Lots of things are happening. Waking up late in Spain / A woman grabbed me in the supermarket / The American Women’s Group / Family homes aka vacation homes depending on which country you are from—not everyone is invited/ And finally: Dun. Dun. Dun. Pollen.

Waking up Late in Spain, Again

I woke up after 10am again today.

I’m sorry.

I see the clock and apologize to the capitalist inside me. She shakes her head.

Feel bad, she says. Feel very bad.

She asks if I have a problem.

Did you drink too much?

Are you depressed?

Do you need fixing?

No. No. No. I say.

She says it’s wrong. This behavior will only lead to poverty, destitution and addiction.

And if you think this is hyperbole, it isn’t. This is the American programming we live in.

You want happiness? Wake up early and be productive.

Mel Robbins will tell you.

Pull yourself out of bed at 5 a.m. Roll onto the floor with a thud if you must, just get yourself going. (Have you seen that video?)

Gwyneth swears by The 5 A.M. Club.

I feel so much better. It changed my life.

Glennon Doyle says she wrote Love Warrior by waking up every day at 4:30 a.m. and sitting in her closet.

I wrote my book last year by doing the same thing.

You know what the Spanish say?

Morning lasts until lunchtime. Enjoy it. And don’t call before noon. Lunch is at 3.

The American Women’s Club

I was printing worksheets for the boys at the Print Shop when an English-speaking woman, Gill, approached and suggested I check out the American Women’s Club.

Simply, the AWC is a club for American women to connect. They have locations all over the world and engage in a broad range of women’s advocacy projects.

Once a month on Friday night, American ladies from all different places and stages in life sit, drink wine, many with gorgeous ice cubes in their glasses, to enjoy snacks and connect.

It’s a relief to belong to something without even trying. My American accent was proof enough.

It was too hot for me to drink so I sipped water over their gorgeous 1-inch x 2-inch cylindrical cubes.

It’s all in the ice cube, ladies.

There was a time in my travelling life that I would have scoffed at this group. Hanging out with Americans was the last thing I wanted. My travel goals included immersion and language acquisition, things you can’t achieve sitting in a room with a bunch of Americans.

That, and the average American on the road is often obnoxious and expects far more customer service than the rest of the world is willing to give them.

It’s different now. I’m older. I’m not at pubs with drunk twenty-something Americans making asses of themselves, while I scoot off with a group of locals to our next destination. When Gill approached me at the copy store, I was receptive.

You should join.

Friday night’s event included mostly grey-haired women, an impressive roster of doctors, educators, dancers, musicians and retirees. The purity and strength of the American accents in this room would rival your local clubhouse. Authentic is the only word.

The conversations circled around family, children, careers, the impact of a newly earned PhD and recent retirement, the challenges of motherhood, the challenges of grandmotherhood and the reality of living decades between two distinct and geographically separated cultures.

One woman has two grown children in their 30’s, who grew up in Madrid but are choosing to live life in the States. Her kids are fluent in both English and Spanish.

She and her husband are retired so they spend half the year in Ohio with their children and grandkids and the other half in Madrid. The husband is still a part time musician. She is a retired teacher and current line dancing world champion. They love their lives in Madrid, so while it’s hard being grandparents from afar, they do both and split the year.

She has the life I dream of. Half the year in the States, half the year in Madrid. At one point, I was like, maybe I should move to Ohio!

But, no, that won’t solve anything.

Sitting with these American women, hearing their stories and soaking in their familiar accents was a relief. It’s a common thread amongst American women abroad with children. We didn’t used to need the support of home, now we do.

New American Friends

Earlier in the week when the AWC heard of our struggles, they put me in touch with women in the group who have young children. One of them has three boys.

She and I went to dinner. She is in the thick of it right now. I can see it in her face. I see how she smiles and doesn’t mention that she’s drowning, especially in a foreign country. That’s what mothers do. We smile through the chokes and gags and lack of oxygen we feel when life is more overwhelming than we ever imagined. But we tell ourselves we invited this. We asked for it. We are mothers and this is the price.

But again, this is the American voice in us. Suffer, you asked for this. It’s your duty.

She married a Spaniard. After a Pisco Sour, her favorite from her days in Peru, we get to the part where he has an untraditional Spanish family. They don’t spend time with them, so she is considering a move back to the States.

I wanted to come to Spain because I believed that I would find a different way of life, because society prioritizes families, community supports instead of isolates, socializing is encouraged, and connection, not production, is the key to happiness. And where mothers don’t have to do motherhood alone.

And you know what, I found it.

She and I both did… with a caveat.

Family houses aka Vacation Homes – Not Everyone Is Invited

In April, families in Madrid begin their weekly sojourns to their “family houses”. These are what we might call our parents’ “vacation homes.” It’s the time when generations of people my age, head with their brothers, sisters, children and parents to smaller towns a couple of hours outside Madrid.

These homes, often passed down from one generation to the next, will be the gathering place for the season. For the next 3 months the family will come together, weed gardens, clean, dust, and prepare to have all of the family in one place, while the weather is warm.

The parents at our school do this. They make food, kids play, there are rivers and lakes and fountains, and everyone comes.

It’s precisely the emphasis on family that I was hoping to discover.

I made one slight miscalculation.

During my twenty something travels, people from all different cultures, socialized with each other. Argentine, Spanish, Brazilian, Israeli, Finnish, Dutch, Irish, English, French, Swedish, you name it. We met endlessly at bars or pubs, cafes or pools, or restaurants, to drink and socialize and pasear un poco. We did the things that these children and their families will be doing at their family houses, only we did it together in cities all over the world. We had epic hangs that lasted weeks and months and late into the mornings, until the sun rose over our tired bodies and burst through our windows. It was some of the happiest times of my life.

That was more than two decades ago. Now, most of us have families of our own.

The people from those cultures that I so loved, have retreated back to their own cultures and most importantly back to their own families. The difference is, I don’t have a family like that to retreat back to.

We asked a family of one of the boys’ classmates if they’d like to come over for dinner one night on the weekend.

They thanked me.

We’d love to but we are at our family house now. Maybe you and the boys can come out one weekend. The kids play and we eat food and walk into town.

It sounded great. But the truth is, a one-off weekend isn’t enough.

What I failed to realize in my search for a new culture was yes, these cultures prioritize family, but I’m an outsider and no matter how good my Spanish is, I will never be family. And if you aren’t family, you just aren’t invited.

My American friend and I both shared this realization with a bit of heartbreak. We were disillusioned. She even took a swing at it and married a Spaniard. She struck out.

But then we realized something else. Maybe the solution for us exists back home.

In many ways, America is a country built on the dismantling of families, not supporting or encouraging them, the desocialization of society through a capitalist structure that prioritizes the corporate ladder, individualism and long work hours.

But our human need for support and community hasn’t gone away, and when I look more closely at our society I see evidence of how its fulfillment has manifested in other ways: friendship. We are the “choose your own family” culture. We even created a spinoff of a major holiday without family: Friends Giving.

So, while I don’t have a “family house” tradition yet, and even though I can’t help dreaming of a time when I do: a season where grandparents see their children, and their grandchildren, and siblings become aunts and uncles who walk into town, I have something else. I belong to a culture where people like me belong.

Perhaps, all I need to do is embrace it.

The Riverwalk

Madrid Río is a “river”, in the same sense that the L.A. River is a river. Water, and cement with a side of plants.

Madrid’s City Council spent roughly 480 million dollars on the urban design and construction of parks and recreational grounds flanking the Manzanares River which now offers walking paths, sports facilities, urban beaches and bridges spanning 150 hectares of reclaimed parkland in Madrid.

It’s spectacular.

At night, the 278-meter Spiral Footbridge is completely lit and resembles a tunnel into the Death Star. Epic metal slides, like intergalactic chutes, drop out of hillside vegetation and turn cold beneath the night sky. And my most favorite, no mosquitos.

We had a late soccer park hang with my new American friend and her three boys. They left for their bedtime routine around 9 p.m. and we joined the Spanish dinner crowds for a bite at 9:30 and left before the second wave.

We enjoyed the riverwalk amenities until 12:30 a.m., where Chochoo and I found space between a row of baby strollers and a gaggle of families with kids under the age of 8.

I texted my friend at midnight. She was up but admitted she and her boys keep very American hours. Even after 12 years in Madrid, she is never out after dark.

We didn’t get home until 1 a.m. Sleep around 2 a.m.

Lionel:

Come on and sing my song

All night long. All night….

And Finally, The Woman Who Grabbed Me

That’s right. They opened a 3^rd cashier at Aldi. He waved my line over. As I filed into the queue, a woman grabbed my arm and jerked me back while yelling at me. I spun around.

Senior ladies in the barrio are keen on reacting to the slightest perceived injustice over grocery store queues.

No me toques! I yelped.

She had grey hair and stood approximately 5 inches shorter than me. I tried to appeal to her Spanish side:

You have bad manners and are poorly educated! I yelled at her in Spanish. Your family would be ashamed.

It would have been better if she looked crazy, but apart from her ranting, grabbing, poking, and pushing, I couldn’t find anything wrong with her. Her collared button-down flowery shirt and light powder blue pants and the fluffy silver hair on top of her head seemed undeniably standard for a woman her age.

I just kept holding my arms and groceries over my head like someone was beating me, hollering, No me toques, mujer! No me toques! As she pushed and prodded around me with a single pointer finger to get to the front of the line.

The boys said I should have slapped her. The cashier apologized to me in English for the trouble. I think that was his best gesture.

On her way out, I told her she should join the gym to learn some discipline.

I’m not sure where I found my insults but they probably need some work.

I left the store bewildered.

Pollen

Something must be in the air today. My eyes are watery and squinty. My head congested, my throat scratchy. I feel off. My teeth are tingling, and my lungs are on overdrive. I asked Sampson if he thought it was Hanta. He assured me that was impossible, but would be sad if I died.

Last night, I kept inhaling visible floating white particles, like white clumps of fairy dust, or bits of cotton balls that people were secretly blowing into the air at my face, that once ingested cause endless fits of coughing and discomfort. No amount of spare gummies at the bottom of my purse would make it stop. At one point, I knelt onto the ground and tried to purge with intentionally forceful hacking.

Today, we don’t want to leave the house. But I will. Choochoo demands it. Sampson and I will grab a café con leche and a caracol on the corner.

Tomorrow we will start again.

My friend came from England this week. We lived in Buenos Aires at the same time together. A million years ago. We were Porteñas, the name for people from Buenos Aires.

She reminded me of the Castellano Spanish from B.A., the qué sé yo, the por nada, the shushing of the ll, the dale. Subtle differences in language from Argentine to Spain Spanish. Vale. Grathias. Madre mía.

One day the boys and I will share similar memories and observations about our time here.

Me: Pay attention. You might see her again in 10 years.

Sampson: I’ll be 22.

At lunch, we went around the table and answered the question,

What is your favorite meal of all time?

6 months ago, I would have had a different answer. We’ve changed.

The boys blurted: Tacos!

Tacos on the beach, burritos from the local drive-through, medium heat green salsa, homemade nachos, and of course Taco Bell, Sy’s favorite. No person from California can deny the goodness of a bean and cheese burrito. It’s in our DNA, introduced after mashed bananas, lasts a lifetime and is the one thing Californians miss, when we leave. This longing has happened to me so many times. I smiled at their outburst.

In Madrid, the weather has turned. Fewer waves of pollen roll through. A shawl over shoulders, open toes, t-shirts. Noventa degrados is approaching. The sun sets at 9:30 p.m. Anochece arrives after ten.

Sampson said it feels like we never got over jet lag. He wishes no one had to work or go to school.

I just want to live in my village in Iceland in the 1300’s with my family. Just doing chores.

But a predictable and familiar rhythm like that is foreign to us these days.

We go to bed late, fight exhaustion, require lots of snacking and prepare a 2^nd dinner later than 10:30 p.m. Our systems hover in limbo, unable to decide if we are primed for tapas or tacos.

Sampson says he enjoys Spain, but he wants American friends. He complains that he cannot relate to his Spanish classmates, even when they speak in English.

They are different, mom. It’s not the same.

I’m disappointed with this answer but in awe of the observation. It’s part of his new dimension as a citizen of the world.

The Spanish consulate in Marseille finally accepted our applications for visas and invited us to the in-person submission, a feat we could not lograr back home. (Seriously, we could not get a visa appointment at the Spanish embassy in Los Angeles. They were booked for 5 months. We could apply in Marseille because we are technically residents of France.)

I started the application in February. Its nearly June. 3 months spent fielding requests, fulfilling demands, extra health certificates, residency verification, translations and background checks. I did it. They are waiting for me to pick a date.

But I don’t have plans to get us to Marseille.

We are pulling back. I touched the sun on this trip. It burned. I can still feel it. The kids feel it. At this point, each decision, is painful. From a simple afternoon to a curated weekend, train tickets, flights, itineraries. I have decision making fatigue. I’m tired.

Our path now is toward the familiar.

There will be tacos.

This evening in Madrid is the most beautiful kind of warm. It’s the first of many that summer will offer.

At 9:00 p.m., the sky is bright. Birds are chirping. They circle trees beyond my balcony. Tables are filling with patrons, motors humm down Calle Corazon de Maria, Spanish conversations drift over the railing into our apartment. My dog sits opposite me in a chair. She’s alert, but napping. There are no bugs in Madrid. We have peace on the terrace.

This moment is the happiest a person can be. I’m so lucky to live it. Sometimes, I really do curate a bit of gold. If I’m paying attention, it lets me know I’m on the right path.

Sampson is online with friends from school. They are in Montpellier and Paris. Americans. I can hear them gaming.

My boys are not thriving academically. We made a deal that they will focus on learning Spanish for the next 4 weeks until school is out. No complaints.

Yolanda, Sy’s teacher says he’s doing terrific socially.

A girl confessed her love to him this week. She bought him a present and asked to be his girlfriend, though refuses to speak to him on the playground. It’s complicated.

Sy didn’t make the soccer team. I don’t know if it’s that he doesn’t have what it takes, or that he woke up sick and came home after try outs to spend the next 4 days in bed.

It doesn’t matter. I’m not even going to tell him.

We have done something incredible.

We’ve walked the streets of foreign cities, sat in classrooms and lived inside two cultures. The boys have made it onto a different type team this year.

From our kitchen table in California, Sampson said he could not learn another language, besides Spanish. We spent a semester in Mexico when he was in 3^rd grade. He didn’t think he could stretch anymore. By the time we left France, he lamented that we were leaving just when he was getting good. Sy still responds in French sometimes.

France showed us many things. What it lacked, Spain provided.

For me that meant the opportunity to speak Spanish and to explore a metropolitan city, where women wear silk blouses, tweed blazers, gold trim and polished leather shoes on city buses. For Choochoo, it’s a proper park next to our building where we’ve built a network of doggie friends and neighbors. I spend Saturday afternoons writing in the park, soaking in conversations from afar, while she sniffs and fends off friendly advances from other pups. For the boys it’s a school soccer team with practices twice a week and a language they can use back home.

Sylas and Sampson speak more Spanish than when we left Mexico a few years ago. They will speak more Spanish than French when we go home. They are not afraid.

We’ve lived a year of my life in a foreign country, mom.

They have curiosity and confidence. They are citizens of the world now.

Residents of France, inhabitants of Spain.

We did it.

We lived a dream.

I traveled to Europe on my own with my two kids and my dog. We made two international moves in 4 months. I have done what some would call impossible. At times it felt that way. And I sort of think that was the point.

