Madrid is not my home. In fact, it is nearly 3,800 miles from my actual home in Washington, DC, but when the lights come on and the whistle is blown, there is no place like the Santiago Bernabeu, the home of Real Madrid.
Saturday night was not my first Real Madrid experience, and it won’t be my last, but entering the stadium and hearing a familiar buzz, my emotions were stronger than ever. Surprisingly, I was nervous as I walked in to the stands. It wasn’t because of the team Real Madrid was facing. Celta de Vigo has been fighting a good fight this season in the Spanish La Liga, but I wasn’t worried about their threat against Real Madrid (who would win 2-0). I was facing a personal anxiety, as the last time I was at the Bernabeu I had to be escorted out by 4 paramedics and 2 suits after the best and worst injury of my life – a shoulder dislocation due to excessive celebration. As bad as the injury was, I would do it again and again, even knowing the outcome. On Saturday, however, as I found my seat, my fears dissipated. The “splurge” on tickets was worth every penny – 13th row, mid-field looked damn good. (And for those of you who are superstitious, 13 is my lucky number, so no need to be afraid of the outcome.)
It is difficult to describe in words the atmosphere at the Bernabeu. There are the typical sounds…people talking, the lights whirring, the stadium announcements, but there is so much more. For me, Saturday was happily familiar: the sound of the crackle of sunflower seeds being consumed, the beat of the drum in the Ultras section, the cries of delight from the fans when things were going right and the groans and growls when they were not. The Bernabeu breathes as if alive when one hears the rapid Spanish being spoken mixed with languages from fans far and wide joining together to watch the beautiful game. But more than that, life at the Bernabeu means the cessation of the chatter when the whistle is blown. From the 3 year old sitting next to me to his elderly grandfather with him, it is known – when the game starts, nothing else matters but Real Madrid.
The sounds of the Bernabeu, however, are nothing compared with another powerful sense: the smell. The smell of the Bernabeu is distinct from any stadium I have been to in the United States. There is no fried dough or popcorn, but an intermingling of the Madrid culture. Perhaps it is the strong cologne being worn by the Madridista sitting in front of me or the cigar being smoked by the man behind me or even the faint whiff of the still warm ham and cheese bocadillo being eaten nearby, even better, the scent of the wine from a bota bag. I suspect some of these things are repulsive to some of you, but to me, these smells are the pull of a foreign land, of life in Spain itself, of my home away from home.
However, on this night, the most powerful pull came from the players themselves. Hearing, “el capitán” Iker Casillas lining up his defense during set pieces and “el jefe” Xabi Alonso barking orders to the players causes powerful emotions in this Madridista. These are players I have watched for years. In the case of Xabi Alonso, a player who has championed the only two teams who will ever have my heart: Liverpool and Real Madrid. To hear for myself the voices that I have heard so many times on the television completes the night. I may not be from Madrid, but there is no place like home, my Madridista home, the Bernabeu.
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