Eating local and cheap is the goal when I travel. It doesn’t really matter what the food is, as long as it’s budget-friendly, enjoyed by the local residents and, of course, good – that’s what the Hangry Backpacker is all about.
In other words, you won’t find me in a Starbucks outside of the United States. Well, to be frank, thanks to years living in the coffee capital of the USA – that being the coffee-obsessed city of Portland – you won’t see me in a Starbucks anywhere.
When I travel, especially when traveling abroad, my favorite way to experience a destination is through the food. Food is culture. And history. Politics. Geography. Business. Happiness. Food provides so much information about a place and its people.
With that sort of respect and emphasis toward food, especially since I constantly mention it here, I do my best to seek authentic eating experiences. Local restaurants, the kind of places where a normal resident of whatever town I’m in would stop for lunch or after work. There are exceptions, but that explanation is for another time.
The point is that the last thing I want to do when I travel is wind up in a tourist restaurant. Unfortunately, the reality is mistakes are occasionally made. Sometimes travelers end up in places they typically wish to avoid.
On a backpacking trip last year, I made just that mistake. My hangry attitude took control. This is what happened:
Head for the Guinness Sign
On my third or fourth day in Madrid, after spending several hours aimlessly walking around – based on my meandrous travel nature, probably some 10 miles at this point – I was getting a little hungry. Well, I was a little thirsty. And tired.
To me, the best solution to figure out which direction to search for some incredible Spanish food and decide what to do with the remainder of my day was to find a pub. Once there, I would be able to quench the powerful thirst I built up getting lost. And maybe have a snack while doing some light planning.
As I was walking down a busy street, I saw a Guinness sign. It was calling out to me, beckoning me to step inside, relax and enjoy a pint. Or maybe a liter. Perhaps two!
By this point, I was tired and my body was a wee bit on the achy side. My back was stiff. My feet hurt. A large, cold cerveza would surely be the remedy to my pathetic state.
Better yet, if I chose the lazy route, called it a day and wound up spending a couple of hours in a local bar, I could certainly live with that. As long as I’m in a local establishment, I can count this as work and experiencing life in Madrid.
That Guinness sign should’ve been a red flag. I see Guinness as a global brand because it is a global brand, the same as Coca-Cola. My assumption was that a Guinness sign in Madrid simply meant one thing: a bar that also served Guinness.
That’s not unusual, and that iconic black logo with white letters and a gold whatever-it-is above just means ‘bar’ to me. I had no idea what was next.
Trapped in a Tourist Bar
As I walked into this unassuming, perhaps-nameless bar, an Irish pub to be precise, it was dark. In my experience, most Spanish pubs, bars, tabernas, etc are not dark like the dim-lit, comfy watering holes I generally prefer. They’re bright. And that’s fine, because that’s the Spanish way.
That was the second red flag I missed. Nevermind that. I was blinded by tunnel vision, seeing nothing but my little table as I was led to a small corner in the back of the pub.
Setting my bag down on the floor beneath my chair, a waitress arrived as soon as I popped up my head. Instinctively, I began to greet her in my horrendous, locution-limited attempt at the Spanish language. I don’t know much, but I know enough to get by. And I can certainly order a beer.
“Hola! Buenos” had yet to fully escape my mouth when she interrupted my well-rehearsed phrase.
In near-perfect English, “Hi, how are you? Do you know what you want to drink, or do you need a moment?”
Surprised, I fumbled through the menu, pointed to a beer on the menu and stuttered, “Cerveza, La Virgen. Grande, por favor.” She didn’t even reply in Spanish. Instead, English with that thin accent responded, assuring me my cerveza would be out quickly.
In my haste, I picked out a local craft beer with which I was already familiar and knew was good. No harm there. But I was baffled hearing the best English I’d heard from a local, barely the slightest touch of an accent, after several days in Spain. Not to disparage Spaniards, but their accents are strong.
I didn’t hear a lot of English in Spain. And I enjoy the accent when they do speak English. That’s perfectly fine with me. I like a certain element of feeling like I’m in a foreign country, and that includes language. It’s not like I travel expecting, even hoping, to be able to speak English. Little challenges like navigating language barriers make travel more fun.
A moment or two later, something else strange happened. The loud, indiscernible bar rabble began to make sense. I could understand what people were saying. Not because my knowledge of Spanish suddenly improved, and I hadn’t consumed any funny substances making me think I could understand a foreign language.
Pretty much everyone in the bar – customers and staff – was speaking English. Intermingled with the Spanish accents of staff at this pub were English accents, Australian hollers and American voices, too.
This state of confusion must have lasted a few minutes. I snapped back to the present when my glass was clunked down in front of me. I took a large gulp. Then another.
It’s like I was waking from a dream. Everything in my immediate surroundings suddenly came crisply into focus. The loud, distinctly-English voices. The televisions, too – they were all playing English soccer channels. IN SPAIN!
In case you’re not familiar with soccer in Europe, let me say this: In Spain, you watch La Liga, the Spanish league. The Premier League (England) is secondary. This is almost like watching a Canadian Football League game in an American bar.
There was one exception. The TV nearest my seat was playing a Major League Baseball game, the Yankees to be precise. And a guy watching it, sitting at the table just a few feet away from me, was wearing an Aaron Judge grey (away game) jersey.
How did I not notice all of this? When I first stepped inside the bar to take a peak and size up the place, how did I not hear the foreign (American, British, etc) accents? How did I not see the guy one table over decked out in Yankees gear like a good American?
Was I really that tired? Perhaps it was sightseeing-induced, hangry blindness?
