Making the Move, part 3

And then there was my nemesis, the washer/dryer. This devilish little machine could launder a small load of wash, but it took about 90 minutes to do so. Then you could, if you wanted, remove half the load and dry the rest in the same machine—if you had two hours to wait. The other half of the load would have to be hung out to dry in the air, which was the normal thing for Spanish people to do. The problem with this was that Spanish ladies or their maids would then iron every article of clothing that came off the line—and I had neither the skill nor the patience to do that. Marilu, the rental agent, had found me a lady to come in and clean two afternoons a week, and she was going to iron Mike’s shirts (the cost of commercial laundries was outrageous), but she wouldn’t have time to iron all our laundry. This was a problem that was going to have to be solved, by me, in all the free time I would have after everyone went off to work and to school, so I put it on my agenda.

At any rate, having inspected the house, dipped into the pool, and unpacked a little, we were running out of energy and lay down for a short midday nap, made easier by the heavy metal blinds—persianas—that could be lowered to cover every window. As an extra luxury, our house had electric persianas that were lowered by little motors instead of by muscle power. They made the rooms completely black, just the way I liked it.

After a little rest, I wanted to meet the neighbors. Living in the house the past few weeks, Mike had learned that there were two American families in the neighborhood, with kids who attended the American School. I was much too scared to think about meeting my Spanish neighbors, but I was eager to meet Americans who could say reassuring things about life in Spain.

“Across the street we have an American Air Force major married to a Spanish woman, Phil and Ana Douglas,” Mike had told me. “Their kids are older—maybe babysitting age. And around the corner are Frank and Lisa Mazzilli. Frank’s a Drug Enforcement Agency guy working at the American Embassy. Their kids are the same ages as our kids, more or less.”

I got Mike to take me to meet both families, jet-lagged as I was. Phil and Ana were sitting on their pool deck, enjoying the sun and some beers. Their kids, Carmen and Troy, were away at the beach for a couple more days till school started. Ana appeared to be in her early forties, maybe 5’5”, slim, with short red hair and a good tan. Phil was about the same age, short, without much hair, and he spoke with a strong Southern accent. They said they’d met when he was first stationed in Spain, and since getting married at age 18 they’d lived in Texas, Oklahoma, Korea and Germany, as well as having taken another tour of duty in Spain before this one.