This February, when it reached an icy 25 degrees on Vashon, I flew to Madrid.

Spain’s capital is full of stylishly-dressed people in vast pedestrian crowds, flowing together through streets and subways. February in Madrid meant it was spring already, and people had picnic blankets spread out in the parks. Little green parakeets glided above the picnickers.

We saw art by Picasso, Bosch, Goya and El Greco. We saw a painting of a man shrouded in medieval darkness, looking up at a hole of golden light, cut out of the dark sky. It seemed like a rip in the firmament of things. The look in the man’s eyes was either vast hope or vast terror. It was impossible to tell which.

I’m not sure what it means to be an American right now. I seem to be in the process of figuring that out. Whatever an American is, I do know that I still am one. On my trip, I compulsively checked that my passport was in my bag, zippered safely away from pickpockets. I locked it in my hotel safe, as precious as gold. It was my golden ticket back home.

I saw my fellow Americans in Madrid, having trouble ordering coffee, or looking confused by subway maps. I recognized other Americans immediately, and they recognized me too. Our eyes filled with relief as we saw each other: here’s someone who’s as lost as I am.

When I was on the trip, a friend asked, “Is anybody being rude to you because you’re American?” The answer was, resoundingly, no. The look in the eyes of the Spanish people I met was one not of annoyance or even condescension. It was one of pity. They pitied me, I think, because of my feeble attempts to speak Spanish. They pitied me and let me try, but then gamely switched over to English, humbling me with the ease of their bilingualism.

But I think I saw something else in their eyes, too. I think they pitied me for being an American.

American writers have different ways to address the pain of this moment. Some draw historical parallels between this time and others. Naturalists remind me to watch the migrations of the birds. A Buddhist writer veers off script by being raw and angry. Some write with the precision of a surgeon, detailing exactly what is happening, step-by-step. But none of these words touch whatever I wish they could touch. I still feel lost; as lost as an American tourist trying to figure out a Spanish subway map.

As an American in Spain, I didn’t feel like a global badass. I felt like somebody who didn’t know so much about the world; who didn’t know so many languages; who didn’t even know the quick, transactional language of living in densely packed urban spaces, spoken by so much of the world. Things felt faster and more indifferent to me there, yet more ancient and resilient than things in America will ever be.

I awoke to the sound of ancient cathedral bells every morning. One day I walked to the cathedral, and I let a wandering peddler-lady press a bit of rosemary into my hand. I let her tell me a bunch of magical incantations that I couldn’t really understand. I knew it was a con, and that it would eventually come with a price. But I wanted a blessing of protection from somebody, from anybody, even if it was a lie. She passed her fingertip over my palm. She looked deeply into my eyes. She said she would protect me from anything, if only I paid her. And pay up I did.

On the flight back to America, as we entered U.S. airspace, the captain of the plane switched the cabin lights to a decorative pattern of red, white and blue. Like any good American, I can’t resist a good light show. I loved it so much that I took a picture of it. I’m an American, through and through: easily entertained; not so very worldly; an easy mark for a traveling salesman.

My golden ticket has been punched, and it leads right to the view of that golden rift in the sky that keeps on widening. My eyes catch the eyes of my fellow Americans at home. They also see the rift. They are just as lost as I am.

Elizabeth Fitterer is a Vashon resident.