Settling In, part 12

One day I got a call from an American woman I didn’t know. “I got the new directory for the American Women’s Club in the mail, and I saw your name in it,” she said. “I think we might have a lot in common, so I thought I’d take a chance and call.” Her name was Sandra Ptacek. In her early forties like me, she’d lived in Spain since spending her junior year of college there. She was married to a Spaniard and had two daughters the same ages as Julie and Lisa. She lived in Las Rozas, west of Pozuelo.

“Would you be interested in getting together?” she asked. “I’d be happy to come to you.” We agreed that she’d come for coffee one morning while the kids were at school.

Sandra was an athletic-looking brunette of medium height. Cheerful and energetic, she was also new to the American Women’s Club despite her many years in Spain.

“I’ve really worked all the time until now,” she explained. “I didn’t have time for outside activities, and I wasn’t in touch with other Americans. Well, there were a few who came through the Waldorf School, where my girls go, but they would leave after a year or two when their husbands got a transfer, and I got tired of investing in short-term relationships.” She had worked in sales for a firm that made irrigation equipment, and her work had taken her throughout Spain and much of North Africa. “I’m sure I would have continued with the company, except they moved the office to the suburbs east of Madrid, and there’s no way I can commute there,” she said. “So for the first time I find myself with some leisure time, and I thought I’d like to connect with some Americans. I guess I’m a little homesick.”

She went on to describe her big Czech family in Milwaukee and her interest in spiritual healing practices, and then she said she hoped to use some of her new free time for writing. “There’s a writing group I joined through the International Newcomers Club, and I’m enjoying it a lot,” she said. “I’d also love to spend some time hiking in the mountains. Would you be interested at all?”

“I’m not much of an outdoor person,” I said, “but I’d love to see some of your writing. I was working for a newspaper before I moved here.”

“I’d love to see some of your writing, too,” she said. “Shall we get together again? Maybe the girls could meet each other, too.”

“I should warn you that I’m only here for two years, but I’d love to get everyone together,” I said, and we made a date.

Sandra’s girls turned out to be lots of fun. She brought them to our house one Saturday afternoon. The older one, Sara, was fluent in English and a chatterbox, so she and Julie bonded quickly and disappeared into Julie’s room. The younger one, Andrea, was quieter. “I have to admit that I didn’t work on her English as hard as I did on Sara’s,” Sandra said. “You put so much effort into it with the first one, but when the second one comes along—well, I just lost the enthusiasm.” But Andrea played cards—she was a real shark—and Lisa enjoyed playing with her, so the language didn’t matter as much.

Sandra showed me some of her writing, some poetry and a short story. It was wonderful work, artistic at a level I couldn’t even try to approach. “I admire you so much for being able to do this,” I told her.

“It’s been a long time coming,” she said. “But the writing group I’m in is helping a lot.”

I told her I had made a couple contacts at the local English-language publications, but it didn’t look too promising. “I’m going to Paris this weekend, though, and I’m going to do a travel piece for my newspaper at home—something on the lesser-known museums of the city,” I said.

Indeed, the time for my trip to Paris had finally come. Marla, a young American who taught in the pre-K at the American School, had agreed to take care of the kids, who seemed happy to be with her. “Don’t worry about a thing,” she said. “We’ll have a great weekend, and you should, too!”

The trip to Paris was short and easy, and I was amazed at the idea of arriving there without jet lag. I’d arrived in Paris three times in my life, always miserably exhausted.

We checked into a small, plain Left Bank hotel—Mike would be moving to a fancy airport hotel Monday, when his meeting began—and stepped out to get some lunch. The slow and surly service we got at a sidewalk café was just what I’d learned to expect in Paris—a sneering acceptance of our orders, a tossing of plates onto the table, an ability to ignore our frustrated signaling for the check.

But we spent a busy afternoon getting around to some of the museums I had planned to cover—the Picasso and the Musée des Arts et Métiers, which I had read about in the novel Foucault’s Pendulum, a favorite of mine.

We returned to the hotel for a rest, and we chose a restaurant from our guidebook. I called for a reservation, but I had a miserable time communicating in French, though I did get the job done.

“That was uncomfortable,” I told Mike.

“What? You sounded fine,” he said.

“No, I could hardly think of the words to say!” I complained. “Whenever I tried to get out a word in French, a Spanish word came out instead!”

“Could you understand the person you were talking to?” he asked.

I thought for a moment. “Yeah, I could understand fine. I just couldn’t speak! I can’t believe this. When we were at Club Med last winter I could hold my own in French. Now it feels like the Spanish has come in and covered up all the French in my head!”

“That’s weird,” Mike said.

We walked through a dark and sparkling Left Bank night to the restaurant. There were several movie theaters along the way, brightly lit, with crowds of young people moving through the streets. The neighborhood felt very alive, very Parisian.

The restaurant was warm and cozy, decorated with dark wood and bright tablecloths. The menu had several appealing choices. We ordered—a veal stew for Mike, a duck breast with peppercorn sauce for me—and relaxed. Then the food came.

I was unprepared for the experience. There was a sauce! There were herbs! After six weeks of Spanish restaurant food, seasoned with only olive oil, salt, and garlic, I had forgotten what other flavors were like.

“This has taste!” I said to Mike.

“It’s wonderful,” he said.

“Spanish food is wonderful, too, but this is a whole other thing,” I said. We ate our meal in a state of bliss.

Sunday we went to more museums—the Pompidou, full of modern art, which Mike disliked, and the Musée d’Orsay, full of his favorite Impressionists. We were stunned by the huge scale and the beauty of the museum, a former train station. We had another wonderful dinner and turned in early, because Mike had to work on Monday.

He left in the morning, taking our luggage with him in a taxi to the airport hotel where he’d be in a meeting all day. I walked up the Champs Elysées and stopped at Virgin Megastore, which I’d heard of but never seen. After I browsed for CDs, I noticed that there was a café right in the store, so I took a break there and had a delicious artichoke-heart omelet—the best record-store food I’d ever had. Then I took the Métro out to the Cité des Sciences et de l’Industrie, a huge science museum that I wanted to cover for my article. I found that it was terribly dull to go through a science museum without children in tow, and I was running out of enthusiasm for being a solo tourist. It was disheartening to realize that I was only good for about half a day on my own. Then I started to feel lonely and to long for someone to share my discoveries with.

The museum fit into my plans, though, because it was in the corner of the city nearest the airport. I caught a taxi that plugged through the traffic to the airport hotel where Mike was working. He had a business dinner that night, so we stayed over and returned home the next morning, happy with our little getaway.