Mom, when I move to Spain when I’m older…

So begins many conversations now.

We have a month left in Madrid. We’ve released most expectations for Spanish levels that we must attain, exams we must pass and soccer teams we must make and other musts and shoulds we had when we landed.

We will take trains, visit towns and lean into the rest of our adventure with curiosity. At this stage of the journey, it feels different, like we ran the race, crossed the finish line and now we get to relax and enjoy our hard work.

The sun sets behind the brick buildings of Prosperidad tonight, undulating green awnings worn thin with summer. When I look back at the struggles and the loss that we’ve felt, I know that we will forever remember. Despite our cultural differences, we share something with these Mediteranean people, a jovial spirit, an outlook, a perspective perhaps inspired by the sun.

Sampson said this week, that he is glad to have learned the lesson of the lost passports. He likes Spain. The warm weather is helping to soothe us. We feel like we can make it.

This feeling, these final images of Madrid will be a reminder of what we have accomplished.

We have been brave.

Madrid is dry, it will be unbearably hot by the time we leave. We will be ready for the sunshine and cool temps of the west coast when we get there. People that love us, and the familiarity of lives we know, await us.

The Casey, Sampson and Sylas who arrived here in January will be memories. Somewhere, at the tram stop or in a train station, next to classmates who spoke languages we did not understand or amidst a pain au chocolat, we took a step, and a new version of ourselves emerged.

We won’t fully know how we have changed until we get home. When we step into our old shoes and see the new us, awkwardly trying to squeeze into a shoe that no longer fits, we will see. Argentine Castellano next to the Spanish of Madrid, you don’t know different they are until you see them side by side.

Anochece is minutes away. I can see the orange streetlights through the trees.

The sound of Sampson’s laughter catches my attention. I’m on the balcony. I turn back and see our lives in Madrid, through the rainbow curtain that separates me from the warmly lit living room of our 3^rd story apartment over Corazon de Maria.

The streetlights reach our living room. My gafas are on the table, Choochoo’s bed is on the floor, the boys’ Spanish cuadernos are stacked on the coffee table. I remember the text message from the optical shop. My prescription lenses are ready for pick up.

I transport to the kitchen table at home in California and wonder if this is the memory I will keep of this time. The dining room, through the opaque curtain, keys on the mantle, me in the kitchen, over the electric stove, cursing. A siren, a car alarm, Sy upstairs, Choochoo asleep on the rug. I’m somewhere, in the elevator saying hello to our portero Belquis with her friendly wave, on my way to the supermarket with my cotton shoulder bag, a cursive España written on the side, then in the park at midnight for Choochoo’s last peepee.

My life in Madrid. Como Madrileña.

Maybe I’ll be eating tacos when I remember. Maybe I’ll be dreaming in my bed, nostalgic for the old versions of us and the memories we made. We’ll carry these from table to table for the rest of our lives. It will be just as I hoped.

I wonder if the throughline is the language, the café con leche, milanesa, lomo, jamón ibérico, the pan tostado, the qué sé yo, the por nada, the cole the vale and the grathias. The warm streets of the city blurring between Argentina and Spain, the place I learned to speak Spanish, and the place I came to show my children. The world can open when you know another culture from the inside out. But the language cannot explain all of it.

And then… I see it.

I am the throughline.

I’m the magic that connects all these experiences.

Qué sé yo.

It’s Mother’s Day in America. Let's talk Euro blinds…

European apartments universally have blackout blinds on the outside of their windows, the kind any respectable Spaniard would require.

Some, old and rusted, fold across like the top of a picnic basket and fasten with a clunky metal finger. Others, mechanical, go up and down with a press of a button. Still others, like the ones in our Madrid apartment, open and close on a pulley system. While demure opaque shades, almost always Ikea, slide over windows from the inside.

On this light grey morning with my exterior blinds at half mast, I smell rain. It penetrates my senses, a cashmere blanket over the waking body.

From our bedroom windows, we can hear the tires swoosh down the road, water shushing behind them. It’s not that cold winter rain, but cool spring rain. The kind of rain that makes you want to swing from light poles and tap dance in the street, a sign the warmest days of spring are coming.

Or as they say in Spain,

En Abril, aguas mil…

…the perfect excuse to stay inside all weekend.

For us, this means Choochoo warm at my feet. I’ve done the grocery shopping, fresh and frozen snacks the boys can make themselves. It’s an easy pop down to the shop for a treat if they fancy a walk, but Sampson said he doesn’t want to leave his room today.

I laugh.

Sy: I’m not either.

I wish I could argue. But we are exhausted at the end of each week. My calves need salvation.

I’m not sure how the Spaniards do it.

I went green juice to blue cheese with our touch down in Paris. Verre de vin to caña upon arrival to Spain. This month, we began our California smoothie routine. Maybe it will help.

Frozen blueberries, mango, banana, rice milk and a snip of ginger in the blender. This has always been the baseline to our groove. I’m back on vegetables too, shedding those pain au chocolates and warm baguettes from France. Bathing suit weather is coming!

Last week, we identified problems, explored solutions. This week, we implemented them.

The lost wire and rent finally sorted itself out. All monies are where they should be.

The kids’ school: a doozy. Wonderful, bilingual, affluent. Down the street from Real Madrid’s new stadium.

Cool

But,

Mom, I thought it would be okay, but it’s not.

Omg. My problems flip flopped. In France, it was Sylas. In Spain, it is Sampson.

We explored more schools and a Spanish as a second language program. I walked bookstores across Madrid hunting for materials, compiled research from the internet, joined Facebook expat groups, mom and school groups in search of tutors. We even toured an exclusive English school,

—with U.S. University sized tuition.

I was prepared to negotiate.

In the end, boys opted to stay where they are and elected me as their Spanish teacher.

It was a lot to navigate. I have less freedom, but it’s a good trade.

We are feeling the music.

Sampson showed me his new playlist and asked me to stop playing my “bad music” in the morning—Steve Lacy it is.

The boys are now taking themselves to school, 43 Estrecho, past Barnabeu to Sagrados Corazones. Their independence gives me back a few hours each day.

They started drawing. Computer time is way down, an unthinkable notion from when we first arrived.

Our favorite new verb: Dibujar

We are still going to bed late, but instead of telling them to apagar their computadores, I’m asking them to guardar their lapizeras and marcadores.

Our community of 3 feels cohesive again and our beat is in sync.

The apartment helped. It was the best decision I made. I felt the same way about our house at home. I just knew. We each have our own bedroom with a huge desk to work independently and a living room to break bread and share.

Sylas sleeps with me. He is afraid of monsters. On the nights he tries his own room, usually when my eyes are closing, I receive panicked full sob emojis and texts begging me to save him from darkness. He tells me he likes our pre-sleep talks.

The routine, the drawing, and calm has set the tone. The boys stopped saying I’m mad all the time. And finally, I have space for what I’ve been asking from the universe,

– time to enjoy our adventure.

Madre mía. ¡Qué camino hemos recorrido!

I made a friend group of dog owners in the park. With the warmer weather we linger longer over our conversations.

Spanish is perhaps the greatest gift I’ve given myself. It’s mostly on the shelf at home, but here, I wear it every day.

Con este puesto,

I get to become her.

This new sense of calm and becoming has given me space to observe the details of Madrid.

It’s the reason we came.

Spanish women surprise me with their deep raspy voices. Spanish grandmas everywhere could do a Rod Stewart impersonation.

The bus, when coupled with occasional Ubers, is amazing.

The shoes, the silk, the leather bags, perfume, hair, glasses and scarves! Oh, the scarves.

I love discovering women’s styles. Large scarves, tucked into sweaters and jackets, that bloom outward. Smaller scarves, lain neatly across her chest, tied in a perfect knot around her neck, and placed almost geometrically into the cut of her blouse, her sweater or top.

Deep reds to bright yellows and soft pastels. Different fabrics of silk, polyester, viscose and wool. Thinking about scarves makes me almost as happy as the gratitude for my Spanish aptitude. I’m bursting with scarf joy.

And the glasses! Oh, the glasses.

The frames—gold, silver and tortoise shell, pink, blue and green. How they fit on different faces, across bridges and styles. Clear, tinted, round, oval and square, beneath bangs, behind curls, or a complement to elegantly coiffed and colored locks.

The bus is a Madrileño fashion runway, and a bright lesson in how to be a woman.

Through our tercer piso windows, we often hear cheers in the streets. People singing football fan songs. Last night it was Levante vs. Osasuna, a 3-2 Levante win.

Sy and I observed that restaurants and cafes are not for eating. In Spain, they are for socializing. Food is a complement to the experience, not the main event.

Waiters don't mind people lingering—it's expected.

Sometimes the drinks keep coming, but not the way they do in America. The consumption is more controlled. There is no pressure to keep spending or drinking. Patrons are there for the experience, and soccer, not the booze. Everyone understands.

Voices from the street remind me that I need to push through our tired feet to get us out there. I’m not sure how Spaniards do it. Feet sore, calves tight from a long week standing and walking to their daily lives. They seem to hydrate on cerveza, café and vino. I’m convinced it’s a commitment to socializing and the human experience that pulls them out of their homes to the tables and chairs beneath our windows.

Sy poignantly said,

It’s too much for us on a Friday night, after a long week.

Last Sunday we rode the bus home for nearly an hour.

Past El Retiro and La Puerta de Alcalá, where we spent our Easter Sunday bathing on the grass.

The tulips were gone. The sun had passed. Only dirt in the shadows remained.

Let’s see what this Sunday will bring.

Happy Mother’s Day everyone.

May you find your tulips,

and your groove,

in the warm afternoon sun.

For anyone following - in December we got visas to move to France for a year. We left in January and settled in Montpellier. 3 months into France we decided France wasn’t what we thought - So we pivoted to Spain.

Spain makes a lot of sense. It gives us experience in a language we can use. The people are friendly and happy and gregarious. They smile.

In France, it felt like everyone intentionally tried to frown. We called them a bunch of frowny faces. I tried to wipe that shit eating grin off my face, the one that said, I’m in France eating warm baguettes!

It was exhausting. Forcing our smiles away was bad for our morale. It made me resentful toward the end. Like they were actively trying to steal our happiness and joy was the cost of fitting in.

In France, we met nice people. They were so nice, but it wasn’t our vibe.

And then there is my favorite question:

How is the vacation going? 😂 I always laugh inside when I hear this. The vacation? Please tell me when that begins. I desperately need one at this stage.

This has been one of the hardest things I have ever set out to do. And I have done a lot of hard things.

Our departure was rocky. I was shaky before we even got started. At launch, I was less than 10 days post op from a skin cancer surgery that was terrifying and made me wonder if a life drenched in San Diego sunshine was even possible. I packed up my entire house and the December holiday with stitches in my chest.

I am spending savings and risking a lot for this experience with my kids, and fought with their father, who lives in another state, to give it to them.

Three days before the trip, visas paid for, house rented, boarding passes ready, Paris accommodations booked, their father gets mad, threatens me, steals their passports from my house and tells me via text:

There has been a change of plans,

-you are not going.

I was thousands deep in this plan. Tenants scheduled to arrive the same night we touched down in Paris. His ultimatum: forfeit and be homeless or break the law.

Within 48 hours, he returned the passports, said he didn’t want to be a thief but he’d changed his mind and would no longer give us the 2 hour ride to the airport, nor his permission to go. Instead, he said, if I take them now, I would officially be stealing them out of the country, which he blasted to me across text and emails to be sure he put it in writing. All of it lies. I was in possession of a notarized letter signed by him, giving us permission. We couldn’t have gotten visas without his explicit written consent. Odd for a guy who drove us to the visa appointment in Los Angeles and helped me gather paperwork for the applications.

It was hell. I kept it all in. If I’d talked about it, processed, or begun to feel it, I wouldn’t have had the strength to get us here or carry on. I went numb for a while.

And all this stress for what?

To shape them into responsible citizens of the world, that’s what.

Something we desperately need from our future men.

But there’s more.

I want to create an experience with them that we can share around the table for the rest of our lives. I want to relate to them in the context of a broad understanding of the world, where there is more than one right way to live and more than one language to live it in. I want them to consider life beyond e-bikes, play stations and jorts.

I want us to be operating from the same plane. And now we are.

Put another way, although my ai assistant might say this is redundant…

I wanted my kids to get me. Now they do.

The trade off: I fear I have ruined them, or at least made them less commercial and more niche as the junior high and high school social scenes go, but I’ll live with that because I want to raise kids that I want to hang out with later in life.

But also, if grandpa says, eat your food because there are kids starving in Africa, (or wherever and whatever it may be) I want them to have seen those starving kids. So they know, so they give less eye-rolls and more gratitude.

I will never forget the women and children who I have seen starving in my travels. Women who have drugged their newborns in front of supermarkets so they can stand for 8 hours, begging for money, without the distraction of their babies’ cries.

Things we think we understand look different outside the U.S.

If I give them perspective, maybe they will want to solve for some of these things. If not, at least they will have perspective and genuinely feel gratitude.

-which brings me to my one word answer.

If there is one word that sums up this trip, it’s perspective.

Prior to our departure, a mom at my son’s school asked me why I’d want to take my kids away from our school and our home and make them live in Europe. Make them? I didn’t know what to say in that moment. I had so many reasons, I was surprised by the question. I wanted to say, give me one reason why I wouldn’t.

I’m sure she doesn’t even remember asking it. Now, I would simply say, perspective.

I want them to have perspective. And for a life lived exclusively in North County San Diego, perspective is very hard to come by. Of this, I am sure.

I was also, incredibly unhappy and overwhelmed. I didn’t like my neighbors. They literally abused and bullied us. I have video. I’ve called the police more times than I can count. These are white middle class Americans. One of them has a wifi account that says “KKK not the Klan”. These are not our people.

I wanted out and needed a change. And it was easier to move abroad to reset than it was to change my situation at home.

Before we left, I also told the boys, that they needed to suffer a little. It builds character. That their lives in San Diego were waay too easy. I guess somewhere along the line, I forgot how difficult suffering is, because this trip has been hard and I’ve had to re-examine my capacity for it.

12 days into our trip - Sampson- unprepared and inexperienced in the world of travel- left our backpack with our passports under a bench. I had to get my stitches out early to catch our flight to Paris. I was still tender, so I leaned on him. He wasn’t ready. My fault. I should have known better. Amidst me actively telling him to pay attention, he left the bag. I’ve spent the rest of our trip recovering.

Gosh I don’t want to say that, but it’s how the vacation is going. I hope when we are years beyond this I will barely remember, but it has caused me months of stress and thousands of dollars to fix and has been an undercurrent of stress and discomfort the entire time.

It took me two months and multiple weeks of emergency emails to the US consulate to even get a passport appointment much less, get the paperwork they required for the applications— birth certificates and previous passports from my files in the garage at home. Difficult and expensive from my flat in France.

Even when I was enjoying and celebrating our wins in Europe, the stress of this obstacle simmered in the back of my mind.

A week after we got our new passports I moved us to Spain. We have 90 days here, which perfectly coincides with our return home for the summer.

But our move to Spain this month and getting yearlong visas to live in Spain for the fall or next year are two different things.

Once we realized that France was a bust and we wouldn’t last the year, I got busy submitting our visa application to the Spanish consulate in Marseille. I picked up where I left off.

Back home, last fall, I wasn’t sure which country to go to, so I prepared a visa packet for both Spain and France. In the end, I couldn’t get the visa appointment for Spain, so we did France. We were on the fence, so it didn’t feel like a loss- not until we got to France. Then we felt it.

