Settling In, part 16

At last it was time for my parents to visit. I had been looking forward to this all along. My folks, who were not big travelers, had in recent years begun to take some European trips, and they loved to go in October. “The weather’s still great, but the crowds are gone,” my dad said.

“But will that be too soon for us to come and see you?” Mom asked. “You’ll only have been there about seven weeks.”

“I don’t care!” I said. “Please just come!” I was afraid that if I didn’t get them over right away, they might never visit.

I had always been close with my parents. They were young, they were crazy about each other, they were great fun to be with. I never laughed as much with any other group of people as I did when I went home to see my family, which included my younger sister Sally, my mom’s sister Jill and her family, and my mom’s mother. We had all lived in Highland Park, Illinois, and we had spent a lot of time together because we enjoyed one another.

My dad, who was 68, had some health problems that made traveling a bit difficult for him. The main issue was his narrowed leg arteries, which caused him pain when he walked a lot. It wasn’t serious—he could pause for a few minutes and the pain would subside—but there was a lot of walking to be done on the typical European trip, so we would have to be prepared to go slowly wherever we went.

I requested a care package of bagels and Flintstones vitamins, and I was thrilled on the Saturday when I picked them up at the airport. It was 6 a.m., the arrival time of all the planes from the U.S., and when Mom and Dad came out of customs they looked pretty bedraggled, but I grabbed them with joy.

“I’m so glad you’re here!” I said. “Thank you for coming!” We wheeled their luggage out to my car. They were booked at the Palace Hotel, one of the finest in Madrid, chosen for them by their trusted travel agent. They never, ever stayed with me. They were always worried about bothering somebody—maybe by waking up early and making coffee in the kitchen. This had always made me nuts, but I accepted it and had even started to see some wisdom in it. At this point, though, it was so early, I was sure their hotel room wouldn’t be ready yet, so we decided to go to the house.

“The kids’ll die if they can’t see you right away anyway,” I said.

“Oh, we’re dying to see them, too!” Mom replied.

We drove to Pozuelo, and I showed them the few points of interest on the way. My dad asked lots of questions about things that looked unusual to him—the way the traffic signals worked, what signs meant, the dry landscape. We arrived at the house, and the kids launched themselves at Mom and Dad, full of glee.

“Are you hungry, thirsty?” I asked. “Do you want to see the house, to take a rest—what?”

“Oh, let’s see the house!” Dad said, and the kids took them on the big tour. Then they sat in the living room to relax a bit and have some coffee while we talked about our plans.

“Look at your father,” Mom said after about ten minutes. He was asleep sitting up.

I laughed. “It’s best if you try to stay up through lunch,” I said, “and then take a nap, but not too long—an hour or two at the most. I was thinking we’d try to take a drive around here and look at things, and then there’s a restaurant in the neighborhood where we can go for lunch, and then I’ll take you in to your hotel.”

So we did that, five of us in the Mercedes, driving past the interesting neighborhoods in Pozuelo. Mike stayed home because there was no room in the car for him, but he said he’d meet us at the little restaurant in the village’s Plaza de España. It was a glassed-in, gazebo-like place set in a park, with an outdoor playground where kids could go if they got tired of sitting.

The restaurant served a typical menú del día—appetizer, main course and dessert for 1,000 pesetas, or about $8. The menu was small but filled with Spanish classics. Entradas (appetizers) included ensaladilla rusa, a mayonnaise-laden potato and vegetable salad; setas (sauteed wild mushrooms); and ensalada mixta, a salad of iceberg lettuce, green peppers, tomatoes, onions, and olives with a big pile of good-quality canned tuna on top. For a main course you could get chuleta de cordero (lamb chop), filete de ternera (veal scallop), or trucha a la plancha (grilled trout). The desserts included the usual creamy flan and natillas, or you could have a fresh apple or pear (which you were expected to eat with a special fruit knife and fork).

Poor Mom and Dad were heavy-lidded and quiet by now, but the food perked them up a bit. The waiter was friendly and helpful, and as he and I chatted, my folks’ eyes grew wide.

“You can really speak Spanish!” Mom said admiringly.

I laughed. “I know it looks that way to someone who doesn’t speak it, but I’m still bumbling,” I said.

“No, you’ve got to be kidding. You look totally fluent to me,” Dad said.

Finally I allowed the weary visitors to get some rest. I was a little worried about finding the hotel, but I had checked my directions and found a pretty easy route. I pulled right up to the corner entrance of the grand building, and the doorman took care of the luggage and agreed to watch my car while I helped with the check-in. Of course, the hotel clerk spoke beautiful English, but I wanted to make sure everything went well, which it did—including my folks’ reaction to the spectacular interior.

“Wow,” Mom breathed. The wide, high-ceilinged lobby was classically beautiful, full of carved stone and brass. Above was a huge stained-glass skylight, and ahead was a restaurant ringed with potted palms. Along with the Ritz Hotel across the boulevard, the Palace was a prime location for society weddings in Madrid.

I let the bellman take them up to their room. “Bye, honey,” Mom said. “We’ll call you in a couple hours.”

“Thanks tons for coming to get us and taking us around,” Dad added. I left them and drove home.