It finally happened. I went somewhere where the line for the men’s bathroom was twice as long as the one for the women’s.
I attended my first official European football game! I had my eye on tickets for the Champions League game between Real Madrid and Liverpool for weeks and finally found a couple the night before. After going to local bars to watch games with friends all semester and missing the ‘El Clásico’ against Barcelona for a program excursion, I was itching for some football. I didn’t come to Madrid to miss seeing the team I’ve adored for years. I was not going to miss seeing the Spanish "B.B.C." players, which my Spanish professor explained stood for "Bale, Benzema, and Cristiano."
For days I scanned websites and daydreamt of finally seeing each esteemed player, the reverberation of chanting fans, and the sensation of being consumed by the crowd’s passion. And while the game was packed and invigorating, the atmosphere outside was almost as intense.
After anxiously adjusting my gloves and Madrid scarf, I set off from my quiet neighborhood for the chilly fifteen-minute walk to Santiago Bernabéu, Real Madrid’s enormous home stadium. The streets grew boisterous as the crowds collected by color. The bellowing Liverpool fans that amassed in scarlet red could be heard blocks away as they sang raucously. They paused at every other corner to survey the intersection, reaffirming their tourist status. As the shape of the colossal Bernabéu ultimately appeared, looming over the neighboring buildings, throngs of Real Madrid fans slowly emerged, arrayed in black and white and brushing past the lingering tourists. Some cheered passionately, but many merely chatted with each other in thick Spanish accents, occasionally smirking confidently at the disorderly Liverpool fans.
Upon arrival, I hurried into the nearby metro entrance to wait for my friend and to escape the crisp evening breeze. Anxiously scanning the rowdy crowds, I spotted a flustered older English fan struggling to communicate with a metro employee. When the unruly swarm of attendees filtered through the turnstiles and disappeared up the stairs, I approached the disillusioned pair and offered to translate. The fan had lost his family, and therefore his ticket to the match, while the metro employee offered advice for a meeting location. The whole transaction was both gratifying and comical, not only due to the proficiency of my Spanish, but also because the thick Liverpool accent seemed to be the harder of the two to understand.
As I walked away to accost my late friend, I overheard the British fan say to the employee, “Sweet girl, nice people you have in Madrid. Lucky she spoke English.” And so that’s how it ended, Madrid 1 – Liverpool 0, just like the final score sheet. I can't wait to go back.