We will not be going back. I loudly said this to someone who called again today from the French education system wondering why Sampson was not in school. It’s been 5 weeks. I thought raising my voice would help make it clear. It did.

Did you understand me?

Yes, I understand you are never coming back.

Great.

It may sound harsh, but all of us are like, been there done that. Thank you, no thank you.

Glad we did it – perspective. Glad it’s over - bye

Please stop calling.

But losing the passports- and more importantly the French visas that were in those passports - complicated everything.

The French government made our difficult situation endlessly harder. At one point they told me to stop emailing them and to never email them in any other language besides French.

It took me four months of emails to know where to turn for help. Not even answers, just where to go. At first, they encouraged me to begin a lengthy months-long process valued at thousands of dollars to get what I needed. When I refused and demanded they give me proof of the thing I had already applied and paid for - our visas, only then did they provide me with the answers.

The Spanish consulate in France agreed to process our application only if we could prove residency, which is impossible without visas and residency cards. We never received our residency cards. Why? Because the French government refused to accept our proof of address. Why? I still don’t know.

In short if we choose to come back in the fall, which I am not sure we will, we will need Spanish visas. I couldn’t get an appointment at the consulate back home so this feels like something we need to secure before we leave. The passport/visa fallout continues.

I’ve literally been dealing with 3 different government consulates for a year.

If I had one sentence to describe how the vacation is going, that would probably be it. Dealing with government offices sucks big time. Don’t do it.

- a French government office finally told me to email the French embassy in Washington D.C. to get proof of our visas.

Dude. That was so easy. Why did it take 4 months?

An expat friend of mine said she received her 10 year residency visa 14 months after her old one expired, despite having sent it in on time, which means she was technically illegally in the country and trapped there for over a year because of the delay.

Another friend, married to a Frenchman, says they are 3 years behind on processing her citizenship request. In their follow up email to her inquiry last month they said, we are currently processing applications from 2023.

I got a ticket while driving a rental. It’s been 4 months, I still haven’t received any information about how to pay it. France is slow. Getting caught in their system can ruin your life.

C’est la vie.

The last 4 or 5 months on vacation, I’ve been bogged down with endless bureaucratic red tape and admin with 3 different countries, in part, because I let my son carry an important backpack that he left under a bench within 5 minutes of holding it. Yes. Thank you. Confirmed. We’ve suffered.

Anyhow, today we have this awesome apartment in Spain. And I wish that were the end of the suffering story, But it isn’t - I sent a wire to pay for it which got lost for 30 days between Brussels and Madrid.

Omg. Have you ever lost thousands and thousands of dollars in an international abyss? It’s so stressful when you are spending your savings to survive and the foreign institutions can’t find your rent money. I had to pay twice. Today, after 28 days, I finally got the money back. I’m so glad that’s over.

I guess the universe took me seriously when I said we should suffer.

I’d like to go on record now, to say, I want to be done suffering. I am ready for things to be easy and wonderful and just work out.

Universe, this is your call to action. I beg that you are listening because this week, the kids are struggling with language and need your help.

I forgot how hard it is to learn a new language.

French kicked my butt this time around. I improved, but it was much harder than I remembered and now I’m helping the boys to learn Spanish. They feel isolated and alone - not all the time, but sometimes. They are also bored in class and don’t understand what their teachers are saying. I have become their Spanish teacher.

I’m trying to remember not to save them. It builds character.

We have 6 weeks. I promise, they will be speaking when we leave.

So yeah. It’s been a little rough.

Do I wish we would have started in Spain? I know that version of us would be having a very different experience, with better Spanish, which is what we wanted all along, deeper friendships, and more access to things like music and soccer, but no, I don’t wish that. Just like I don’t wish for another life besides my own, despite some of the hard things.

If I were to wish something, perhaps it would be that we weren’t the people that needed to go through France first, or who needed to gain that perspective, but we are those people and we did need to do that, so here we are.

And now, I must decide if I try to bring us back to Madrid for the fall- where they could have time to really lock in the language, but which requires getting those Spanish visas- not impossible but hard. Sampson cries when we talk about us coming back here after the summer. I cry at the thought of going home.

I’m tired. I’m depleted. I want to enjoy the time we have left. We go to Sweden to see old friends in June before we leave. This will be wonderful.

I’m not sure what to do about the rest.

I’ve met the best people. I love Madrid. If it were just me, the decision would be easy. At least three people have offered to help me find work. Not sure how that gets done on a visitor non-lucrative visa.

I have complicated family relationships at home that are painful and even more so when I’m on domestic soil. It’s always been this way. Those things push me to want to stay.

I have a career that has abused me and mistreated me—harassment and discrimination. I don’t want to continue to endure that but feel like my choices at home are limited. It makes me sad. I don’t want to return to that.

As my dad says, “In Spain you are a phenom. At home you are just another person looking for a job.”

The other hardest part of this trip is not being able to talk to some of you in the morning, after drop off and before the day begins. That’s really hard.

I met a wonderful American mom over here. We met and I told her that my phone never rings anymore. It’s what I miss most. The next day she called and left me a message.

This is me making your phone ring in the morning. Hope you have a great day.

The connection was instant and her friendship life-changing.

I’ve been writing my blog and practicing my writing which has been one of the best parts. Practicing my French and now my Spanish has been a gift.

Through it all, I’ve learned a lot about myself. Things I didn’t know I would.

And through it all Choochoo has been my faithful companion, keeping me and all of us warm and grounded when we feel cold and alone.

And that is how the vacation is going.

Thanks for sticking with us.

Oh, and we had postcards for everyone, but they got lost in our backpack and I never quite recovered enough to buy, write and post more. The boys complain about writing them. Maybe we will get a round out before we go.

Love y’all.

Love, Casey

It is morning.

No matter how hard I try to get us in bed by 10 p.m., I cannot.

Last night, I put my foot down for lights out at 1 a.m. Sy asked if he could draw for a little bit longer. I said yes. My eyes were closing.

I know what you are thinking.

But this is Spain.

Don’t believe me? I heard it straight from a Spaniard this week: my landlady, Laura.

Laura is lovely. She has two kids, a Peruvian husband and just survived cancer. Her girls are roughly the boys’ ages. She and her family dropped by to replace an internet cable for the television. We chatted. Her husband installed. The girls played with Choochoo and the boys listened.

The day before, she sent me a text asking if it was better to come in the morning or the afternoon – por la mañana, or por la tarde.

My text:

Afternoon works best.

I’m still getting used to Spanish timetables. So, you suggest a time in the afternoon and we’ll do it. Any time after 12 noon is good for us.

Maybe noon is considered morning in Spain! I don’t know. LOL

I hit send, sat back and admired how funny I was.

Jajaja.

Until she replied.

Yes! 12 noon, without a doubt is morning!

En serio!?

And so she explained:

Morning is from 6 or 7 a.m. to 2 p.m.

Midday is between 1 p.m. and 3.p.m.

Afternoon is roughly 2 p.m. to 9 p.m.

Morning ends when you eat lunch.

Afternoon ends when you eat dinner.

Dinner is typically 9 p.m. to 11 p.m. Or later.

Madrugada, one of my favorite Spanish words, means between 12 a.m. and 6 a.m. And all of this gets pushed slightly in summer because the schedule coincides with absolute darkness or anochece.

Anochece –it gets dark, night falls, the sun goes down, it becomes night.

We don’t have a word for this.

Darkness is oscuridad.

Anochece is the act of becoming completely dark. It’s not a long process, that’s twilight. It’s the moment it happens—seconds.

Crepúsculo is twilight.

These days, the sun sets in Madrid around 9 p.m. Complete darkness arrives 2 hours later, after crepúsculo, when afternoon ends and night begins, anochece.

Sigh. Amo este idioma.

Lunch is from 2 p.m. to 4 p.m. both for restaurants and for families. In schools, smaller children eat a little bit before.

Sy and Sampson’s lunch schedule reads:

De 13:05 a 15:10 Comedor

Spain, like France, uses military time, a difference I still struggle to assimilate. 15:00 is easily 5 p.m. in my brain. The 24 hour clock on my stove isn’t helping. We’ve arrived late more than once.

According to Landlady Laura, the morning begins at the hour you wake up and lasts until the hour that you eat - la hora de la comida. The afternoon ends when there is no sun left in the sky.

I told her Spain needs to slip a menu of these hours into foreigners’ passports when they arrive.

For us, we are the ironic circadian clowns, bobbling around with big smiling faces, doing funny things at the wrong time, trying to fit in, not fooling anyone, sometimes crying, sometimes laughing, looking like we just piled out of a car. They can see us coming a mile away and often start speaking English before we’ve opened our mouths.

Try as I might, I still think on a twelve-hour clock and we still eat between 6-7:30 p.m.

We don’t know if 7 p.m. is a late lunch, an early dinner or a merienda. We are relegated to restaurants that serve food during the in between hours. Yet we stay up late like we are Spaniards por sangre, then sleep in like drunken sailors. We clearly know not what we are doing.

At 1 a.m. the streets are still busy, the tables still full, not with young people, but with everyone. We keep trying.

After our (second ) dinner, around 10 p.m. we bajar the ascensor to the park for Choochoo’s final peepee and take our digestive walk, a concept gifted to me by a Brazilian friend decades ago.

Sometimes the boys take Choochoo on their own around midnight. The park has swings and benches and is fully lit at this hour. I send them out without a worry. Middle-aged woman with grey hair are also there with their dogs, especially on a Saturday night.

At 2.p.m. on this day, I heard a whisper on the stairs. It’s the first sound I heard all morning.

Mom?

Can I show you the drawing I did last night?

Wow! That's amazing. Seriously babe. How long did that take you?

The last time I looked at the clock it was 2:56.

¡Sylas! Por dios. ¡Ya entrada la madrugada!

I confess, it was Bad Bunny’s halftime show at the Superbowl that brought this to light. It wasn’t his performance exactly, but the love from the Latin community that awakened the love in me.

I’d taken it for granted.

As a young girl growing up in Los Angeles, where nearly half the people speak native Spanish, it was an extension of conversation in many situations. We heard Spanish everywhere, saw words on buses, menu boards and in movies.

At 7 years old, my mother left me with a Spanish speaking babysitter. We could not communicate. I remember becoming enraged that she could not understand me, nor I her. My mother came home early to solucionar the problem. She found the poor woman, not much taller than I was, distraught.

That night, I learned the value of speaking a language besides my own. I needed to learn Spanish to speak with the people around me, those who were different than me. I wanted to know their stories.

When I was 13 years old, I had my first intimate encounter with Spanish. It lasted my entire freshman year. They called it Spanish I.

I was terrible at first, failed and repeated it over summer, but kept at it. Senior year, I made it to Advanced Placement. Language made me feel special.

By the time I arrived at college, I wanted to try something new.

My college French class unlocked a whole new world, new countries, cultures and continents. My French teacher gave me the name, Élodi, derived from the Old Germanic/Spanish name Alodia, meaning “foreign riches”, and known for its lyrical, melodic sound.

Elooodeeeeeeee!

He said I reminded him of an old friend.

Élodi showed me Paris. I could see myself sitting at a trendy café, pain au chocolate, sur le table, vintage jean jacket and a neck scarf, ready for an espresso and a new life.

Then, a surprise happened. It was spring, my sophomore year. My best friend was studying abroad in Nimes, France. I had just finished my own program in Cambridge, England. She invited me for the weekend.

In Nimes, we sipped Pastis over ice cubes and watched them melt into our glasses and our memories. We whispered between painted ceilings and marble floors worn smooth. We learned the horrible truth of a bullfight, drank local red wines until our bottles clanked in the small waste bin at the foot of her bed. She taught me to gently press a round of brie to test its ripeness. And les etrangers in us sneered at the many cold cases dedicated to paté.

French was my new lover. It was everything I’d ever wanted. It showed me culture, history, and sides of myself that I did not know existed. I left France that summer feeling woken and wanting more.

It would be a few years before I picked up where I left off.

I finished college. Teaching English in a Spanish speaking country was at the top of my list. Spanish was my first love language. I hadn’t given up on it. I knew I had to immerse myself if I wanted to speak it.

My mother’s maiden name was Francisco. She had sparkling blue eyes, olive skin, and chocolate brown hair. The name Francisco came from her father, Cyrus Peter Francisco.

She said that our bloodline originated from the shores of Ireland where the Spanish Armada landed, and the dark Spaniards made love to willing and unwilling white Irish girls.

That was us.

I was blond, blue eyes, with my father’s German last name, but embodied the passion of a Latina.

South America offered an entire continent of Spanish.

I arrived to Argentina on a Sunday, pulled the curtain back as our bus traversed its way through a still Buenos Aires to Retiro Station. I was struck by the architecture of the city. I knew then, this would be home.

At first, I spoke Spanish with a French accent and moved around the city with French travelers. In a year, my Spanish accent was good enough to sound native.

For the first time, my Spanish outperformed my French.

Approximately eight percent of Argentines are of German descent. I was one of them. My only tell—small grammatical errors, to which people would ask,

Eres Argentina?

Spanish gave me a second chance.

In Spanish, I could be me. And people liked this me.

Under the protection of Spanish, I lost a certain self-consciousness.

My passion and vibrance was sexy, not out of control.

The Spanish version of me was feminine and fiery. She had nothing to hide and nothing to lose. She used her hands when she spoke. She could be whomever she wanted. Qualities I’d been ashamed of became assets; characteristics I hid made me unique and interesting. She could be wild, honest, flamboyant.

In Spanish, there were no social confines — only my truths… and freedom.

I was free.

A few months ago, we packed up our lives and my children and I boarded a plane to Europe. Our reasons, one and many.

Would we find that Argentine girl who spoke French and sat in a Parisian café waiting for her espresso and a new life to begin?

We started in Paris.

Our first few months in France, I felt relieved.

It had been so long since I’d known the French girl. I thought we could pick up where we left off all those years ago in Nimes. But I’d changed. I’d spent my life, living with Spanish.

Surrounded by French speakers, labels, menu boards, passing conversations, a part of me withered. French was a strain.

It was the difference between knowing someone intimately for 30 years versus visiting an acquaintance you met 30 years ago.

Paris, to Dijon, to Biarritz we searched for a home but also for her. On our last day in Biarritz, we rented a car and day tripped to San Sebastian, Spain.

In a café, along the river, we found her.

She ordered espresso and pastries from the barista. Made conversation with the women next to her. She sipped and listened. They laughed. She rode her bike along the boardwalk with her dog in the basket and sang out loud to the wind. She asked questions about pictures on a restaurant wall and ate tapas after dark.

I couldn’t believe it. The boys saw her too. This meant she was real.

I thought I could have two great loves. French and Spanish. Two accents that could tie me up in sheets. It wasn’t the men who captured my heart, it was their language.

I realized I only wanted one.

But it was impossible to hold on to her.

We didn’t have visas for Spain. Our visas were for France.

From Biarritz to Bordeaux, to Argelès-sur-Mer, and countless towns in between. We looked for a French city that made us feel the same way that San Sebastian did. When we couldn’t find one, we settled.

My heart broke in silence. When you say goodbye to a lover too soon, goodbye to a country and a life when you are not ready. They call it heartbreak because your heart splits in two.

I knew we would not find her in this country. She was in Spain.

I decided to rest.

Through lost passports, a rainy winter, isolating classrooms and the constant ding of the tram, we stayed steady.

And then, Montpellier—the city, our lives, wasn’t working. We’d tried our best in France, but it was time.

