So there I was, sitting in the bus station, reading David Sedaris, waiting for my bus, and being entirely unobtrusive and inconspicuable. Well, as inconspicuable as one can be with two brightly colored, huge maletas and a bright red bag that says, “American University Washington DC”. These said bags, as well as my purse which is perched on top of them, but touching my leg, are next to me.

Bad idea.

So this guy - he looked pretty South Asian to me, though the biases of the Spanish made the security guards sure his dark skin and Indianesque features actually belonged to some Latin Amerian gangbanger - is walking by me when he kind of pokes me to get my attention. My body turns to him, away from my things, as he points to the ground two feet away to my left, where glasses and bus tickets which definitely were not there before now are. I supposed that he wanted to tell me that they were mine, but they weren´t so I returned to Sedaris and forgot the incident.

Until two minutes later, when I look at my pile of stuff and realize that one very important item is missing: my purse.

Which actually means that a lot than one thing is missing: as my ticket to my week of fun in the sun is within, as well as my credit card, money, PASSPORT, keys to the apartment, all forms of ID(Spanish residency card, US driver´s license, etc etc), money, cell phone (and therefore contact to the outside world), camera with all my pictures of the friends that I had left behind in the states, my meds, and some other objects.

And so begins my whirlwind day of running around Madrid - most of it done with only 25 (American, and thus USELESS) cents in my pocket, and the charity of strangers.

And my little Madrileño adventure, which took me to a comisaria and an embassy and a little storefront and several points of public transportation, I have come up with some very valuable life lessons. Read and take heed:

1) Spanish police officers are ridiculously, ridiculously goodlooking. They all look like they could be on El Comisario ("The Police Station", Spain's answer to the typical cop show/CSI). So if there´s any damsel in distress that wants to be saved by a knight in shining armor (or in a shiny police car) Spain is the place to be.

2) Despite the anti-American backlash, our passports - or even the claim of our passport, as mine was stolen) get us places. While all of the Spaniards had to wait to talk to the police, two of their finest men chauffered me to the American Embassy (which probably accounts for the Spaniards´ long wait)

3) Americans are nice. Or at least, distressed Americans in American embassies are nice. The actual ones in America - that's up for debate... But yeah, there was a huge amount of people that had been robbed of their passports, though noone seemed to have lost as much as I, and everyone was super sweet and helpful. I was given 20 Euro from one sympathetic onlooker, so I didn´t have to go hungry or actually walk around the massive metropolis that is Madrid. Funny that I have to be in a foreign country to feel solidarity with my fellow estados unidenses.

4) Bad days make for good passport pictures. For the first time in my life, I actually look good in an official picture, and this is a cause for celebration. Even if the cause of this cause of celebration deserves less celebrating.

5) Life goes on. I go on. There were moments when the loss of everything and my own absolute physical and emotional exhaustion were overwhelming, but for the most part I was OK. I didn´t cry. I could laugh and joke and make friends.

And in a similar vein, life lesson number six:
6) I can take care of myself.