. From there, we tried to go to a club where there was a massive line to get in, but that didn't stop us. We found another bar where she had another beer and I had another gin and tonic while our next big decision brewed.

I was lucky enough to find a partner in crime, someone else who found herself back in her adolescence—thanks carlota 🦎 for taking me out on the town. It was her great idea to go to a place that played nothing but hit after hit (accompanied by music videos!!). El Canto del Loco, Chenoa, Extremoduro, La Oreja de Van Gogh, Ska-P… you name it. The place to be. The place to let your hair down and sing at the top of your lungs. The kind of place where you’d never expect a Guardia Civil (off duty) to end up hitting on you, but this is Madrid and it happened. Only good stories.

I got home at 7 in the morning and by 11 I was at brunch with my friends, still slightly tipsy. Like I said, I was 14 again. Nothing more revitalizing than some good pancakes and a long nap watching Younger. Actually, that's a lie. Some good churros con chocolate. I confirmed that the following Saturday, which involved being a tourist in Madrid after shutting down a karaoke bar at 4am on Friday—a place so ugly it was iconic.

Before karaoke, we went to a Sen Senra concert. I also went to see Hinds with D the week after. And the following week, I snagged a ticket to Natalia Lacunza's concert on the morning of the show. I went alone. Semi-sheer shirt, midriff out, and no jacket because the coat check was 4€ and I didn't want to pay. Teenager, who?

We also went to see Wuthering Heights on a Friday with every intention of stuffing ourselves with popcorn, candy, and our soda of choice. Well, and to enjoy the views offered by Jacob and Margot.

That Saturday, which was Valentine’s Day, I and A came over to my place. We ordered lunch, then a snack, and then dinner. We spent the day chatting, eating, and just watching the world go by. It was the best day of all. At night, C joined us for dinner and brought beers. Things escalated again. We made friends at a bar and I ended up with them at a club with the most random music and people ever. (Side note: They say Valentine’s is a good day to go out if you want to pick someone up because only the singles are out, but I'm warning you that based on what I saw, in my opinion, the selection wasn't great.)

On Sunday, I woke up with an irresistible craving for more of the dumplings we’d had for dinner the night before. And I gave in. Another great remedy to bring me back to life. You have to listen to a hangover, not fight it.

There’s something about partying that borders on the cathartic, that makes me truly disconnect. There’s something about saying yes to another drink even when you’re not sure you want to go out that goes against the system. It’s ignoring the "I have to make the most of the weekend" and betting on "let’s see what happens." It’s taking life less seriously. It’s opening the door to improvisation, to "wasting" the next day. And I’m proud to have said yes to all those gin and tonics, because it was saying yes to not knowing what’s going to happen. Even if the night didn't end in a story worth telling.

Among my different personalities, the "pleasure-seeker" is one of them, and I’ve had her a bit abandoned for years. I enjoy drinking, dancing, and singing. And I think I’ve said it too many times already, but it’s true and I keep proving it every time I go: in Spain, I am a more fun person. I was getting bored of going out for a drink with the idea of getting home early. Because that’s who I am in Delft; nothing else comes naturally there.

So, I’m happy to have been able to feed (or intoxicate) that little piece of me in Madrid. That 14-year-old alter ego who enjoyed every hungover Sunday.

- jú.

see you on insta :)