Inside the journey from Montpellier to Madrid, we observed the shift from French to Spanish. The train car, the passengers, like flowers beneath the Puerta de Alcala, we bloomed.

On this Sunday morning in Madrid, a baby cries, a horn honks, Choochoo sits warm beside me, the boys asleep upstairs.

Today my espresso is Spanish.

We arrived to Madrid at the start of Semana Santa- the week leading up to Easter Sunday. The agenda: find a school and an apartment. If we were lucky, we’d catch some Easter goodness in the city—think tulips blooming at Puerta de Alcalá.

I gave myself one week to get our lives in order. It would be tight.

The idea was to use the week of Semana Santa - everyone’s down time, as our go time. What I miscalculated is that Semana Santa in a Catholic country meant many businesses would close for the holiday.

We quickly realized, instead of a full 5 days, I had Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday. To hit the ground running wasn’t enough. I had to be a roadrunner.

Beep. Beep. Shoooom!

We had 4 schools on our list. One of them kept their offices open until Wednesday.

Yes!

Colegio María Virgen is a couple of blocks from Bernabéu stadium in a treelined section of the city. The Colegio itself sits on top of a hill. The classrooms and playgrounds cascade down to the bustling streets of Chamartín. It feels biblical - walking up that hill every morning, you work for it.

María Virgen is a bilingual school. Half of the classes are taught in English, which means the kids are proficient. My boys could actually talk to their classmates while they learn Spanish. This mattered, especially for Sylas, after an isolating 3 months of a local, French-only school.

It mattered for me too. I hadn’t realized how isolated I felt in France. My world opened up in Madrid. Without the language barrier—I speak Spanish—I was free to connect. All of us felt lighter.

Mom, you seem happier.

Enrique, the director, invited both boys to join the school’s soccer teams for practices and emphasized the opportunity to make friends. The only decision left was whether to continue with our appointments at other schools. Seemed like we should lock in - take the win.

Enrique understood we were in transition. He didn’t ask for a decision, and told us to show up the following week on the first day of school to process paperwork if we decided it was a fit.

They could start immediately. Hallelujah.

I was feeling good. With one major box checked, I had room to pivot and focus on housing.

We landed in north Madrid, a barrio called Tetuán. Our Airbnb was well appointed and cute at first, but within a day, we felt duped.

Sampson slept on the couch downstairs, Sy and I rolled into the queen. A perilous set of metal stairs connected the two floors. The boys were afraid I was going to fall and there was no way Choochoo could make it up on her own.

The kitchen table looked like it might collapse. Legs had twisted themselves out of chairs and been repaired with tape, screws wiggled out of locks on the front door.

And then, a frustrated,

This sucks!

… from the bathroom.

Even the toilet lid wouldn’t stay put.

Starting school from this apartment would be a challenge. We needed to lock in and find our home in Madrid.

Corazón de María in Prosperidad was a last-minute decision. But from the moment I walked through the door it quietly said,

Breathe, mi amor. You made it.

Sunlight reached across the terrace to kiss the walls. It had the third bedroom, I promised Sy. The grassy park next door would make early-morning and late-night walks with Choochoo a luxury instead of a chore. And if the pool opened before we left—a bonus.

On Wednesday, April 1st, our final business day before the holiday, I went to the real estate office to make the wire transfer to secure the apartment.

I was checking that second box.

The Landlord asked for a significant deposit and proof of our plane tickets home to make the deal.

The original listing said, “no dogs.” But Choochoo is small and inspires kindness. I had faith.

By Easter weekend, a few days later, the wire had still not arrived.

Weird.

David, the agent, said another client from the U.S. made a wire transfer the week before and it arrived in less than 48 hours.

But it was Easter. Our only option was to enjoy the festivities in Madrid, endure the suffering in our Airbnb, and wait until after the holiday- truly Semana Santa.

On Monday morning, still no wire. At 3 p.m. Madrid time—9 a.m. Eastern, I called to investigate.

Each representative had a different story.

I texted David.

Sorry, Casey, if we don’t receive the wire, we cannot give you the keys.

What?

When I sat in David’s office and made the transfer, he asked for screenshots as proof to execute the reservation. He gave the impression we were good.

Dad was right—in my hand. I shook my head. I still didn’t have the keys.

I called the bank again. They couldn’t locate the money—it was lost.

The bank representative opened a claim and told me to check my email for the follow up.

Dear Casey Jahn:

Thank you for sharing your concerns with us.

We’ll respond within 10 business days from the date you contacted us.

The claim will take up to 30 days to process.

Concerns? Yes.

My kids and I wouldn’t have a place to sleep.

I didn’t have 30 days or 10 days. I had 2 days.

Back at the Airbnb, a white fitted sheet covered the couch cushions where Sampson slept. He stacked his pillows at one end to make room.

They say stress can be paralyzing. Maybe that’s what this was. Sampson said he loved me. Sylas caressed my head and told me it would be okay.

We’d been in Madrid for one week.

Tuesday morning we headed back to Colegio María Virgen. As much as I felt paralyzed, I also had to execute school enrollment in our new city.

Por favor María, nos ayuda.

This is where my Spanish felt palpable. Administrative tasks are complicated, even without a language barrier. In France, I was blindly climbing a mountain. Here, I could send emails, communicate without running every last sentence through the translator.

It was easier, took less time.

I could see.

With my Spanish in full swing at María Virgen, Enrique and Ana, the Secretary, were able to share more details. Enrique has a daughter at the school. He will go back to teaching in a year or two. He prefers it. Ana has been with María Virgen for 25 years. She’s witnessed generations of families.

We hugged and kissed, said gracias and adiós to our new administrators and headed to the cafe across the street—fresh squeezed orange juice and croissants for pennies compared to what we'd pay back home.

Boys would start tomorrow.

I texted David and assumed the close.

I’d like to pick up the keys today. We have a very busy day tomorrow.

The phone rang.

We cannot hand over the keys until we transfer payment to the owner. We don’t have the money yet, but I’m working on another option. I’ll get back to you.

I sipped my espresso and wrote out the schedule for Wednesday morning. I searched for answers. Thousands of my dollars were lost in the ether. I was starting to feel lost too.

David got back to me. The Landlord agreed to hand over the keys if I pay the deposit and April rent—again. With card.

Why didn’t we do that the first time?

This is great news but it doesn’t land because I’m paying twice, and the original wire is still lost.

I tell myself it’s okay, but my voice isn’t loud enough for me to hear.

The next morning is the boys first day of school. Sampson woke up crying. We went to bed late - again. He’s so tired it hurts.

I know babe. It hurts sometimes. You can do it.

Choochoo and I take our walk. I drink my lemon water. This routine feels like the only thing grounding me. It’s dark outside, clouds are misting. Narrow sidewalks, cement walls, no signs of life. We needed to be somewhere else. No more fitted sheets over couch cushions.

I pull my mind out of the near future and put Choochoo’s poop bag in the trash bin marked “resto.”

It’s raining.

We get out the door for our first day of school. The bus stop is in front of our favorite café - churros dipped in a mug of warm chocolate.

I’m lightyears away from churro-chocolate joy - but the boys are happy and today is exciting.

The bus is 20 minutes late. There was an accident. We won’t arrive in time to look for secondhand uniforms, but the boys don’t care. They are relieved to start in jeans and sweatshirts instead of slacks and collared shirts. We arrive just in time for a teacher to escort them to their new classrooms.

Te quiero.

I know they can do it. They are getting good at this. They aren’t scared, but courageous and calm.

Gracias María.

They smile back. Love you, mom.

I zip up that compartment and grab a Bolt to the real estate office. Time to close this deal.

It’s after 9 a.m. – funds are still in the ether. We will go with plan B.

We review the lease. At the top of page two, in its own separate section, a single line reads:

No dogs of any kind.

Holy shit. Choochoo.

If it were any other clause I would ignore it. But there was no mention of support animals, just the plainly worded text - no dogs.

Me: David, I have a dog.

David: Dogs are not allowed.

Me: I told your partner on the tour.

David: I wish I would have known this yesterday.

Me: She’s 9 lbs and hypoallergenic. She lives in my lap.

David is not mad or judgmental. He’s kind and remorseful. Both of us are trying not to panic. We are going to take care of you, he tells me.

He motions the property manager over. The three of us look at each other.

We all agree.

David: I’m going to call her. I will give her my best, charming self.

I send him pictures. Choochoo can help with the charm. She is our heart and will be the Corazon de María too.

But between the “no dogs allowed” and the lost wire problem, I’m at my max. In 6 hours, I need to pick up the boys. Still, no keys in hand.

The Landlord said she isn’t sure about the dog. They recently made upgrades. She’s one of three owners and she’s got to confer with the others.

I stay calm but realize I’ve gone as far up into the atmosphere as I can without a suit; any further, and I will freeze or suffocate.

David – I need to come back here with all our stuff while we figure this out. Is that okay?

The air is thin and it’s getting harder to breathe.

I shoot the Airbnb Landlord a text. She gives me an extra hour. I’m so glad I didn’t complain.

Two hours later, I lug 4 suitcases, 3 backpacks, 3 bags of groceries, and the dog and her carrier into David’s lobby. Choochoo is going to charm their pants off.

As my new can of olive oil leaks out of the plastic bag and spills onto David’s office floor, we work on solutions.

At 2:30 p.m., 90 minutes before I need to pick up the boys, David’s bank says they found the wire.

The wire came through with no name attached and it’s been sitting - direction unknown.

I check my account.

I have a date and time stamp with all the correct information. Somewhere between me and Madrid, the recipient’s name fell off and that’s exactly what they need to give the money to David so he can pay the Landlord.

Sorry, the bank says, without the recipient information, the funds are frozen.

My bank and David’s confirm it will be days, not hours to solve this problem.

Icicles had formed on my eyebrows and I couldn’t feel my toes. I needed to be pulled back to earth or this was it.

The phone rang.

It was the landlord. They approved the dog — on one condition: a professional cleaning at the end of our stay.

No problem.

And the money had been found. Two problems solved in less than an hour.

We run the card and sign the lease.

He hands me the keys.

I sat down on a bench outside the office and waited for the car. The beautiful apartment with everything we needed — a playground, a park, a pool, three bedrooms, just like I’d promised them — was ours.

Choochoo jumped up next to me and lifted her head to smell the new city. She soaked in the warmth.

Then it hit me.

David said if the bank doesn’t receive the recipient’s name within ten days, they send the money back. If I do nothing — just let it sit — the wire returns on its own. No claim. No 30 days.

Ten days.

Don’t add the name. Let the wire stand.

Life in Madrid was about to begin.

They say it’s one of those “you had to be there” experiences.

On Good Friday, the Puerta del Sol is a valley of people.

But it’s not a mob and no one will be trampled.

It’s the human embodiment of peace. Thousands have come. Thousands are standing in silence. We are holding space for a sacred tradition.

At 10:23 p.m., Diana Navarro steps onto the balcony.

She pauses time.

Her voice and her song slice through the silence, uniting the people. We look up to her. She is an angel singing to the Christ figure - Jesus de Medinaceli -in Madrid on Good Friday.

This is it.

The saeta is a flamenco-style song, a lamento to be sung from balconies to sacred figures as they pass through the streets.

For a first timer, it’s not easy to get right.

Candlelit processions and hooded brotherhoods walk through Madrid at different times. Websites and magazine articles attempt to create a guide map. Just when you’re about to get a front-row seat, a road closure —enforced by armed police—forces you back and you must try again.

It’s a maze, that must be timed just right - especially when young feet get tired easily and youth sized patience turns cranky at the drop of an ice cream.

The center of Madrid is New York - lite. An international city that offers a different kind of sweetness. The sidewalks are ten bodies deep. When the crosswalk says go, it’s hard to see the other side until you get there.

On this night, I envisioned a white tablecloth experience —wine, bubbly water, maybe a breadbasket to start. There were plenty of those.

But we didn’t do that.

Instead, the boys had Taco Bell burritos, and we waited thirty-five minutes for a not-so-great Spanish version of frozen yogurt.

If we were lucky, a paso would pass before us and we’d catch a saeta performed from a balcony.

We were so close. Puerta del Sol was a four-minute walk. The saeta was scheduled in twelve minutes.

But how do we get there?

Police blocked the sidewalk. They brushed me off. I worked through Spanish speakers to get information. We decided to go around.

And we found it.

It was the same plaza in Madrid that we’d watched on television just a few months before with our friends back home on New Year’s Eve. My friend —the host —is a Spanish teacher. Her son is besties with mine. We are lifelong gringo Spanish speakers.

This is our tradition. She records it. We watch the replay on the West Coast. We dream of doing this in Spain.

The clock tower rings twelve times. We eat the twelve grapes, just like the Spaniards do - passed around her living room in little Dixie cups– a world away.

And now we are here.

It was hard to see, but it didn’t matter. Beneath the clock tower, we were having an experience.

The saeta was slated for 9:45 p.m. We waited thirty minutes. The balconies stayed empty. We watched the golden figure of Christ, the tips of candles and pointy hats – just glimpses, just enough.

With tired legs in my care, we found an open table with a white tablecloth at the edge of the plaza to rest before the journey home. We’d been walking for 4 hours.

We sat.

The bubbly water came. The glass of wine came.

And then, as if we knew what we were doing all along, a small figure appeared on the balcony beneath the clock tower.

It was Diana Navarro.

Thousands of people in the plaza – silence.

Then, her voice.

An angel.

I texted my friend back home.

She answered. We are with you.

You really had to be there.

.

My dad has a saying, “In my hand.”

Dad, I got good grades.

Dad, I graduated.

Dad, I got the job.

Dad, I got the apartment.

“That’s great Case, I’ll believe it when it’s in my hand.” Report card. Diploma. Keys.

He is a commercial real estate broker and never counts a deal done until the check is in his hand.

The apartment in Madrid will not be mine until the keys are in my hand.

I have a long way to go.

At 6:29 pm over my caña at the café in front of the apartment, I got an automated response from the agent. Damn. I didn’t know WhatsApp could even do that.

Hello and thank you for contacting ShMadrid. Our working hours are from 9-6 p.m. Monday to Friday. If you have an emergency, please contact the number below.

Well, shoot. It felt like an emergency. I had emailed all our documents just like I said I would. I’d spoken to him only 30 minutes ago - and now this. Automation.

I made my way home. Rode the bus my kids would take if we got it — the 43.

This apartment was going to cost me. The second-place apartment was a little cheaper, not a lot. It wasn’t worth it.

This was the one we wanted. No— needed.

I kept thinking about that golden afternoon light. The agent had said it was better this way- the family could actually enjoy it. Morning sun would be wasted.

I agreed. I love afternoon sun.

He also mentioned they had two more families coming to see it tomorrow. It’s a thing agents say, but it worked. I wasn’t resentful. I was grateful for the extra motivation.

I assumed I’d hear back that night.

Please confirm receipt, I had said.

The bus back to the apartment was full. Women in nice blazers, silk blouses, sunglasses and leather bags.

Ahh. A real city.

I couldn’t wait to show the boys the video I took.

7:00 p.m.

8:00 p.m.

9:00 p.m.

I accept it. I won’t hear back until morning.

I needed this to move quickly. I’d already agreed to sign paperwork for another apartment in the morning. Their accountant was leaving for the holiday but would prepare all the documents to sign. I could sign electronically.

9:42 — Hi David, confirming you received my emails.

10:15 — Yes, thank you. I am reviewing everything and sending your application. I will let you know as soon as we speak with the owner.

