Making the Move, part 2

There was a final round of goodbye dinners and lunches, and then it was time to go. We had a luxurious flight in TWA’s business-first class—awfully posh for two little girls, who were served whatever food they wanted by an attentive steward. We got some sleep, then arrived at Barajas airport, where Mike got us two taxis to take all of us and all of our luggage out to Pozuelo. There was some sign language required to direct the taxistas (taxi drivers) out to the suburb, but they were friendly and helpful, and Mike got his message across.

We pulled up to our new house, tired but excited. It was early in the morning of a sunny day, and the taxistas by now understood that we were moving in. They seemed to be excited for us as they helped us in with the bags, encouraging us with smiles and nods.

The kids ran upstairs to find their rooms, which they knew well from the photos. Julie’s room was white with green trim, and it boasted a skylight as well as a window. Lisa’s was all pink, with many built-in shelves. Mike and I had a nice-sized bedroom with a balcony. There were closets along one wall and a bathroom tiled from floor to ceiling. There was a sitting area outside the bedrooms with a television and a sofa.

The main floor had a living room, a dining area, and a small TV room as well as the kitchen. Sliding doors led onto a patio by the pool. The basement had a maid’s room, laundry room and storeroom, and the attic held the office and playroom.

The house had some quirks that we had to get used to. Like most Spanish residences, it had doors to close off every room—that was how Spaniards preserved their privacy in relatively close quarters, sometimes with maids sharing the same small space. We couldn’t stand all the doors closing the TV room off from the hall, the dining room from the kitchen, or the living room from the TV room, so we took several of them off their hinges and stored them in the basement. Mike showed me that the closets in our room weren’t deep enough to hold our clothes when they were hung up—the sliding closet doors pushed every single hanger on an angle as they closed. So we took those doors off, too.

This three-bedroom house had, all told, sleeping space for fourteen people. Beds were hidden inside sofas and under other beds. I eventually learned that when Spanish relatives visit one another, they always stay at the house—never at a hotel. To stay at a hotel would insult the family one was visiting, and to ask the visitor to stay at one would insult him. Hence there had to be plenty of room for guests.

The kids loved the front gate buzzer, which included a tiny video camera that showed us who was there. They ran in and out, taking turns pushing the buzzer and looking at each other on the little screen just inside the front door, making goofy faces at the camera. There was a miserable little oven in the kitchen, which was a hybrid convection/microwave oven—too small to hold a big chicken, and not very good at either microwaving or baking.

The carport was closed off from the street by a wide metal gate that rolled sideways, pulled by a small motor when you pushed the remote control. But the gate did not retract all the way—so while there was room for two cars side by side in the carport, the last one in had to be the first one out. There just wasn’t room for the car on the left to maneuver around the one on the right. It was a permanent annoyance.