Making the Move, part 7

We soon acquired my car for our stay—a white Alfa Romeo 4-door sedan that had been the company car of Mike’s colleague Marino. I came to love this ornery thing, dirty and cramped though it was. I hadn’t driven a standard transmission car in about twenty years, and I jerked the kids around pretty well the first few days. Its main idiosyncrasy, I was to learn, was that on hot days, if you stopped for gas, you’d have to wait twenty minutes for the engine to cool down before it was willing to start up again.

I had a friend in Stamford who had lived in Madrid for six months in 1993, and she had supplied me with some useful information. Like me, she was a member of a 12-Step recovery program, and she’d given me some names and numbers for that.

My eating and my weight had troubled me for many years. I had lost and regained weight many times. My father had been obese most of his adult life, and when he was 45 he had been diagnosed with Type II diabetes. That helped me to get serious about my eating problems in 1989, when I was 37. I believed that I was headed in the same direction as my dad, and I didn’t want the diabetes or the many cardiovascular problems his diabetes had caused him.

Upon finding my recovery program, I immediately knew I was in the right place. I had attended recovery meetings in and around Stamford for five years, and I knew I’d need similar help in Spain. In fact, I knew I’d need the help even more, because I was going to be away from my comfortable home and from many of the people who cared about me. It seemed no less than a miracle that my friend was able to put me in touch with the English-speaking recovery group in Madrid.

The same friend had also given me the contact information for two women’s organizations: The American Women’s Club, which had a clubhouse in the city and ran various activities, and the International Newcomers Club, which met at members’ homes and in hotel meeting rooms.

I still had a day with the kids before school started, and I thought up some tasks to keep us busy. I figured the kids and I could go down to the AWC and check it out.

We went into Madrid by train. The weather was sunny—Mike had been told not to bother carrying an umbrella in his briefcase till November—and we made our way by subway to Plaza de la República del Ecuador, a shaded roundabout in the northeast part of the city. It took a few minutes of searching up and down the street to find the green door to the club, but we located it, rang the bell, and were buzzed in.

There was just a small living room setup, with a little office in back and a kitchen where a waitress prepared snacks and drinks. Several older ladies were chatting and playing cards, and Erma, the manager, welcomed me and signed me up. The club, she said, sponsored lectures, trips, bridge nights, charity events and cocktail parties, and as a member I’d receive the newsletter announcing upcoming activities.

Julie and Lisa were patient through this excursion, so I thought I’d treat them by letting them choose a place for lunch. There was a Burger King nearby, and that’s what I thought they’d pick, but just down the street was a Chinese restaurant with a red lacquer façade. “Let’s get Chinese food!” Julie said. Chinese wasn’t Lisa’s favorite, but she agreed to go along.

Of course, we were early—we hadn’t yet been able to wait for a 2 p.m. lunch—so we ate alone. And we came to suspect what we later confirmed: You can get all the bad Chinese food you want in Spain. Over time we ate at Chinese restaurants throughout the country—they were a godsend in their willingness to serve at any hour—and they all slathered everything in sweet, gelatinous sauces. But for the kids, it was enough to get an egg roll and a plate of fried rice, so they were content.