Maybe I was just so used to tuning out a language that I really cannot understand that I automatically did the same in this Irish pub. Or maybe I didn’t notice my surroundings because they were reminiscent of familiar scenes from home: Dark bars. American sports (or the EPL). Loud drunk people watching said sports. Yep, that sounds like home.
Whatever the reason, I was oblivious to my surroundings at this tourist bar in Madrid. The Guinness sign led me astray. Tired, hangry and impatient, I let down my guard. I made the mistake.
Sometimes I watch the EPL. And I love baseball. Go Bronx Bombers, but what the hell was I doing there?
What’s the Deal with Tourist Bars?
I don’t see the allure of traveling to another country and seeking a place where it feels like you’re at home. It’s utter madness to go out of your way, literally to another country, to do the same things you do at home.
I’ve made that mistake, too. In Santiago, Chile, several years ago, I found myself at a freaking Ruby Tuesday’s watching an American college football game. To be fair (to myself), it wasn’t entirely my idea.
This mistake in Chile was only about 4 hours of my life, but I still regret wasting that time and money. I even recall feeling a little disappointed in myself at that moment. Sitting next to other Americans in an American chain restaurant 8000 miles from home, I knew that wasn’t what I wanted to do with my travels.
To this day, as I’ve learned more about Chile, I kick myself for wasting that evening. You never know when you’ll make it back somewhere. Travel and life is unpredictable in the best of times. Several years later, I still haven’t returned to Chile. I plan to return, but, ya know, life.
Back to Madrid. What were all of these people – Americans, Brits, Australians – doing sitting in a tourist bar in Spain?
At first, I considered maybe they were in Madrid on business. Then I cleared that up. International business travelers whom I have encountered tend to stand out. They aren’t the type to get trashed at a pub with all their mates. They aren’t the kind of travelers that pack their Yankees jerseys around the world.
Maybe all of these people made the same mistake I did? Again, I don’t think so. They all looked perfectly content surrounded by like individuals, chowing down on cheeseburgers and fish n’chips, drinking copious amounts of Budweiser and Guinness. Forget about jamón or Mahou (local food and drink). Not in this place.
What the hell is going on here? Madrid is a cool city. Why even bother traveling to Spain to spend hours getting drunk in a tourist bar?
The Escape
After I finished my beer, I actually ordered a second round, a Cibeles. This time I didn’t even attempt to communicate in Spanish. All I really wanted to do was leave and find a local cafe or taberna that was surely hiding a few blocks away, but I was slightly mesmerized by this little Anglo-American tourist bubble in a Madrid bar.
It was surreal, circus-like, watching the stumbling, bumbling, blubbering foreigners pretend they weren’t in Spain. Part of me was humored. Another part felt pity. And yet another tiny piece of me envied their company. At the very least, they were having fun.
By the time I finished the last drop of my hefty Spanish craft beer, I regained my senses and was more than ready to leave. When I finally left, I quickly exited and felt as if I needed to sneak out and not be seen – I kept my head down and immediately inserted myself in the middle of a sidewalk crowd – like a preacher not wanting to get caught leaving a strip club.
Of course, no one cared. And no one in Madrid knew me. It was silly to feel this way, but I know better than to go to a tourist bar, especially what must be the tourist bar in Madrid.
Here at the Hangry Backpacker, I constantly mention the benefits of going to local places, often taking jabs at tourist traps and non-local eats. Yet here I was, feeling like the world’s biggest hypocrite, trying to escape the scene of my crime.
I wanted a Mahou, a plate of boquerones, some jamón or at least a scoop of olives. I wanted to be in one of those places where I can’t understand any of the words spoken to or around me, but I still can’t help but smile because of where I am. I wanted to feel like I was in that place – in Spain, in Madrid. Instead, I wasted over an hour in an Irish pub that could have been anywhere in the world.
Don’t Be Hangry
Travelers of all experience levels make mistakes. We learn lessons every day. Learning is an intrinsic part of travel, and sometimes we have to make those silly mistakes for the lesson to register.
My mistake was patience, or, more accurately, a lack of patience. There is no perfect formula to backpacking. Part of the fun is just going and figuring things out as they happen. Wrong turns and mistakes happen, and that’s okay – hell, in hindsight, it’s usually fun! – but the overpriced, avoidable mistakes and wasted time due to hangry impatience are the ones that bug me. At least my beer was good.
As for the other patrons in this tourist bar, I don’t get it. Several months later, this silly experience, my own mistake and all those hooligans still gets to me.
Everyone travels in their own way, and I’m certainly not the arbiter of what does and does not constitute the proper, best or appropriate manner of travel. I just can’t understand the attraction or benefit of going to such lengths to do the same things we do at home. That’s not why I travel.
Irish pubs are great at the right time. When I travel, even close to home, I pride myself on finding local establishments to support. There are tons of benefits to frequenting local businesses. Service is typically better. Prices are better. The economic impact is more likely to benefit the local community.
When it comes to food, local restaurants often have better food. At the very least, especially compared to a tourist bar or restaurant, your meal will be more authentic and cheaper. If you’re lucky, you might enjoy an unforgettable local experience.
I’m usually pretty good about recognizing a place designed for the tourist hordes. That’s not always the case. Sometimes we wander in the wrong direction.
Travel is a practice. The perfect trip does not exist. No level of preparation can guarantee that every moment runs without a hitch. Every traveler, no matter how experienced or seasoned, makes the occasional mistake. Some mistakes are as small as forgetting that second application of sunscreen. Some mistakes loom larger, like missing a flight or losing your wallet in Bangkok.
Most mistakes travelers make are inconsequential, but every one is a chance to learn and travel smarter the next time. My pride is the only thing that was damaged in this tourist bar in Madrid. I should have known better than to walk into an Irish pub in Spain.
You should never complain when the Boys in Pinstripes are on the TV:)