10:17 — Sounds good. I would like to move on this today. Your apartment is my first choice. It would be wonderful to spend our days in Madrid there. However, I need to secure housing for me and my kids now. I have another apartment lined up in Prosperidad. They want me to finalize this morning. Please let me know as soon as you can.

10:18 — No worries, we will have all done quickly

In my hand David. In my hand.

11:53 — I have good news! We got the okay from accounting and the owner. I’m going to send the document with the bank information to make the transfer.

11:58 — When do we execute the lease?

12:04 — As soon as you send the payment

12:17 — I would like to have a contract in place before I wire funds. We can add a clause that says, contingent on payment

Then, silence. Omg.

1:29 — Sorry, I am in a meeting. I will contact you shortly.

This is an emergency.

Time to see this guy in person. He had sent me a “reservation.” It was basically an invoice. Were they stalling?

We were only staying a couple of months. Maybe that was working against us and they wanted longer term tenants.

1:34 — Boys, I’m going to the real estate office. I’ll be back.

If I called a car in the next few minutes, I could be at the address on the reservation by 1:51. Businesses close at 2 p.m. for siesta.

Shit.

If I didn’t make it, I’d have to wait until 5pm.

On the way, I text David.

1:49 — Why don’t I meet you at your office and we can figure this out. I can meet you now.

No answer.

At 1:51 I’m in the center of Madrid. I had given the driver the bank address, where they wanted me to transfer the funds.

It was a very tall apartment building. It was not a bank.

I ask the gal next door. She comes out. We look.

We stand in front of the address and agree it is definitely not a bank.

The portero steps out. In Spanish of course.

He explains that it used to be a bank. I’m not the first person to show up. My trail just went from cold to warm.

He gives me directions to its new location around the corner. But I don’t want the bank. I want the agent.

I check the reservation again.

Do you know Calle Ayala?

It’s close. 4 minutes away. If I run, I can make it by 1:59.

I run.

The street is filled with construction. There are no open businesses on this street.

I stop and stand in the sun. I lean against the brick wall of the catholic school on the corner. It’s the entire block.

2:02 — Sorry, I just finished with the meeting. Would you be able to meet around 3:30 at our office.

2:04 — What is the address?

This is the moment where I catch this guy if he is lying.

2:04 — Calle General Pardiñas 78

Was it suddenly raining confetti? Bells? It was Holy Week. A miracle.

Foreign country.

Foreign language – nah, not anymore.

Long way from home — sí.

I check my map.

2:05 —I’m a 5-minute walk from there right now. Do you have a minute at this moment?

2:05 —Yes, I could meet now.

2:06 — En camino.

I could see the elegant blade sign as I approached. Floor to ceiling glass. One store in from the busy corner. Whoever chose this location did a nice job. The build-out was quality. The façade was high-end.

This was a legit real estate company. Not just some guy with a headshot on WhatsApp. Hallelujah.

I walk in. David is sitting at his computer, wearing a suit with pristine leather lace ups.

I’m in full SoCal mode — stylish athleisure —something I don’t do very often in Europe. It was intentional.

Patagonia cap. Navy leggings. White cropped sweatshirt. Sunglasses. Clean white sneakers.

I wanted them to know that I was not from here, that I was also legit.

Message received.

David is lovely.

He is Spanish. He told me about the last 10 years of his life. He lived in Raleigh North Carolina, which is why his English was perfect.

He still has an active license there. He misses it. It’s what happens when you spend that much time in a place. He is also American now.

I loved this guy. I could relate.

My wild goose chase was over. I pulled my laptop out. We made the wire transfer and executed the reservation.

I walked out with a contract carefully inserted into a branded folder with their business card tucked inside.

My friends, we are staying in Madrid.

I didn’t have the keys yet.

But I walked out with an executed contract –

in my hand

.

This Sunday is Easter.

Last night we finished dinner around 11 p.m. The restaurant was full when we left, with new groups waiting to be seated.

We never went out in France. But here, in a small Airbnb in Madrid, cooking is not making the cut. And with all the options of a big city, it just makes sense.

Maybe, it’s the handwriting on the sandwich boards that feels more familiar or possibly the food itself. The fresh vegetables in the Carrefours of France came from Spain.

Something about this city, feels good.

We step out of our restaurant and see a commotion down the street. Blue lights flash. At least 3 trucks block the road. I wonder if it has to do with the parade they will have this weekend for Semana Santa.

The boys resist- not because they are tired – we will stay up until 2 watching a movie. Maybe they picked up more French than we realized- especially the complaining. Either way, we investigate, but the sidewalk is blocked so we double back and head toward the apartment.

It’s time for late-night garbage pick-up. Three guys in bright yellow and white reflective jumpsuits are squeezed into the front seat of a truck. It comes to a stop, the door opens, two of them leap out and run across the street. These men move like street performers - wheeling bins, swinging from handles and jumping off the sides of their truck.

Sy says he thinks his first job should be a garbage man, right before professional soccer player. He’s ready to start now. He says he needs the money. I ask if he’ll come back to Madrid to work?

Why do you hate on San Diego?

What? I don’t. It’s just that I’ve seen the guys in San Diego. They’re not running around at night having fun. They’re older. They start before dawn. One guy pressing buttons. Hardly the Cirque du Soleil performance we’ve seen tonight.

Though the boys say it’s more fun here, they’re still protective of home.

I see them thinking about it, even if we don’t talk about it. I know they crave something familiar. Deep down, Spain reminds us of home. It pulls these feelings out of us and binds the two worlds- familiar and foreign.

We are having an experience.

A friend - a 12-year-old from Montpellier - texted on the morning of April 1^st. He and Sy became fast friends at the going-away sleepover.

He’s older – Sampson’s class, but gravitated toward Sylas and pulled him into the middle school group when they met. Sy loved it. It was wonderful to see him included.

Now-

Sy, I like you a lot, the text says. More than just friends. Do you feel that way too?

Sy’s eyes go wide. “Mom, what do I say?”

Jesus – Is this the risk of hanging out with older kids? I’m not ready.

Sy texts back. No, but we can still be friends.

Sampson pipes up. “He tells all the guys he likes them. “

Christ.

Next text: April Fool’s. haha.

We aren’t so sure.

I can hear it now. “Mom, can we have another sleep over?”

“No”

“Why not?”

Ugh.

My shoulders tense.

The Universe - she nudges me toward Spain.

Messages from home start coming in.

You have good instincts. Vale!

You will choose right. Then, don’t look back.

In the last 48 hours, I saw three apartments. Two of them could work. One of them was phenomenal.

I AM SO EXCITED

The Phenomenal Flat

I hit cancel on Montpellier at 2:58 p.m. and diffused a bomb.

We sat in our apartment, black out curtains drawn and tried to recharge. So much had already happened.

But I will drag myself to the 5 o’clock because that’s what this requires.

Just showing up meant more data, more capable of making my next decision. Good real estate agents always offer valuable information- they have the cliff notes to a town. I could tell by the listing agent’s professional headshot that he cared about his job, so I assumed he would deliver.

I was capital – T, Tired.

I check my app. I’m already over 13,000 steps for the day. Yesterday was 10,800. My daily averages are edging higher.

I don’t have a car.

If I call a car, I can leave at 4:40 instead of 4 p.m. The extra 40 minutes are gold.

Okay. Breathe. I perform with precision under pressure.

Corazón de María, 59. In Europe, like in South America, the numbers often follow the street name.

I arrive precisely at the top of the hour.

La Corazon de Maria welcomes me. The building has a gated entrance and green grass around it. A well-dressed young man, with spiffy jeans, and leather loafers offers to hold the gate. I text the agent and wait.

The building has a portero or doorman, a word I haven’t heard since Buenos Aires.

I lived on the 5^th floor of an apartment in Belgrano, Buenos Aires. It was the same kind of building. On our floor we had two doors. On this floor, we have three. These are flats, not tiny apartments. It’s good city living.

This flat is a 3 bedroom, 2.5 bath over two floors. It is MARVELOUS. Not swanky, not newly modern, but livable. There are two patios, one outside the kitchen, the other outside the bedrooms. I’m a grown woman with children. It’s comfortable, with a natural vibe. This is exactly what I want.

It’s late in the afternoon, golden light floods the apartment. It’s warm and wonderful. I think they schedule these tours at this hour by design. I know I would. When the light is right, it sells every time.

It reminds me of afternoons at our house with Choochoo stretched across the cool kitchen tiles, while Manuela and I laugh and cry and talk of dreams.

I don’t rush. I take a video for the boys. I wish they had come. I walk the apartment. We linger. We talk about what could be. I ask for a discount. (good girl, I think to myself. ) He says to call his partner- the one with the professional photo on the listing. I make a note.

It’s not just the golden light that captures me. The outdoor pool will open soon for summer, the green space will be perfect for boys to kick the ball. An International school is situated across the plaza and a large public playground wraps behind the building - very uncommon amenities in Madrid.

From the living room terrace, I can see the 43 bus stop– the one Director Enrique told us about, the one Maria Virgin students ride to school.

With these amenities, I can invite their classmates and families over for a picnic. Unlike France, I can communicate - make real connections more easily.

I’m struck by something I hadn’t realized before. I am craving connection too.

In our short time left, I will welcome this change. I see our lives coming together in this apartment.

This is a home.

We will spend more time in Madrid than we did in Montpellier.

It feels like I’m still recovering from France. Every day was a performance. As though martial law demanded an unnatural restraint - like effortless happiness wasn’t allowed.

The Spanish culture feels natural. I smile.

I sit at a café a few doors down from the apartment and join the rest of the patrons in a caña – a 6 ounce beer in a small glass- they stay colder this way. The waiter brings me a complimentary tapa - happy hour.

Golden light kisses the sidewalk. My face is warm, cheeks rosy. I people-watch.

This feels relaxed but I’m working.

I need this data to support my decision.

I’m in the eye of the storm.

Tonight is Tuesday. It’s Holy Week in a Catholic country. In 24 hours, commerce will shut down and a wave of Jesucristo will wash over the city. The celebration of Christ’s death is second only to his birth. Most people will take the next 5 days off.

If I don’t rent an apartment in the next 24 hours, it will be a long, stressful weekend of parades and pageantry. Our Airbnb expires too.

My first move is to call the agent. I do it from the table - build rapport, ask for a discount.

I’m not sure I like this guy or trust him - but he’s the gatekeeper.

He answers. I’m pleasantly surprised. He’s delightful. I shake my head at my own skepticism. He says he will make some calls. In less than ten minutes the phone rings. The best he can do is few hundred euro discount, not a lot given the sum.

I want it. Asking was a formality.

I send the paperwork: passports, bank statement, confirmation of our flights home.

I remember that if this doesn’t work, I have a backup.

I’m not desperate. This gives me leverage.

Now, we wait.

In reflecting on what this trip means, I’m surprised.

I said I wanted this for the kids. A global perspective. A second language.

I’ve written it in applications, said it out loud, I want to raise humans who will grow to positively impact the world.

And that’s true.

Selfishly, I wanted to create travel memories that the kids and I can share around the table for the rest of our lives.

But it’s not the whole truth. I was also looking for a way out.

I tried to change in California, but it was easier to leave the country than to rebuild at home.

Maybe I needed this trip more than I knew.

What I didn’t expect is what I’ve found.

Confidence. Self-knowing.

Somewhere in the last 20 years I got lost.

A career that derailed me.

A relationship that repeated unhealthy patterns I thought I’d left behind.

Motherhood – beautiful and bright, but a gift that has me wondering who I am now that it’s part of me.

And just like that, I pay mind to the questions that have simmered quietly for quite some time.

Who am I? And who am I going to be?

My dad saw it first.

“You seem lost” he said. “Maybe you need to walk through the desert for a while.”

At my kitchen table in San Diego, his words felt like another page from the lectern, but here and now… maybe this trip –

This is my walk through the desert.

And then somewhere in France, I realized that I had a shame walk.

I don’t know how it started. But once I felt it, there was no unknowing it.

I tuck myself in when I walk. Shoulders forward, chin down, body small. Invisible. I try to shrink and take up less space.

On this trip, I’ve started undoing it.

When I catch it, I stop. I roll my shoulders, stand taller, arch my back slightly and breathe. With each breath, my body becomes more of itself.

It’s amazing how quickly the mind follows the body. I can see old patterns more clearly. I’ve stopped reaching for other people’s standards and have begun to build my own.

With all the steps, I can explore what a proud walk feels like and move through the world differently.

Now that I’m finding my walk, I wonder how far I can actually go.

The sun dips behind the building. I head to bus stop 43.

I stop at the transit office to ask about metro/bus passes for the kids. Good news - kids ride for free.

I’ve done well.

I’m in Madrid. It’s been 48 hours.

It’s like dad said, it’s usually not as bad as you think it is.

The Hispanoamérica apartment was a pass. At lunch, seniors filled the cafeteria across the street. Men who needed an arm to lean on and colorful old ladies with hats that matched all the way down to their stockings peppered the room. They were cute but not for us.

We headed for home. It was already a big day of tours: 10 a.m. school and 1:30 p.m. apartment.

It was 2:26 p.m..

At 3 p.m., our prepaid rent for May in Montpellier would be non-refundable.

The clock was ticking.

Google Maps said we could be home at 2:51 p.m. if we caught the next bus.

I had 34 minutes to decide if I was going to take a step toward Spain or keep that foot in France.

These moments are when your insides feel like goo - they might explode, if not handled carefully.

We continued to the bus stop outside Bernabéu and waited.

The smell of spring flowers filled the air. I reviewed the last 24 hours.

Yesterday, at this time, we visited our first Madrid apartment. I found an aggregate site - Idealista - and made inquiries leading up to our arrival.

Being intimately familiar with tours, leases, and the real estate process, it was a relief to feel comfortable in an otherwise foreign situation.

The streets of Madrid are so different from Montpellier. Tiny cement squares cover the double-wide sidewalks and give the city a quantitative aesthetic. In Madrid, sidewalks are sidewalks and streets are streets.

Life is what it seems. Smiles are plentiful. Breathing is easy.

An elaborate infrastructure of buses and metros will take you anywhere. Some neighborhoods are friendlier than others -more cafés, families pushing strollers. Others move faster - singles walk briskly and corner stores sell beers during siesta. I like that contrast. It forces me to choose.

Rather, it gives me choices.

The expansiveness of Madrid makes me feel the smallness of Montpellier, where college students made much of my neighborhood.

In Madrid, I found grown-ups. Women with leather bags and high-end sunglasses ride the bus. Elegantly dyed hair and cream silky blouses can be found if you have an eye for detail.

Was this the city I was looking for? I didn’t know, but it felt good, like an arm reached out to greet us.

We walk through a Madrid neighborhood for the first time. I’m tingling. My Spidey senses turn everything to slow motion. We have an appointment, but each step feels deliberately placed into sunshine on the sidewalk. I’m not going somewhere. I’m feeling something.

A street corner with a small plaza has 10 tables. A couple lingers, talking. They lean in, just like the waiters at my cafeteria.

A few people cruise the small blocks up ahead. Sandwich boards stand in front of businesses and give the impression that patrons will soon stop to read them.

It’s 5pm in Spain. People wake from their midday naps. They aren’t late for lunch, but early for the evening hour. It’s disorienting, but exciting. We don’t realize it, but rush hour is coming.

Kamal is dressed in tennis shoes and jeans. He is waiting for us outside.

He moved to Madrid 3 years ago. He did his research. Madrid has endless construction. He found a job in one week.

Kamal told us about the owner of the apartment, a local developer who buys and redevelops apartments. It’s steady work. They have 4 properties in Prosperidad.

