Madrid again. Back in the city where everything moves too fast, and the air smells like ambition and overpriced coffee. It’s a business trip. Officially. But let’s not kid ourselves—it’s also a break. A chance to breathe, to step away from the villa in Ibiza, where the silence is sometimes too loud, where the decisions about tiles and terrace furniture feel heavier than they should.
Frankfurt to Madrid. A route I know too well. Early morning flight, laptop shoved into a bag, the lingering scent of jet fuel mixing with whatever perfume the airport is trying to suffocate passengers with. It’s automatic now—land, taxi, hotel, suit up. Somewhere in between, a dozen WhatsApp messages from my team in Frankfurt, all needing answers. I give them half-answers, knowing full well I’ll be expected to make sense of them later.
The meeting is at some sleek office block with minimalist decor and people who all look like they sleep in neatly pressed shirts. Deals are discussed, contracts are reviewed, someone makes a joke that barely lands, but everyone laughs because that’s what you do in these settings. I nod at the right moments, throw in my own quips. Play the role. It’s not that I don’t care—I do. But there’s a detachment now. Like I’m watching myself from the outside, performing a part I once believed in completely.
Lunch is at some overhyped restaurant with tiny portions and big egos. I push food around my plate while the conversation veers towards market trends and “post-pandemic consumer behaviors.” I order sparkling water instead of wine. Progress. Or at least an illusion of it.
The thing is, Madrid still feels like home in a way I can’t explain. It has that pulse. That energy. It doesn’t judge me for feeling restless, for missing the chaos I supposedly left behind in Frankfurt. In Ibiza, I tell myself I want peace. But then I land here, and I feel alive again. The contradiction is exhausting.
After meetings, I wander the streets, taking detours through old neighborhoods, past cafés where people drink slow coffee and pretend time doesn’t exist. I used to dream about that life—being one of those people who could just sit, exist, let the world move around them without feeling like they needed to chase it. But I know myself too well. I’d last an hour, tops, before the itch kicked in.
I should be in my hotel room answering emails. Instead, I find a bar. Not a big one, not a trendy one—just one with dim lighting, a bartender who’s seen too much, and the smell of whiskey soaked into the walls. The kind of place where nobody asks questions. I order a drink. Not whiskey. Not anymore.
Madrid is dangerous like that. It makes you want to slip back into old versions of yourself. The smoker. The drinker. The guy who thrived on back-to-back meetings and took pride in the grind.
But then I remember the villa. The sunlight spilling across the floor in the mornings. The sea, always there, always waiting. The way everything feels lighter, even when my mind tries to convince me otherwise.
I sip my drink and push away the cigarette cravings clawing at the edges of my mind. One step at a time.
Tomorrow, I fly back. Back to Ibiza, back to the villa, back to the silence. Back to the life I chose.
So why does it still feel like I’m leaving something behind?