Life in a Madrid Flat: Finding Joy in Community & Inconvenience

The following reflection was written in the fall of 2023, my first year living in Spain. At the time I was a single woman living in the center of Madrid, reflecting on my new life in Europe.

As I approached the last flight of stairs separating me from my apartment, I paused to catch my breath. I wake up at 4:45 a.m. every morning to work out, yet walking up three flights of stairs to my apartment still leaves me exhausted.

This day, in particular, I was worn out. It was past 8:30 p.m., and I was just getting home from work. All I wanted to do was eat, finish the project I’d been procrastinating on, and go to sleep. My to-do list had unraveled in my mind the whole way up the stairs, and I was feeling the weight of it.

As I stood there catching my breath, I couldn’t help but think of the differences between my life here in Europe and the life I left behind in the United States. Americans, I’m sure, would be shocked and perturbed by how squished things are here. My Madrid apartment, though charming, is small and lacking in many of the conveniences I once took for granted. Three flights of stairs with no elevator. A tiny kitchen with no dishwasher. Laundry that has to be hung to dry. Walking everywhere, no matter how tired you are.

There are moments when I feel the tiredness and the inconvenience of it all. Twenty-five years in the U.S. has left me naturally reaching for the easier way. I get annoyed at inefficiencies—why doesn’t anyone here seem to care about saving time? Why isn’t there a simpler way to do this?

And yet, as much as I sometimes long for the convenience of life back home, this slower, more inconvenient way of life is exactly what I love about Europe. Though I look at my friends and family in the States, living in spacious homes I’ll likely never afford in Spain, I’ve come to realize that these inconveniences in Madrid are necessary roadblocks. They force me to slow down. They pull me out of autopilot and into the present moment.

Climbing the stairs, hang drying my clothes, walking to the store—these little challenges prevent me from leading a life dominated by work. They remind me to prioritize presence over efficiency.

I adjusted my backpack, took a deep breath, and powered up the last flight of stairs. When I walked through the front door, I was greeted by the best thing I could have hoped for: silence. All the lights were off, and the apartment was completely still. Perfect—no one to bother me, talk to me, or get in my way.

I dropped my things on the side table, rolled up my sleeves, and headed straight for the kitchen to make dinner. As I stirred something simple on the stovetop, I allowed myself to exhale a little. I could hear the quiet hum of the city outside the window. The faint clinking of utensils on the counter felt like a rhythm of peace I desperately needed. Finally, some time to myself.

But just as I was plating my dinner, my roommate appeared in the doorway.

“Hey! How was your day?” she asked, her tone warm and curious.

I plastered on a polite smile, hiding the groan I felt rising in my chest. Internally, I sighed. I just want to eat, finish my work, and go to bed. Can’t I have just one quiet night?

I answered her question briefly, hoping to discourage further conversation, but she wasn’t deterred. She continued to talk, asking about my day, sharing something funny that happened at work, and rifling through the pantry as if we had all the time in the world.

As much as I wanted to be left alone, her persistent kindness slowly chipped away at my tired heart. Eventually, I found myself smiling for real and responding with more than just one-word answers. Before I knew it, she had poured us each a glass of wine, pulled out a bar of chocolate, and we were sitting at the table together, laughing about something that had seemed unimportant just moments before.

That night didn’t go as planned. I didn’t stick to my routine, and I didn’t cross every task off my to-do list. But as I went to bed later than expected, I felt something much better than accomplishment—I felt the warmth of connection.

It was one of those moments that reminded me why these little interruptions are so necessary. While routines and regimes are important for living an ordered life, true order must always put charity first. If my desire for structure, productivity, or even rest starts to keep me from communion with others, then something is off.

Boundaries are important, yes, but they shouldn’t be an iron curtain. They should be more like a fence—with a door we use frequently, both to invite others in and to step into the lives of those around us. Living in community isn’t always convenient or easy, but it’s how we’re called to live as Christians. It’s in these unplanned, inconvenient interruptions where the richness of love and charity has the most room to grow.

As I reflect on that night, I think about how much I’ve been shaped by these inconveniences and interruptions—by the stairs, the laundry, the kitchen, and the people I share this small space with.

Though I’ll always treasure my routines and the peace of solitude, I’ve come to see that life is most full when it’s shared. And sometimes, what I need most isn’t to stick to my plans—it’s to pour a glass of wine, break open some chocolate, and simply be present with the people around me.