I ask him if he speaks Hebrew. He says he’s from Morocco but lived in Ukraine. He likes Spain. He’s here to stay.

We tour the apartment. It’s the corner unit, ground floor, brand new. No one has lived in it. Kamal built it out. When I ask about the Ikea cabinetry. He says he picked it out and installed it, then chuckles, like I’d caught him in a secret. He’s friendly and warm. I’m grateful. His welcome is humanizing.

I comment on the décor. Kamal’s co-worker Miluca chose the colors. The master has a beautiful sage green wall, a gold blanket on the bed makes everything pop.

I like the idea of a ground floor. With Choochoo, it makes sense.

Madrid rent will cost us twice that of Montpellier, but the food is noticeably less expensive. I’m grateful to have saved the rent money in France. Madrid will be worth it.

If I am going to take the boys from their new friends in Montpellier, I need to deliver something good. No suffering. I must manage morale more than ever.

This thought brings a cascade of emotions. I’m taking them from their friends. That’s hard. But meeting American expats was never the objective. I love that they found connections in Montpellier, but I know how fleeting those moments can be, and paradoxically, how those connections can also last a lifetime.

With each thought, I cross reference my past and pull memories that span continents. I silently build a case for Spain.

I am not on autopilot now. I am wildly experienced, curating the details of life with precision, using my lived experience to support one decision or another.

Maybe one day they will understand.

Kamal says that Madrid is two kisses, then offers to take us around Easter weekend. He says he likes us. I tell him Montpellier is 3 kisses and that I must count, or I lose track and say goodbye.

We spot a barber – Peluqueria Paco Tijeras. Time for a fade and a modern mullet. Haircuts in Spain were always the plan.

By the time we are done, it’s 7 p.m. Streets in Spain do sleep, but not right now. We explore on foot. Prosperidad has a good vibe.

We get home after 10:30 p.m., in a place where the world doesn’t start again until 9 a.m. This is normal for us now.

At 10:00 a.m. tomorrow we meet the director of El Colegio Maria Virgin (Virgin Mary School). I don’t have high hopes.

The next day, the Virgin Mary surprises me. Everyone is relieved that I speak Spanish. The molecules in my body- like atoms that you see floating in the light - explode like sparklers on the Fourth of July. They jump out from under the weight of a language that felt so heavy - French. Spanish inspires levity and joy.

This world is easier to navigate. People in Spain smile, they touch your shoulder, they have hope and optimism. It’s not only the language, but the energy. Perhaps this trip has taught me that we are optimists and that’s important.

There are pros and cons that I must consider on this road to Spain. The school does not offer classes to learn Spanish. It’s a Spanish/English bilingual school. They’ve got to know it going in. To make this work, I will need to organize Spanish language classes for them, but I’m ready.

I have a Spanish middle school curriculum from the States.

Enrique, the director, and I discuss options. Perhaps they leave for the second half of the day to study Spanish.

There is a soccer team for both boys after school. The director invited them to join. The kids practice on campus after school. The best part is that it’s with their classmates, a huge edge to integration.

Other cons are uniforms and books. The boys say they want an American school. They want connection. But I know this is not why we came.

At the café after our meeting, I check my notebook. Maria Virgin is one of first round picks. I asked Enrique if many families come from Prosperidad. He explains that students take the 43 bus from there and it’s a popular line with students.

Barnabéu stadium is a few blocks from the school as well. When we find the Real Madrid store after our tour, it frames the Maria Virgin as a positive. How could Maria Virgin not be great, when the campus sits just a couple blocks from the stadium?

Europe is teaching us to pace ourselves, to move slower, take breaks, have snacks, replenish, but certain forces work against us.

By 2:34 p.m. I could feel it again - the decision waiting for me. Do we inch toward Spain or lean back into France? It didn’t make me feel chill or relaxed at all.

The 27 bus approaches. We are 20 minutes from home. My Montpellier decision is pressing.

The boys are ready to post up on their computers. I have another tour at 5 p.m.– two more apartments. I believe we found our apartment on the first try, but know I owe myself the due diligence of these other tours. I acknowledge that perhaps the only takeaway on this second round will be good advice.

I have 29 minutes to step into Spain or leave my foot in France. What is it going to be?

Our Montpellier landlord said she would change the settings on our reservation to make the refund period less than 30 days, give us breathing room. I check. She hasn’t. I think she still lacks trust after what happened.

2:56 p.m. We walk through the door. If anything goes wrong, I’ve just committed thousands toward Montpellier.

I found an apartment and a school in Spain in the first 48 hours. I have more tours lined up. It looks promising.

I have two more appointments tonight. I don’t have to go, but of course, I will. I need perspective.

It’s 2:58. I sit down. I pull up Airbnb.

I hit cancel and take a step toward Spain.

Vamos a ver.

We wake up - late.

Yesterday was daylight savings. I didn’t know.

Saturday was an absolute fiasco. I was at home packing three months of our lives into four suitcases. The boys were rolling into day 2 of their sleepover. At 2:30 p.m. Sampson texts.

Mom

I lost the keys.

Are you mad?

The next 6 hours were spent retracing steps, turning his friend’s house upside down, heading to the mall to see if they could make a copy. No luck. It’s a special key. Landlord must do it.

Of course.

I sit down at his backpack while he goes to the key maker. In less than thirty seconds, I find it.

All that stress for nothing.

The landlord of our Avenue du Professeur Grasset apartment arrived at 8:15 a.m. Sunday morning to check us out. She said she’d be happy to host us in May.

Our train departed from Gare Saint Roche at 9:35 a.m.

Sampson said the 7 hour train ride was exhausting. For me, it was heaven. No dishes, no transport, no stress, just rest.

We made it.

It’s Monday morning and we are in Madrid. I woke at 9 a.m., the kids at 10:30 a.m. It feels like we lost a day, not just an hour. I guess daylight saving caught up with us.

I told the boys before bed that we had an early 10 a.m. appointment. Before I closed my eyes I double checked. It was actually the following day.

Mom, why didn’t you wake us?

It’s tomorrow.

I’m up before they are and have already begun to set the week’s agenda.

Our Airbnb in Madrid is costing me more than an entire month in Montpellier.

The clock is ticking.

We arrived at 6 p.m. I deposited the boys and headed out to investigate Sunday dinner options. A ten minute walk from our house I pass a Taco Bell, McDonalds, Burger King, and Popeye’s. Is this Avenida de los Americas?

We are in the financial district of Madrid.

I keep going until I find a cafeteria. Exactly what I need. A cafeteria is a high-end diner with a full menu of tapas, combination plates and a full bar.

I sit at the counter - a backless stool - and sip some Rioja, the only wine I recognized. I order a mozzarella tomato salad and a warm tapa - cod marinated in red sauce, lots of bones.

The older gentlemen running this cafeteria are seasoned. They tilt their heads sharply, hands behind their backs, and lean in, ready. It’s precise. I can tell this place gets busy.

I’m reminded of the Spanish gentleman and his wife who ran a cafeteria next to my building, a few blocks from the Obelisk, in Buenos Aires. He served perfect espressos with a small shot glass of sparkling water and a cookie. Sometimes I’d order two, just for the cookie and sparkling.

My roommates and I would linger at his corner. In spring, the windows swung open like stable doors, a coffee between the table and the sidewalk. I’ve thought about our Spaniard’s espressos a thousand times since then. Our address was Independencia 941, San Telmo, Buenos Aires.

The cafeteria I find in Madrid has the same energy. They wear maroon vests and slacks and have greying hair. It’s been 30 years. I finally get to see what he was recreating.

I am operating in Spanish now. It feels like coming home. I don’t have to map out each sentence and search for vocabulary. It’s easier. I don’t understand everything. Sometimes I have to ask twice, but we all clarify sometimes, even in our native language.

Habla español?

Manejo bastante bien. I say.

Vale.

I will repeat this exchange with many people over the next week. It’s thrilling.

I do not want to leave. I do not want to go back to France. The mountain I must climb to keep us here is great - school, housing, the kids. I don’t know if it’s possible. I have ten days.

It’s the week of Semana Santa. Schools are closed. I’m squeezing in an appointment with one school tomorrow. Kids are out but the office is open. I can already see my first mistake - my timing could be better.

I have a risky thought. If I can find us a place to live, I will rent it and hope the school falls into place. I’m so glad we made a clean break from France. All of our stuff is with us. Choochoo is too. I’m relieved the dog sitter was busy.

I lay in bed and make inquiries into apartments. While schools are closed, this is the progress I can make. 2 habitaciones. Amueblado. Exterior. Ascensor. Ground level. These are all good signs.

I descend to the kitchen. Coffee, a hard boiled egg. I open the pochette that holds the cheese I bought before we left. A day old baguette in the fridge will do.

The espresso machine fires up. I take a bite. I’m stunned for just a moment. My hand goes to the counter. This must be the best cheese I’ve had our entire time in France. Isn’t that funny. Today we are in Spain.

The phone rings.

Bonjour. A woman’s voice. She tells me in French that Sampson is not in school. I respond in French.

No, he is not.

Is it a doctor’s appointment?

No, he will be gone all week. We had to take a trip. I lack the words to explain any further.

I told the teacher but maybe she didn’t let you know.

Ahh. Okay she says. Thank you. No problem.

We say goodbye.

Another call. The number starts with +34. It’s from Spain. The agents for the apartment listings in Madrid are calling me back.

Hola.

The word itself is an old friend.

Mom, I don’t want to go to school anymore.

We aren’t learning anything.

I’m tired of reading.

I’d rather home school.

What??

Answer: You question everything and commit to change.

We came to France hoping to find many things: euro soccer, music, language. It feels like we struck out.

The international section for non-French speaking elementary school students was full. This means Sylas goes to a French school where the teacher knows little English and operates exclusively in French. The children in his class can say hello, how are you, and spontaneously recite the colors in a rainbow: blue, pink, red, yellow, purple. We learned the girls can also say, I love you.

The pitch: it will be okay for Sylas. He’s younger than his brother. He will absorb the language quickly. We’ve been here before. It doesn’t work.

The reality: he sits at his desk most days and reads English chapter books that we brought from home. His favorite? The My Life As series: As a Cartoonist, a YouTuber, a Billionaire, a Stuntboy, a Gamer, a Joke.

He could probably help write another one: My life as An Allophone in France.

Once a week, when I pick him up for lunch, he says, “Mom, I finished my book!”

When it’s time to go back for the second half of the day, he begs me not to make him.

Mom, I’m tired of reading. I read for 3 hours already today: 120 pages I don’t want 2 more.

I ask Sampson. Are you learning French?

He says he mostly learns French in the beginner classes: about 2 hours a week.

Sampson’s classmate told me that compared to Hong Kong, the school isn’t doing its job in core subjects either. English, of course, is a breeze.

What about math? They both say the same thing: the teacher writes stuff on the board; we copy it down.

Is it panic that I feel? Dread? Maybe a moment of reckoning.

I try not to judge myself too harshly. I tried to create something. It’s not going as planned.

Early on, I gave myself permission to pivot. This is it.

It’s the conversation I have with only myself. No one else is here. My reasons, and solutions, go round and round.

I know what is best for them.

No matter what happens, I didn’t fail.

I’ve got to do something.

I cannot sit idly by. I’m not built for that.

I am the only one who can make the decision as to what we do next, I still take a poll.

The lovely German American woman I met at the expat coffee, who raised two kids of her own in Ohio and then moved to France with her American husband, said, don’t move them. I’d let them finish the year.

My dad says, I’d just ride it out. It’s about making the decision you make work for you.

The American mom of a boy in Sampson’s school, who has lived in just as many places as I have, says, Montpellier isn’t working. She’s moving to a village just outside Paris with her husband.

The Brazilian couple who has been in Montpellier for 3 years with their two kids (who speak French) say Montpellier is too small, flights to the rest of Europe are too complicated. They are also going to Paris, to finish out the school year.

And then, another American mom (and German dad), who has raised her kids across Europe and whose family has German citizenship, says she loves it. They own a beautiful home, a renovated 110 year old wine barrel warehouse. They’ve been here 18 months and are here to stay.

I decide if I am going to make this make sense, it’s time to reframe. What is this trip? Move to France? Or an adventure of growth and exploration across a continent?

What I know and what I don’t know:

What I know is this: we have no soccer, no music, and school is sucking wind.

Sy wants to see his new friends but does not want to go to school.

We are running out of books in his favorite series.

Sampson’s clarinet is collecting dust.

We haven’t found a team. No exercise means no endorphins and low spirits.

We’ve met nice people, but the foundation - school, structure - is cracked.

Maybe this trip, this big adventure is a semester abroad to discover Europe. Peut-être, we spend fifty percent of the time in France et fifty percent of the time in Spain.

We have approximately ninety days left in the school year, and a July flight home to California to regroup for the summer.

It would be exciting to end our first semester on a Spanish note.

Sampson says his Spanish skills, are still stronger than his French. I’m fluent. Sy’s Spanish accent is phenomenal.

But a move to Spain is administratively heavy. I think they call it a logistical nightmare.

It requires two very different sets of skills. First there is the plan. Then, there is the execution.

I get to work.

Barcelona is out. Schools are taught exclusively in Catalan. Learning a new language for 3 months doesn’t make sense for us.

Madrid feels like the best place to learn Spanish.

I’m ready for a big city.

The big three (or four): neighborhoods, schools, housing, soccer. At this point, I’ve given up on music.

I begin.

Video interviews with admissions coordinators, messages with online rentals through property aggregate sites. Bus routes, subway lines, travel times. The triangle: School, soccer, home.

Train tickets across Europe. The dog – pet passport for seamless international travel, negotiations for apartments that say no pets but might allow a little cotton fluff ball who doesn’t shed or bark.

Notify Montpellier landlord, schools, friends.

New suitcases: three of ours were broken.

I just bought Sampson a spring wardrobe. Spanish schools wear uniforms. Boys are already complaining.

I set two appointments for schools in Madrid in one week’s time. I get two yeses from others. We are going.

The backlash.

My landlord is polite, but the trust is gone.

I gave 10 days’ notice on what was supposed to be 3 more months. Then, two emails: the schools who said yes, apologize. They’ve made a mistake. No space until next year. A soccer coach in Montpellier gets back to me. He has space for both boys on his team. They can practice through the end of the season. A clarinet teacher finally texts me back. He can start classes with Sampson immediately in Montpellier.

What??

She filled April in four days. We are already invested in a 10-day trip to Madrid. Non-refundable train tickets. Airbnb is booked.

3 days after I finalize our plans to leave. Two of the 3 things we were hoping for fall into place: soccer and music.

Omg. Why?

Boys get invited to a sleepover for our last weekend in Montpellier. They now have friends.

The boys say, “We don’t want to go.”

I’m cracking. The pressure is so great, it feels like my tectonic plates are shifting and the rock I must be for my children is splitting into two.

I double back. I want to know what’s possible. What if we want to stay in France?

I ask my landlord. She filled April in less than a week. She is no longer open to giving me the sweet direct deal. It’s $700 more per month if we want to come back, but it’s only available in May and June. We will need to fill the gap for April.

I have a lump in my throat. What have I done?

I have incurred significantly more costs. I wish I was more successful, and money was infinite. I’m sleepless.

The plan is set in motion. We have no place to stay in Montpellier. We are thousands into a trip to Madrid. We will go.

At the very least, we are committed to exploring the city. The kids will miss a week or so of school, which doesn’t really matter. Shoot, they could miss the entire month of April and it wouldn’t matter. They aren’t learning anything academically. They’ll only miss the social aspect. I’m okay with that.

