Taste of the unfamiliar feeds hunger to explore

I opened the heavy glass door, stepped out of my quiet, air-conditioned hotel, and nearly fell face first into an enormous pile of potato chips on a fold-up table.

"¡Patatas pastillas aquí! Un euro!" I stepped beyond the man scooping potato chips into the palms of passers-by and was swept away by the deluge of locals flowing to the center of the city.

It was March 20, 2003, the day that President Bush began the invasion in Iraq. I stood in the middle of Puerta del Sol in the heart of Madrid amidst a demonstration against the war, because my American family of four had grown hungry after our jet-lagged siesta. Regardless of the fact that this was my fourth day off the North American continent, I was surprisingly comfortable venturing out into this loud, excited mass of protesters with my father. Fighting my way across the street between lively, dancing bodies, I offended no one in the least bit when I shoved them out of the way — the spirit of exercising their civil rights and the excitement of the night had cast a spell on everyone in the city. The evidence was in the animated faces I saw everywhere, each one enlivened with the prospect of being heard. It was as if this was not about war, but rather a party to which every resident had received an invitation.

We finally reached El Corte Inglés, Spain's upscale answer to Target, and stocked up on Pringles, soda and tangy olives. Armed with our sodium-filled provisions, we exited the store, and I was completely engulfed in the midst of the throng. The sheer passion these people exuded penetrated my skin and took over my whole being. I felt a deep and sudden urge to join them in the mantras I only partially understood, to throw something, anything into the colossal bonfire in the center of the plaza. My stomach seemed to twirl. I could see the red-lit fountains, perfectly silhouetted against the dark night sky. All I could hear was the garbled Spanish of the overamplified brass band playing salsa, and an occasional sound bite from the CNN reporter six feet to my left. I was mesmerized, and when my father tugged on my hand I walked back through the energized assembly in a trance. As soon as we were inside, I scurried upstairs to the balcony and let my grocery bag sink to the floor — I could not miss a moment of this powerful fervor.

Eventually, the sounds of the crackling bonfire, the band, and the chants and speeches of the mob traveling in through the open window hummed me to sleep. The next morning, the only signs that anything out of the ordinary had occurred in Puerta del Sol were a few extra ice-cream-cone wrappers and soda cups on the ground and a solitary limpieza picking up the trash by hand, like the host after a successful party. For the local community, the evening was over, and with it the zeal. But for me, this one occasion sparked an unquenchable desire to experience foreign cultures and to plunge into unfamiliar situations. I know that in some way it has inspired a life focused on learning and experiencing the thrill of moving as far outside of my suburban bubble as possible. It was this night that launched my passion for cultural exploration, which has in turn expanded my worldview in ways I could have never predicted.

That night over five years ago taught me that I am much stronger than I think. Whenever I am tempted to remain in the solace of my comfortable lifestyle, I am reminded of the utter wonder and exhilaration I felt in Madrid that night. I once again venture into the unknown.

Ashby Conwell lives in Bellevue.

The Travel Essay, written by readers about an adventure or insight, runs each Sunday in The Seattle Times and also online at seattletimes.com. Essays, which are unpaid, must be no longer than 700 words and will be edited for content and length. E-mail to travel@seattletimes.com or send to Travel, The Essay, The Seattle Times, P.O. Box 70, Seattle, WA 98111. Because of the volume of submissions, individual replies are not always possible.