Just Visiting, part 4

As for the $25,000 a year I was making, it was an amount that we couldn’t afford to just let go. But as it turned out, Juan had a little more flexibility than we had realized. The policy was that if PW paid for your overseas housing, and you rented out your home in the U.S., that rent went to PW as a partial reimbursement. Our house was going to rent for about $25,000 a year. Juan had the power to allow us to keep that, offsetting my income loss, and he agreed to do it. So in April we decided to go.
I had made plans to take the kids to visit Mike in Spain during their spring vacation. They didn’t know that we had even been thinking about moving there, much less that we’d made a deal. For me, the trip had become a chance to take a quick look around and make sure I felt we could live there. Mike had arranged an appointment for me with a rental agent who would show me some of the housing possibilities. I was to sneak out for that; he’d keep the girls busy.
We took a Continental flight from Newark. It was unpleasant, with a lot of noisy college kids going on a school trip to Spain. They talked and laughed all through the flight, so none of us could sleep.
Mike met us at Barajas airport when we arrived, tired and cranky. We took a taxi into Madrid, passing through a dry and barren landscape till we started to see the outskirts of the city. There was a memorable view of two modern towers, still under construction, which leaned toward each other at an angle at the north end of the city.
Mike was by then living in a three-bedroom apartment just off the broad Paseo de la Castellana in northern Madrid. He thought it was perfect, but to me it was a dreadful, musty old place with dark, worn furniture and ugly bathrooms. We had hit a spell of cold, damp weather and hadn’t brought enough warm clothing. We were miserable and went right to sleep for a while, then got up and went to lunch nearby at Bob’s, a chain restaurant that sold some American-type food—burgers and such. It was an unfortunate introduction to Spain. People blew cigarette smoke in our faces, and we were exhausted.
It was a scary week for me. Mike had been chaperoned throughout his stay in Spain by one Spanish speaker or another, but now he was in charge of us. When a waiter came over for an order, Mike’s first reaction was to look around for the person who was going to do the talking—but now he was the one who had to do it. That took some adjustment. He fumbled with the menu and struggled with the order.
He had made plans for us to visit some of the most important sights in Spain, which we would reach by train. “You can take yourselves around Madrid during the week,” he added. “The subway system is great, and taxis are cheap.”
We went to the Palacio Real, a spectacular 17th-century palace; the Royal Tapestry Factory, where we decided the handmade tapestries were pre-smoked, since the craftsmen smoked while working; and the Prado. Our Prado visit, much anticipated by me, was a disaster. No sooner did we walk through the first gallery of gory crucifixion art than the kids balked.
“I don’t like it, Mom,” Lisa said. “I want to go.” I couldn’t believe it.
“It’s disgusting,” Julie said. “Can’t we go back to the park?” I was furious. This was the thing I’d been looking forward to from the first moment Madrid was mentioned, and it wasn’t going to happen.
So I had a big tantrum. “I try so hard to make this fun for all of us,” I hissed at the girls. “I try to do some things that you want, like riding the Teleférico (funicular), and I think it’s only fair that you do some things I like, like going through the Prado.”
“But we hate it,” Julie said.
“I want to go,” said Lisa.
“This is so unfair,” I whispered, again feeling a mixture of rage and tears rising. “This is the one thing I really want to do. Can’t you be a little patient and spend an hour in here with me?” But it was clear that they weren’t going to cooperate, so I took them out, feeling angry and defeated.
We had Mike’s laptop to use, and I e-mailed my parents that day in utter frustration about the kids and my missed Prado tour. E-mail was a great savior throughout our time in Spain, making quick and cheap communication possible without worrying about the time difference. That day we exchanged e-mails twice.
“I am so angry at the kids! They were horrible brats about going to the Prado. We got in there, and they just rebelled and made it clear it wouldn’t be worth staying. I’m so disappointed! I hate them! Love, Susie.”
“It’s awful when the kids do that, but you know they’re tired and everything is strange to them. Why don’t you get a sitter and go back tomorrow? Love, Mom and Dad.”
“I’ve got a sitter for tomorrow night so we can go out for dinner alone, but she’s in school during the day. I don’t know how to find somebody who can sit with the kids while the Prado’s open. Love, Susie.”
“Well, it looks like you’re going to have to move to Spain if you ever want to see the Prado. Hang in there, honey. Love, Mom and Dad.”