Maybe we don’t stay in Madrid this time. Maybe this is just a recon trip to Spain. I am looking forward to the Spanish sunny disposition, a welcomed contrast to the French pout.

My new American friend and business coach says: you aren’t being indecisive. You don’t have enough data to make your decision. Go collect the data. Then you will know.

We leave today. Semana Santa in Madrid.

Bags packed. Choochoo tucked in my coat, the boys watching to see if we know what we are doing.

My dad says, “It’s usually not as bad as you think it is.”

My friend’s mom says, “It only gets worse.”

I say, sometimes you need to leave your current situation to gain perspective on what’s in front of you.

My tectonic plates are settling. I know I can handle the aftershocks.

I’m going to collect the data.

Take it one day at a time.

Then I decide.

Maybe it’s because our path feels uncertain right now, but I find myself fixating on the small things.

This week, I bent over again, like all the way over. I wasn’t tying my shoe or reaching for the floor. I was throwing something in the bin.

My trash can in France is barely shin high and struggles to hold a basketball.

How on earth does this make sense? I’m not even sure the French think it makes sense. Their trash bags are three times the size.

So what gives?

I turned to Google.

Apparently trash collection is changing across France and according to sources on social media, is causing quite a bit of unrest. Black lidded bins that hold standard waste are now smaller because the Mairie (town hall) in some places, wants people to compost as much as possible. Some residents report being given a free 345liter (91gallon) compost bin for free, simply when registering their address.

I can’t say for sure this is why kitchen bins are so très petite, but it has got me wondering.

Bottle caps

Caffeine from my morning espressos has run thin. I pluck a cold soda bottle from the Carrefour fridge on the corner. My system is ready for the bubbles and cold caffeine.

I twist the cap, but it doesn’t come all the way off.

Is it faulty? It hangs by one single plastic thread. It wants to come off, but that last thread is so thick, I can’t get it. I pull hard, Nothing. I risk spilling the contents of my bottle if I try any harder.

I’m so desperate, I ignore the cap. It scratches my nose and rubs the side of my face, but satisfaction distracts me so I hold it to the side with my finger and take a sip.

Part of me is embarrassed.

Why is it that one thick plastic thread on every bottle I drink? Am I losing my mind? Or are they purposely doing this so we don’t lose our caps?

I do, lose a lot of caps.

I ask Google.

Why don’t bottle caps twist all the way off in Europe?

Google says, “Tethering the ‘100% recyclable’ plastic lids to their corresponding bottle necks is expected to prevent them from escaping the recycling stream, becoming litter, or entering landfill. According to research from the European Commission, plastic bottle caps are among the most common items of litter found on coastlines.”

Whew. So, it’s not just me. It’s policy.

Fromage

How long does it take to eat as much cheese as you want?

Is there a moment when you can stop trying cheese like your life in France depends on it? Like every bite defines your success or failure to experience a French way of life?

This week my desire waned. I might be losing my edge.

Cheese is everywhere: fancy market halls, street fairs, supermarkets, and local convenient stores. The Carrefour – our 7-Eleven equivalent– has a dramatic cheese section of Roquefort, Brie, Camembert, Chevre, and 6 or 7 others I cannot remember or pronounce.

I do not know if they are gourmet. Carrefour is not the cheese deli with 40 to 60 different rounds and neatly packaged slices, carefully displayed behind glass like a trophy case of award winning tradition that you find in the cheese hall in the center of town. Yet, it is still a respectable selection for a convenient store.

People arrive to the convenient store fridge and make a thoughtful selection, sometimes a soda or a bag of chips in their other hand.

Cheese is a meal.

Baguettes, still warm, exist in bundles at the front. It’s not lore, the French people’s love for cheese and bread is real.

What’s not everywhere- vegan restaurants. In fact, I have not seen one vegan restaurant in the three months I have been in France.

I asked the cheese man at my local market. His worn apron gave the impression he was some kind of French cheese farmer, spinning cheese wheels in his cheese cave.

I knew someone who became vegan, he said.

He squinted, sucked air through his stained teeth, and drew his hand to his lips.

Yeah. Uh, I don’t know what ‘appened to ‘eem.

And just like that, the memory of the mysterious vegan slipped away, over the cheese case and out the door.

Would you like to try the camembert? It’s very delicious.

As for me, I am a not so aspiring vegan these days, after around 9 pounds gained in 3 months time I finally pumped the brakes on cheese and chocolate croissants - a magnificent 90 days that I will forever cherish, even if I didn’t always feel confident while living them.

My jeans are tighter, my face is dryer – albeit from the espressos. I do not feel as light as I did eating almost exclusively fruits and vegetables in California.

But I wouldn’t change a thing.

Ahh, le fromage. C’est la vie.

Odds and Ends

And then there are things I can’t explain.

Why don’t Airbnb’s have lids for pots? Did you know that sometimes they don’t have handles? If you are lucky, one interchangeable pot handle is provided that clicks between pots at the cook’s discretion.

Appliances are consistently unplugged, electrical chords curled liked snakes around them. You think they are broken, until you figure out they are just unplugged. Again!

The pharmacist said they don’t use ibuprofen because it spreads infection. Why don’t we know about this?

Supermarkets close early on Sunday or they don’t open at all.

Clothes dryers are not as common. Laundry racks occupy space like empty Christmas trees and change like the seasons, wet and dry and wet again.

My clothes are currently hanging on a drying rack in my living room.

At a friend’s house, I noticed their decorated drying rack tucked away in a bedroom.

At my house, she said, oh yes, this one is good – the Ikea drying rack. Very reliable.

French people are drying rack connoisseurs.

I can only imagine what other questions we might have if we stay.

Cars appear to drive on sidewalks. How is this allowed exactly? At first you think they are double wide sidewalks until a car drives down one and everyone moves to the side and single files along a 24 inch wide pedestrian lane that is protected by staggered metal posts. Now I understand.

I’m reminded of my teeny trash can. It is confusing.

But the care for human beings is astonishing.

Everyone is a member of society.

The care drivers show for their fellow pedestrians would shame any California driver.

There are no “share the road signs.”

Crosswalks are everywhere, often a few hundred meters apart. When a human being approaches the crosswalk, all the cars stop. Without question. Without resentment. Humans have the priority.

This theme presents itself in the way the French say hello to one another. An expat woman online described it as the warm feeling of being held by the society in which she lived.

I see it everywhere.

Bonjour and Bonsoir

Choochoo and I were on our late night walk around 11:30 p.m. We hit the musical park on the backside of the music conservatoire. This is our park. At night there are no lights.

A man in a black trench coat was there with his dog too. Through the trees, and bushes, beyond the musical installations of a xylophone and box drums.

Bonsoir! He was 50 meters from me. Through the darkness. It was a man at the other end of the park. He saw me through the trees and the installations and greeted me. Not because he needed something. But because here, people value each other.

The woman serving pastries at the bakery, the convenient store cashier, the supermarket security guard, the man in the obscure light of the park have this in common. Their cultural practices demand it and people proudly embrace it. It’s just their way of life.

Today, I’m grateful for the life France has shown us. It’s slowed us down a little bit, forced us to be a bit less competitive, allowed us to change, to grow, to wonder, to be kinder to one another and more curious about the small things: a greeting in the dark, a stubborn bottle cap, or an oddly sized bin.

Lately, I feel like I’m 50,000 feet up - planning, organizing and trying to figure out what comes next while taking care of these boys.

It’s the small things that remind me of where we are going and who we want to be.

The dishes clang when I pull them from the drying rack and stack them on the shelf. These are the morning bells that anchor this task to my role in our lives.

Last night, my body sank into bed. I couldn’t carry it another moment. Yet, regardless of how I feel in the morning my ritual and my duties remain.

Cleaning, washing, organizing, leading.

I stand in the kitchen. Choochoo looks at me. She waits. Is it going to be a good morning? Will I hide under the bed when people are late, or will we walk to the bakery for croissants before their day begins?

Sampson says his sweatpants are tight around his calves. I tell him he needs more fruit and less Nutella.

I decide today is not a buy croissants kind of morning. It’s a fresh-squeezed orange juice and toast kind of day. We have soccer tryouts later.

I am course correcting our ship.

Je suis seule.

To be the sole parent means you are the team lead for all of the departments: soccer, school, friends, meals, schedules, weekends, emotions and health.

I am the CEO and the janitorial crew and everything in between. The team looks to me for direction, answers and support.

This week, the father of a child in Sylas’ grade died suddenly after drop off. The mother had to tell her children when she picked them up from school.

Outside the gates, the children normally play tag and their mothers chat. This afternoon, Helen, our class mom and a couple of other parents stayed to support this particular mom.

I didn’t know this woman. I don’t know her children. But I know some of what awaits her.

I invited Helen over afterward. She declined. Too many emotions, she said.

Helen’s husband, Clement, saw me on the street after drop off the next morning. He was riding his bicycle to work. I didn’t recognize him in the helmet and yellow vest. He stopped and took off his glasses.

We exchanged the 3 cheek kisses that is customary. Un, deux, trois. I count them out loud in French. Silent air kisses make me nervous so I count to calm myself.

I give him my condolences. He apologizes for his red eyes.

“I’ve been crying too much,” he says. “I’m so sorry.”

This is the French way.

I can’t stop thinking about this mother.

I know what it is to parent alone. Not exactly like she will, but I know the weight each day can bring.

It will get easier. I want to tell her.

You will learn to make the decisions.

You will learn to trust yourself.

You will tire of asking friends, of doubting yourself, of worrying about the right decision, of consulting the network. Worry will be your cross. It will take time, but you will find the balance.

Some days, you will feel especially alone – not lonely, but alone in your responsibility. You carry the joy and the health of your children in your arms.

The clang of the clean plates.

The dampness of wet laundry.

The breakfast you must make.

The dinner you must plan.

These are reminders.

Some days will feel like the first day. Especially, when things don’t fall into place and we must claw them down instead.

Bon courage, maman.

Oui, tu es seule. Mais nous le faisons ensemble.

Last week, Sampson called from the school office at 11am. “Mom, our teacher didn’t come to school today, so they are letting us out early.” My jaw dropped. Perhaps what shocked me most, was that he was surprised too.

The Wednesday before break, he reported, “Mom, we didn’t do anything today. We had two hours of library and then two hours of lunch. Everyone just sat around.” He drew in the library. Not a directed draw like in art class, but a scribbled draw on a piece of scratch paper.

I cannot say for sure what is happening because I’m sourcing my information from a 12 year old middle school boy, who also says he is learning to love French. But one thing is for sure - the rhythm is busting our morale.

Sampson is ready to hit the pedal, but everyone is standing around the car. And what’s worse, he worries he is falling behind his peers back home.

We find ourselves navigating new norms in a foreign language and living inside the French system with questions.

Facts: France operates on one of the shortest school calendars in the developed world — about 38 weeks compared to the global average of roughly 40. Yet its students consistently outperform their American peers in mathematics.

Inside the French School Day

Elementary school runs from 8:30 a.m. to 4:30 p.m. with 2 hours and the option for students to go home or dine in the cantine for lunch. They have Wednesdays off (in middle school Wednesday is half day) and during the week, the elementary children often leave campus on foot for activities around town like theatre, volleyball, swimming and music.

In comparison, our former elementary school in California runs from 8:30 to 3:10, with less time for lunch- 40 minutes. There seem to be pros and cons to each. Apart from a couple of field trips each year, all learning takes place on campus, which means American kids are not necessarily getting their steps in. However, in California, at 4:30 p.m. Sylas was halfway through a 90 minute soccer practice.

The first few days at elementary school pick up in France, Sy said “Mom, I had an awesome day.”

I had never heard that before. In California it was always “good” at best.

But the reports of awesome haven’t lasted. And we’ve been surprised to hear that French people don’t rave about the system either. Their biggest complaint: the day is too long, in part because of the two hour lunch and fragmented schedule.

We are feeling the drain. We are still looking for a soccer team, but are concerned about making practices after the long school days.

Where The Real Education Happens

When I asked Sy this week if he had made friends, he complained it’s hard because nearly half the class does not return to school after lunch.

Helen, the 4^th grade class mom, explained that these children attend a music program at the conservatoire two afternoons a week, where around 70 children walk in a large group from the school to the conservatoire two blocks away. Her daughter, Alice is one of these students.

For the work her daughter misses in class, Helen says they complete it at home as homework.

For locals, these enrichment programs are an invaluable way to complement a French school day that lacks these arts, but for mid-year students, access is not so easy. The programs begin in September and do not allow mid year enrollment. Which means, despite our best efforts to integrate we are still looking in from the outside.

These classes are also very selective. In some cases only thirty kids to a class, so only a very selective group of children can participate, a downside, even for French people.

Our sense of dis-ease inside the French system is not unique to us. Many French parents and policymakers also acknowledge the limitations of the current structure, yet the verdict is still out over whether it is negatively impacting the kids or just an inconvenience for parents. The difference may be that French families have learned how to work around the system, building deep schedules of activities and extracurriculars to create a full range of learning: conservatoires, sports, clubs, private lessons, even if this means missing hours of class each week.

For them it may be manageable, but for newcomers, navigating it feels as complex as the language itself.

We can’t tell if our experience reflects a system that needs change or a cultural shift that requires patience. Bottom line is that we want France to know what it’s doing, and we want to feel like it’s working but the rhythm is unsettling and we are struggling to find our place.

Héloise, a young French woman and English teacher at the local high school said she prefers the American system. She studied abroad during her freshman year of high school and loved the shorter days. In France, she said, the long school day made it difficult to pursue competitive swimming. The American schedule gave her freedom to pursue a life she wanted outside of school.

So, what does this mean?

The structure of the French school day is a subject of national debate.

In 2024, a French citizens’ convention of 133 randomly selected participants examined children’s schedules and called for a thorough overhaul. “How can we better structure the different times in children’s daily lives so that they are more conducive to their learning, development and health?”

Their final report noted that children’s time is too “fragmented” and the system is “unsuited to children’s biological rhythms.”

In November 2025, the Citizens’ Assembly adopted 20 recommendations on the length of school hours and other school reforms. The changes include a 5-day school week and potential for a contracted school day. But the reform is still in early stages and a change in leadership inside the French government along with budgetary constraints necessary for the reforms pose serious obstacles.

President Emmanuel Macron announced that he believes it necessary to organize the school day to be more conducive to pupils’ development and learning. His statement may indicate the French people’s desire for change. Thus far, however, the government has not shown real progress to enact reform.

I asked Helen about the school reform. She held up her fingers. There are three steps in France: think about change, talk about change, implement change. We are only at step 1. Our kids will be in university before anything happens.

The word on the street: Sampson fears he is falling behind in learning, music and the arts. Sylas has yet to find a soccer team that we can manage without missing school. Both of them are ready to go. We’re just not sure how to get off the starting line.

Perhaps the most interesting detail about our perception and France’s desire for reform are the contradictions. France still outperforms the US in mathematics. Both my boys say that they are learning math that they’ve already done. On an OECD PISA assessment for 15–16-year-olds - a global comparison of education systems that measures how well students can apply math knowledge to practical real-world problems - the U.S. ranked 34^th out of 35. France ranked 26th.

We are left wondering. How are French children logging fewer hours in school, surviving the fragmented system and still performing well compared to their American peers? Does the slower pace actually benefit children and their ability to learn? Or is our reaction to this slower pace indicative of something that isn’t working? Either way the onus seems to fall on the parents to make up for what the system is lacking.

