Settling In, part 15

Lisa had become friendly with a girl in her class, Alia, who was also new to the school that year. Alia’s mother called me one day to ask if Lisa could go to their apartment after school to play.

“We live in Mirasierra, but it’s not too hard to get here,” she said. “The girls can come home on the bus, and I’ll give you directions for when you pick Lisa up.”

I agreed and took the directions. Mirasierra was the northern neighborhood where Christine Lotto lived, and I figured that by now I was ready to venture up that way. But it was dusk when I went to get Lisa, and I was nervous, as usual. My stomach was knotted, my hands clutched the steering wheel, and my teeth were clenched.

The directions were complicated but effective. I found the apartment building, parked, and rode the elevator up to get Lisa.

Alia’s mother, Malek, met me at the door. She was tall and striking, with dark shoulder-length hair. I remembered meeting her at the orientation—she was Moroccan, and her husband was Spanish. This was an extremely unusual combination, because Moroccans were generally not well regarded in Spain. The Spanish economy was healthy at the moment, but for many decades Spain had been a labor-exporting nation, sending workers who could not find a livelihood to other countries where labor was sought. Now Spain was importing laborers, mostly for low-level jobs, mostly from Morocco, and the stereotype of Moroccans was that they were low-class undesirables. They were implicated in a lively illegal drug trade and suspected of picking pockets, snatching purses, and stealing car radios.

But Malek certainly appeared to be from another class of Moroccan society. Well-educated and elegant, she was an executive at a software firm. Her husband Roberto, a banker I remembered meeting at school orientation, was as suave as Mike’s colleague Pedro. The family had been living in Morocco for several years and had only recently moved back to Madrid.

“Please come in,” Malek said, smiling. “May I offer you something to drink?”

“No, thank you, I’m fine,” I said, a little anxious about getting home on the maze of roads. “Did the girls have a good time?”

“Yes, I think so,” Malek said. “Please, come and sit for a minute.”

I hesitantly entered the living room, which seemed very Moroccan to me, with a low sofa and dark, colorful rugs on the floor and the walls. It was warm and inviting, with a sparkling view of the now-dark sky outside the large windows. “This is beautiful,” I told her.

“Oh, thank you! Do you like it? We brought almost everything from Morocco.”

“I think it’s wonderful—very cozy,” I said.

Lisa bounded in with Alia, who was round, fair-haired and cheerful. “Hi, Mommy!” Lisa chirped. “Alia wants me to sleep over some night. Can I?”

“Sure,” I said, glad they’d gotten along well.

“That would be great,” Malek said. “I’ll call you to make a plan, all right?”

“Yes, that’ll be fine,” I said, getting up to go.

“Now, don’t worry about finding your way home,” Malek said as we walked to the front door. “It’s actually easier than getting here, with the one-way streets.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’ve got Lisa to read the directions for me.” We said our goodbyes and took the elevator down.

“I had a great time, Mom,” Lisa said. “Alia’s apartment is so big! She’s got two maids and a nanny for her baby brother. They have a cook who made us a great snack! I don’t know what you call it, but it tasted so good!” I laughed as she bubbled over all the way home, and we didn’t even get lost.