My first five hours in Barcelona were some of the most liberating and scary. I was by myself. Totally alone.

This is hour one.

Weeks before setting off on my Costa Brava trip I had doubts about traveling abroad by myself. Yeah, yeah, yeah- I know. I travel all over the world. But I usually do it with a few friends in tow. And this time everything- every decision- every single step I would take- would be all my own (at least for part of the first day).

I could tell my mom was weary of the whole thing. She was worried about my safety and understandably so, but because so I found myself overcompensating for my own confidence and assurance. It is going to be fine, I kept telling her. Don’t worry, I’ll meet up with the other girls after a few hours.

I wasn’t really worried about navigating the streets myself (I have an excellent sense of direction), I was really worried about all the tiny little things. Could I find the airport/ hotel shuttle? Could my broken Mexican/Spanish accent be understood in Spain? What would I do and who would I talk to in my day.

Still sitting on the tarmac in Barcelona, I gathered up my stuff and organized all my belongings. I had one backpack, one carry-on suitcase and one camera bag. I put the camera bag into the backpack and managed to keep it down to just the two things I was carrying with me. I looked crazy, but I stuffed my grandma’s coin purse into my bra (okay, so it was more like a tank top)- this would have most of my money, credit cards and passport. (No, this wasn’t my first trip abroad or my first trip to Europe or even my first trip to Barcelona. I had freaked myself out.) I had read and reread stories about travelers getting money stolen and it seemed like everyone and anyone who had eve visited Barcelona had something stolen from them. (Sometimes you can over prepare scare yourself.) Well- defiantly- that wasn’t going to be me!

I deboarded the plane and walked through the airport. I walked tall- like I do this walk all the time- like I’m some international traveler on business and just need to get through customs so I can be on my way. The line was easy and simple and I went right through. As I got to the end of the secured area in the airport, I made a quick stop in the bathroom. I rechecked everything, making sure that my stuff was properly locked and I slipped twenty Euros into my pocket for the bus ride.

When I walked out of the airport, I had no idea where the shuttle bus was located but noticed an airport information desk, quietly practiced my question in Spanish and walked over. I spoke up and with confidence. Without blinking an eye, the woman told me where to go- in Spanish. Shit! I was so convincing that I had absolutely no idea what she said. Sometimes all that acting training can really do more harm than good. I totally sold myself as a cute, Spanish-speaking girl who was in Barcelona for the weekend and I was awesome. Well, actually that is what I told myself. I’m sure she noticed that crazy traveler backpack and flat shoes that weren’t quite the definition of trendy city girl. Oh well- I still felt awesome.

I found the bus, lucky I can read more Spanish than I can understand verbally and found signs that pointed to the bus terminal. I paid the bus driver – again only speaking Spanish – and found a seat in the middle of the bus. I was on my way. My heart was pounding, and my mind was racing with all the same questions on what was I going to do once I arrived in the city center.

Read part two, hour two tomorrow!