My biggest question is for children like mine who move in and out of this system.

Do they also come out ahead?

Or does the French model work only for children who grow up inside it?

It’s a foggy morning in Montpellier. I fight back tears.

I call out to Sampson. Foggy days are my favorite. I say it twice, so he knows. I want him to remember this about me. I love foggy mornings.

It’s 7:30 am. He is getting ready for school. The fog reminds me of mornings just like this with my own mother on Malibu Road.

Waves crashed outside our windows. The cool fog, laced with salt, rolled fresh off the ocean into our living room. Like a slow drip of adrenalin, or sweet dreams, or fairy dust. My senses were called out of bed in the morning, drawn to the mystic powers of the sea. She was so close; we could feel her inside us.

We do not have salty air in Montpellier, not like one does living directly on the sand but we have the dampness and the dings of the tram, my creamy espresso and the warm croissants and baguette, that Choochoo and I pick up at the bakery before the day begins. Here, we have our own smells and dreams that pull us out of bed.

On these mornings, I am acutely aware of how sober I am. I am not afflicted by extreme emotional pain or addiction. I have struggle, but not like hers – the staggering effects of a bottle or two or the 10 cans of light beer that I used to bring to her like medicine. She sat in her chair for hours and called to me.

I am not fighting the effects of those depressants my mother numbed herself with or even addiction. I am not sure how I escaped them. A miracle, I guess.

Every day that I wake up free from the night before I feel as though I’ve achieved something. When I leave my single glass of wine half full, I’m proud. I have triumphed over my past and over her.

Sure, it calls to tempt me. The hands and arms reach for me in the darkness, but, unlike her, I want to live. I want to be present. I want to remember every moment. They have no chance of pulling me in. I am not mothering like she was. I am better.

I’m grateful for the foggy mornings in Montpellier with Sampson.

He’s not overly happy about being here, but he makes the best of it. I’m so proud of him. I tell him he will remember these days - the smell of coffee, freshly baked croissants and the way that warm buttery dough melts in your mouth.

Sampson, I say, it’s time to catch the tram or you’ll be late. The tram bell dings again. I can hear the foghorn at the mouth of the harbor. My mother is calling to me downstairs. It’s time for breakfast.

You will remember these days buddy.

And the good news is, so will I.

In the last few days, a handful of people have reached out to me about our move to France, both friends and people I’ve never met.

To those of you who have reached out and to all the others who are curious, I’d like to speak to the dream that many of you are dreaming.

I don’t have it all figured out. I don’t know if I’m writing these posts to guide and inspire those of you planning a move or if I’m trying to entertain you with my musings of our life abroad and become some kind of international reporter of dreams. Maybe it is both.

I have learned — and this may be the most important lesson so far — that you cannot know what is right or even what is possible until you try it. You can research. You can ask advice. You can search out opinions from people whom you have never met. I did all of that.

It didn’t work.

The change is too dramatic. The variables are too many. The experience is too personal. No one — no friend, no stranger on the internet, no AI tool — can calculate what is right for you and your children.

Only you can know. And the only way to know is to live it. The hardest part is that you will be squeezed between what you imagine and what reality requires.

That is damn near the hardest part.

What helps: move quickly from idea to action. The tighter the gap between idea and action, the more quickly you will learn who you are. And by knowing yourself, you will make the best decisions for you and your family. I think they call this trial and error. I say, do lots of that.

If you want to move to France, or to Spain, or to Italy or to Portugal. Sure, do some research and make a plan, but then, make an appointment, prepare your application, and buy the tickets. If one plan fails, try the back up plan. Do not think about it forever - it is the opposite of procrastination.

Think it. Do it. Go.

What I can say about our move is this:

I wanted a change in my life. I took a risk and a chance on my dream. That’s where this started. Maybe because I’ve done that, I can be a resource to help you follow your dreams as well.

Where to Begin

There is so much to discuss about moving abroad. Why? How? Where? Tolerance for risk and uncertainty, and the ability to act in the face of those things might be the most important qualities you need. Keep that in mind. You’ve got to keep your composure and persevere.

I have a natural tolerance for risk and uncertainty. I am predisposed to success under those circumstances. It’s in my DNA. I am not sure if that is what everyone requires. But if the look on the mothers’ faces at my son’s school tells me anything, it’s this: they are surprised by my courage. I moved to France alone, to a country where I barely speak the language, without knowing a single person, with two children in tow.

I fought for it.

I don’t think of it as courageous, because, as I mentioned, above, it’s sort of built into me. I think, I have an unfair advantage because of my natural ability. Then again, maybe that is all just in my head, and this is the story I tell myself to undermine my own accomplishments. But I will tell you this, in my experience, if you commit, truly commit to your dream, doors will open. Not all of them, and not perfectly, but enough. Think it. Do it. Go.

I can tell you what’s working and what’s not.

Those, who are considering a move, have asked me about school, buying a property, about soccer clubs, about how we like it in general. I would like to answer you. I might add a few topics as well, like the size of the mosquitos in Montpellier or the cost of food at supermarkets in the city – rumored to be 30% higher than at a large supermarket in the suburb, things you wouldn’t necessarily think to ask or consider coming from a car culture life in California, where we don’t have to shlep our groceries on foot, we buy groceries weeks and weeks in advance and we mostly don’t have bugs. Ask yourself, what if you had to do all your grocery shopping at a glorified 7-11 in town? And walk there. Yes. It’s more work, and more expensive and changes the economics, especially when you are buying food for two hungry boys and not just eating girl dinners of olives, cheese and cucumbers.

The important stuff, to my mind, starts with the kids. Their happiness and success weigh on me the most. And I can tell you right now, I don’t know yet if we chose perfectly. I only know that we chose.

Maybe that’s the decision

.

High to Low

Every 6 or 7 weeks, depending on the season, kids are out of school for 2 weeks in France. You might call them “term breaks.” Because, who doesn’t want some downtime?

We just wrapped our first week of winter break. Sampson says, mom, I don’t want anymore vacation.

Before we left California, Sylas was bragging to all his friends that he would have 2-hour lunches and Wednesdays off. Now he is not so sure either.

School ended in CA in December. We landed in France on January 3^rd and didn’t know what city or region we would live in. In exactly 6 weeks and literally a tour de France, north to south, east to west later, we had found a city, an apartment, and worked through school enrollment.

Not to mention, lost our passports, got an Avis de Contravention, a traffic ticket for using my phone while driving, (Of course I was using my phone. I had no idea where I was going. I’m surprised I only got the one), a parking ticket in Spain, navigated a police report in Bordeaux among other French adventures.

And when we finally found our city, I sat in the principal’s office of Sampson’s middle school, speaking through an English teacher to the principal and her assistant, practically in tears when they told me it could be weeks before he would start. These compassionate women took pity on me and expedited us.

Boys were slated to start school and then, after 6 weeks of healthy travel, as if their little immune systems held on as long as they could, both promptly got fevers and missed their 1^st week of school along with soccer try outs, music auditions, and a play date that I’d set up during that time. Truly, one step forward, two steps back. Momma really wants to catch a break.

To date, their total number of days in school is dismally low. It is now March.

It’s isolating. More time off means late night video game marathons with friends back home who are 9 hours behind, whilst we are marathoning through the night wishing we were in a different time zone. We just can’t seem to get that other foot out of California.

I am doing my best. The late nights might not be the best parenting decision, but as a mother, when your children are begging for socialization and tired of fighting with each other, and we find ourselves at home staring at our white walls, with one child asking me to play Minecraft with him, wishing we were not on “school vacation,” that we had friends, spoke the language and had our extracurricular to uphold the structure in our lives, well, it requires these desperate allowances.

The bright side: the week wasn’t all bad. We had a special guest in town, their father. The boys always enjoy seeing him.

Low to High

Morale can quickly change.

Just as the grey of winter brings spring flowers, so has the second week of break brought a fuller social calendar.

Helen the 4^th grade class mom has invited us to go ice skating with her and her daughter, where we could also indulge in her perfect English. I met a lovely schoolteacher and single mother from South Africa, who has been here for 5 years and whose son is an accomplished violin player at the conservatoire, and who I plan to meet for coffee to chat and introduce the children. Their instant love for Choochoo, my social secret weapon, brought us together. And 82 year old Tom and his wife Gwen, who run the expat group, invited me to coffee and informed me of the Thursday evening meet-up at Cafe Del Mar. Gratitude to Tom and Gwen. I have mostly steered clear of Americans on my travels, until now. We have so many of them at home, but here in France with kids, I’m a changed woman. I’m open.

As for English-speaking Expats: Canadians, Irish, Brits, who make up the bulk of the other English speakers, those connections have often provided a nice reprieve from an otherwise foreign existence. Outsiders helping outsiders, especially in the beginning.

So, when Sampson tearfully said, Mom, I need some English-speaking friends, I reached out to Slim, owner at LeBoeuf Restaurant and he made good on his promise to connect us with the expat meet up group.

It’s different traveling with kids.

In addition to our social calendar growing, the list of extra curricular is also filling in. Sampson tried out and was accepted into the wind ensemble at the conservatoire across the street. The Director notified us on Monday. Progress.

Feelings are a mix of highs and lows. For now, we are hopeful.

And that is our week ahead. Bonne chance et bonne journée, mes amis!

I hoped we lost our passports for a reason. I needed to believe. Because if this was not guided—if it was random—then it felt like betrayal. Like the universe was not watching over us after all. And if she is not watching…

Who was I going to believe in?

Sans Papiers

Sylas and I cannot leave the country. We are without documents.

Passport services in France are by appointment only. The competition for an appointment is stiff. To snag one requires diligence, repetition and luck. After weeks of refreshing the page, minute by minute, hoping that an appointment would remove its invisible cloak, I emailed the consulate for guidance.

Maureen, the woman on the other end of the “info@” email, shared the next new appointment window. For 3 hours, I clicked and refreshed. Et voila. I was grateful.

The U.S. consulates in France facilitate two kinds of passports: emergency and standard. Emergency passports are issued within 24 hours, but France does not recognize them. They are essentially a one-way pass out of the country. In order to regain our freedom, we needed standard passports—the real ones, like the ones we lost.

The Consulate

Tucked between two very large buildings is the consulate entrance in Marseille. On Monday morning Sylas and I arrived for our appointment. The gates were not open. The ropes and “visitors, right this way,” sign were still inside the kiosk. Only the American flag, gently blowing over the wrought-iron gate, greeted us.

Seeing it, in the heart of this foreign city, where everything is French and new and different, comforted me.

I have never been to a U.S. foreign consulate. I do not know if this one in France is typical. The security guards were friendly. They lacked the serious, institutional edge that we have come to expect from U.S. law enforcement. Here in France they fit perfectly beneath the flag.

At 9:30am employees sifted past us into work while we waited. I tried to observe whether these were French or Americans. Their attire, their cadence. They seemed to be French people with perfect American English. I admired them.

Security Guard: Avez-vous un rendez-vous?

Me: Oui. À neuf heures trente.

Him: (A river of French words.)

I shook my head.

Him: (in English) We open in 10 minutes, at 9:30.

Me: I think you mean in 4 minutes. It’s 9:26. I held up my iPhone.

He looked at me like I snitched on someone. I think he shook his head.

Me: Merci. (I say with a heavy American r).

With this one word and consonant, I define my level of Frenchness.

Pronounced mayer-see, I signal that I am absolutely American. It says, if my excellent French accent gave the wrong impression, initially, let us start over. I am going to need your patience and assistance today. We do not want to be late to our appointment.

Merrrci. I smiled. A big, overly friendly, American smile. He understood.

4 more groups of people queued behind us. We were first inside.

Standing in line at the consulate window was like queuing for ferry tickets. People waited single file behind one another. A small 8-inch shelf extended from the thick bulletproof glass. A round speaker carried our voices to the other side.

There is no privacy and no space to put our documents. People are dropping belongings. A jacket falls. A dozen passport photos slide out of a woman’s file and glide across the floor; a pen, papers fall off the inadequate shelf and must be re-gathered. People exchange glances.

Odd, isn’t it? This isn’t more private.

A woman commented, that there used to be 4 or 5 desks, where applicants could sit in chairs, and carefully submit their applications.

Today we were buying ferry tickets.

To Sylas and me, it didn’t matter. Everything about this day was special. We were on a passport date in Marseille.

Big City Energy

I can instantly feel the difference.

We climb the subway steps to the wide open plaza. Football fields of boats gently rock. A feast of restaurants and bars surround them. At one end, ocean, at the other, the heart of Marseille.

Marseille is not a college town like Montpellier; it is a global destination and late afternoon on a Sunday, the harbor is alive.

In the vibrancy of the city, I feel part of something bigger than myself. I begin to fill. With each step, I am lighter. I have been moving through life like a wilted balloon, dragging my shiny ribbon, and barely staying aloft, longing for a gust of wind to carry me away.

The plaza is a dream. My desperation shrinks. The energy, the grit, the unrelenting noise, exhaust, lights, commotion, the city’s chaos, and I’m flying.

I want to see so many people that I cannot process them all.

Overload me.

Then, my insides quietly fall. I take Sy’s hand. Had we made all of these changes, only to narrowly miss an opportunity to live in a place that makes me feel this alive?

People vehemently called Marseille dirty, unsafe and filled with crime. Not the kind of environment a mother seeks. But I did not see evidence of those elements now. All I could see was the Paris of the south.

Now, with each breath, I swallow a petit morceau de regret. I cannot decide if I am disappointed or overjoyed. My awakening, in the plaza, feels like hope - and also like loss. I fill my chest with air. Diaphragm. Lungs. One breath at a time.

I reassure myself. It’s okay, I say. Montpellier has given us what we need. A smaller city can be kind. Children need kindness. My shoulders relax a little. I wish someone would lean in and tell me I am doing okay. So much rides on my every move, and I feel like a child myself sometimes.

I return to the moment. I squeeze Sy’s hand.

Tonight is not the time for worry or regret. I am on a date with my boy and we are in France. Ohh lala.

Candy!

He points to a man with a candy cart steps from the water. We redirect. Sy says the harbor water is so nearly at street level, he could pull himself out, like it’s the edge of a swimming pool. The candy necklace is 1 Euro. It tastes like smarties and sweet tarts.

We spot our hotel.

I wrote in the comments section of our online reservation that this was a special occasion with my 10-year-old. Sebastian, the concierge, greeted us in perfect English. Welcome to The Bellevue. We read your note. We moved you out of the attic room and into a premier room with a big window and beautiful view of the harbor. Here are your keys.

Merciii, Sebastian!

He lent us a charging cord, printed a couple of forgotten documents for our consular appointment. Concierge was his job; he was generous and kind too. The French have surprised us at every turn.

Room 23

Twilight casts soft light across the bed; seagulls chatted over boats in the harbor. Music from a street quartet floated up and in through our opened window. Sy took a beat and rested in the room, biting candies from his necklace. I descended for a little cinq à sept.

He’s becoming such a big boy. This trip was to celebrate him; the passport appointment was just an excuse.

Aperol Spritz, pineapple pizza (Sy’s favorite), panisse, and two cups of mango sorbet ushered us from one magasin to the next. We closed our night watching people from our bedroom window with the hotel binoculars we found discreetly hanging on the windowsill.

Mais Oui. Binoculars!

Before bed, we shared our favorite moments of the day. Sy’s was the train and the candy necklace. Mine was our ascension into the heart of Marseille.

Maybe, what felt like a mistake was redirection. Perhaps, sometimes, we must lose something to find ourselves.