It is one of those axioms of travel that spending time in places unfamiliar to you, with people unlike yourself, makes you more accepting of others, less hostile toward difference, more tolerant. It has been that way for me–or I should say, it has become that way for me. But the first time I traveled to a foreign place was also the first time I ever raised my fists in anger against another person. In Spain, at age 19, I learned to hit.

I am not a violent person. I am not even a particularly physical person. As a kid, I was always the one who hated gym class, the girl who did her best in games of soccer or basketball to avoid the ball and anyone in close proximity to it. Any fights I had in school were strictly of the vicious–note–passing kind. Commanded to make a fist by some boy eager to demonstrate his rock–hard abdominal muscles, I inevitably humiliated myself, tucking my thumb neatly inside my enclosed fingers, where, I was promptly told, it would surely be broken in a real fight.

The trip was my Spanish professor's idea. She had suggested that I might overcome my nervousness speaking the language by spending some time on location. I flew to Madrid by myself, and spent a few days exploring the city. I had never been out of the country before, never been much of anywhere, in fact, and the experience of finding myself in a place where no one dressed or spoke like me was both exhilarating and deeply frightening. I didn't eat for the first two or three days, because every time I walked into a restaurant, it was filled with men or couples – never women alone. The stares that fell on this young, obviously unpopular woman who could find no one to eat with her were too heavy to bear. Eventually I discovered the markets and McDonald's, but even today, hunger is what I remember most about those first few days in Spain.

Eventually, I found myself on a night train for Seville. Today the trip can be made in a little under three hours with the ultra–high speed day trains, but cheaper night trains from Spain's center to its southern cities are still a serious undertaking that require patience, fortitude and an ample supply of chocolate bars. When I went, the train was old, and its worn fixtures seemed a reminder that the Franco era had only recently ended. Passengers squeezed onto barely padded benches in small, grimy compartments lit by florescent bulbs.

The train was nearly full by the time I boarded, and I had to scramble to find a seat. On later trips I would learn how to size up compartments, looking for the robust grandmothers who were likely to share their roast chickens, and avoiding the soldiers who, no matter how reserved at departure, or how short the trip, would inevitably become drunk and leering before journey's end. But on this journey, I still had a lot to learn.

When two young men about my age beckoned me into their compartment I went happily, relieved to have found a spot, relieved not to have to knock outside any more compartments with pulled curtains and locked doors. My rescuers, Marcos and Miguel, helped me hoist my backpack onto the overhead luggage rack. I sat down and for the first time noticed a fourth passenger, seated in the far corner. He was the epitome of a peasant, an old man whose lined, sun–scorched face betrayed little emotion. His clothes were rough and leathery, the frayed beret on his head out of style even among old men. He introduced himself curtly as Antonio, then went back to staring out the window.

As the train pulled out of the station, Marcos and Miguel broke out a bottle of wine and began telling stories. I took the bottle when it was my turn, but my language skills were still limited and I missed much of what was said. Instead I listened carefully, ready to smile broadly whenever I felt a punch line nearing. Gradually, Antonio too was drawn in, and the four of us spent a boisterous first few hours out of Madrid.

Even Spaniards have to sleep, so sometime around 3 a.m., Marcos and Miguel climbed up onto the luggage racks, leaving the old peasant and me to stretch out on our respective benches. It took me a long time to fall asleep, but eventually I must have dozed off, because I awoke to the sensation of Antonio's knees pressing into mine. The space between our opposing benches was not very wide, and he appeared to be well asleep, so I scrunched myself further against the back of my seat, and tried to return to sleep.

A few minutes later I felt his knees again. With no room left on the bench to retreat, this time I shoved him away. That push must have been the acknowledgement for which he was waiting, because soon Antonio was sitting up, whispering––I knew enough Spanish to figure this one out – "a kiss; give me a kiss." I firmly told him no, and turned to the wall.

Soon, however, I felt him hovering over me. Again he demanded, "a kiss, one kiss." I hissed a "no" at him, and tried to squirm away. He leaned in and put his hand on my leg. It was the touch that did it. Acting with an intuition I hadn't known I possessed, I felt my arm coiling back, my fingers curling in on themselves, and my thumb (miraculously) wrapping itself around the outside of my fist. I hit him hard, right in the solar plexus. I don't know if it was the force of my punch or the shock of being socked by a skinny American girl that did it, but he let out the Spanish version of "oof" and staggered back onto his bench.

After a few minutes, Antonio gathered his things and departed without a word. An hour later the train pulled into Seville. Marcos and Miguel, who had either slept through the incident or ignored it, helped me with my pack and I thanked them as though nothing had happened.

As I write about it now, that scene on the train seems more frightening than it did at the time. Maybe it is the distance of hindsight, or maybe it was my 19–year–old sense of invincibility, or maybe I passed the whole thing off as yet another case of cultural difference, an incident somehow "typically Spanish," like eating lunch at three o'clock in the afternoon. But I also remember feeling a strange mix of emotions at the time. As the train arrived in Seville, and I descended into the gray light of early morning I was gripped by a sense of loneliness so strong that my first impulse was to look for an airport and the next flight home. Yet as I began the walk into town, that first wave of emotion receded, and I gradually began to feel a new kind of confidence that bordered on pride. That night, alone in Seville, I found a restaurant and ate what is, in memory, the best paella I have ever tasted.