No Te Preocupe

If I had a nickel for every time someone has said, No te preocupe, I’d be living large. This ubiquitous phrase loosely translates to “Don’t worry about it”. But I do worry. I worry because I understand about 60% of anything anyone says to me. What if the essence, the critically important stuff is contained in the other 40%?

I am told we need the empadronamiento paperwork to send the kids to school. When I fill it out, she sends me off with "no te preocupe". Does this mean they will approve? Deny? Or it doesn’t matter? I worry that maybe someday they may say, your kids can’t stay in school without it.   

I worry because sometimes it does matter. When we buy the wrong notebooks and drawing pad for school, JT’s teacher decides the whole class can’t have art because the paper he has is missing a narrow margin around the outside. Really…what a great way to endear a child to his new class!

I worry because when we go to the bank to get a new cash card for the bank account we opened 10 years ago, they won't give us one because Tom’s new passport has a different number than his old passport.

I worry that the kids Spanish isn’t good enough for them to make friends. Today, Zoe, as an "extranjero", was assessed to see if she warrants a tutor. I worry that the local accent is too strong for them.

I worry because the swim team people seem so nice, but then tell us can’t watch practice to see if it’s a fit. And practice is from 8-10pm and we have to take a city bus to get there.

Deep down, I know it’ll all work out, but sometimes I just can't help worrying.

Our Granada Digs

When your husband turns to you and says “did you ask if she had another place available?” immediately after the rental agent leaves, it’s a clear sign that he does not like the place you’ve rented... For three months… For a small fortune. Gulp!

Malaga ruined us. While there, we rented a charming, albeit tiny 2-room flat a stone’s throw from the beach through Homeaway (VRBO). The location was prime: just a few steps from the newly renovated port, 10 minutes from the city center, tapas bars and restaurants. As a corner unit, the narrow deck wrapped 2 sides on the 9^th floor, with a view to the ocean (when leaning out) or to the port. At night the sound of crashing waves drifted through the apartment. Since it was so high, ocean breezes blew through continuously. Fully-renovated in January, the place practically gleamed, everything was so new.

Our Granada apartment, advertised as Jolie Granada (which is supposed to appeal to the British as we’ve seen no French tourists) is a bit smaller than our main floor in Incline Village and much larger than the Malaga apartment. The main part consists of a “great room” kitchen/dining/living area and 2 bedrooms, each just large enough for 2 singles and a double. The closets are spacious with built-in dressers. Unfortunately, it’s on the ground floor, which means it’s noisy, and the street is a busy throughway for Alhambra buses. The view is limited to the shuttered windows of the retired nun’s home across the street. The décor is IKEA, which I generally like, but the color scheme tends to bland natural woods, which I don't. On the bright side, the sun shines in afternoon and we’ve a small private patio with 2 large storage closets. JT has made this his spot for practicing headers. I describe it as perfectly adequate; Tom would likely use less flattering language. The most important aspect: location, location, location…it’s just a 3-minute walk from the kid’s school, and about 10 minutes from my school. The neighborhood has many bakeries, grocery stores, restaurants and even 2 bike shops.  It's not perfect, but it'll work. 

School Starts

The verdict on day 1: better than expected. Last night we had a lot jitters, butterflies and requests to homeschool. In the morning, it grew worse: can we skip today? I don’t want to go!  Why do we have to do this? As we all walked together, we fell into step with the hordes of other families making their way to school.  At the schoolyard, the scene was chaotic: tons of parents and kids greeting each other, loose lines by grade. Our kids were plainly terrified, make that practically catatonic with fear. Then it got a little better. The lady from the Bucknell exchange program who’d helped me via email, introduced herself, then an American man who’s been here for 6 years with a girl in JT’s class, and a British woman.  (Like the kids, we too stood out like sore thumbs). Knowing that some kids spoke English made it seem a little better. Then a boy who JT had met while playing soccer over the weekend, came up to shake his hand and point him to the right line.

The kids went in first, followed by all the parents. Everyone piled into the tiny “auditorium” to hear the principal give a speech stressing the importance of punctuality (which is basically ignored, after all, when your kids go to bed at 11, how do you get them to school on-time??!!). The rest was lost in the acoustics and hall noise. All the while, JT was giving Dad the “what have you gotten me into glare” Then the kids went to their classes and we left.

We worried aloud about what state they’d be in when we went to pick them up. Are we doing the right thing? Are they going to make friends? Will they be teased? Notice how only adults say “what an awesome trip!”  At 2pm, JT came bounding out with a huge smile and seemed very animated about his day. I think he was just happy it was over. Zoe seemed more subdued. They’d survived and were understandably proud of themselves. We were sure proud of them.  

R&R in Malaga

In my mind’s eye Malaga resembles Naples: a city with a rich history and culture, but a bit worn around the edges and past its prime. Happily, I am mistaken. It has a rich history and culture, yet is clean and safe. The town realizes that tourism is its lifeblood and invests heavily to ensure those areas are well-maintained, patrolled, and brightly lit. The fallout from the economic crisis is visible in subtle ways: that gorgeous sparkling airport that opened in 2010 is not air-conditioned. The tourist corridors are pristine, but off the beaten path shuttered buildings and deteriorating infrastructure are more apparent.

Our strategy to ease the children into Spain seems to be working. Initially, we planned to travel directly to Granada after arriving in Spain so that the children could acclimate to their temporary home. Later, we decided that it would be silly to pass on a few days at the beach during the heat of summer, especially since Malaga is “Spain light”. With so many British and German tourists, English is generally spoken in restaurants. Still, the kids use their Spanish for those transactions most dear to them: namely ordering ice cream, cheese and bread. Otherwise, they’ve both been clams. While I do the heavy lifting of dealing with information, taxis and bus tickets, Zoe stands at the ready to supply a word or correct my mistakes.

Call it jet lag, or call it inertia, but we have fully embraced Spain's crazy late schedule. Restaurants open at 8pm for dinner and it’s a leisurely affair.  The way we explain it to the kids: in Spain it’s not dinner and a movie…it’s dinner OR a movie. On a weeknight, a single waiter might serve 8 tables, so no matter what we order, a couple of hours just flashes by. After dinner it’s the obligatory search for the best ice cream and before we know it, the kids are staying up til 11pm each night and sleeping in until 10 each morning.

I had moments when I worried about what JT would find to eat, as he has grown increasingly picky over time, but he has managed quite well. His reaction to gazpacho: yum!..it’s ground up salsa. The boy who won’t eat potatoes in any form: falls in love with patatas bravas (fried diced potatoes with a spicy red sauce). At home, a sandwich isn’t a sandwich without Nutella. Here, JT regularly demolishes his own invention known as the “sandwich of paradise”: an open faced version consisting of bread dipped in olive oil and layered with a hard sheep’s cheese (oveja curado), and salami or turkey. And of course we all love the ice cream.

My only complaint: Malaga is full of tiny dogs. While I am personally not a fan of the toy variety of dog, I don’t begrudge others their choice of pets. At home, I think: coyote food. But the city, and our apartment building in particular, is full of elderly women who take the dog to the nearest post (right in front of the building) to do their business. It reeks like urinal and the cleansing fall rains are a couple of months off.

After 5 relaxing days in Malaga, filled with little more than building sand castles, swimming in the Med (cold, but not by Tahoe standards and murky by Tahoe standards), and the search for the perfect ice cream, Tom and I realize it’s time to focus on reality. School starts in a few days and while we've enjoyed this past week, it’s time to transition the kids to a school schedule. On Wednesday, a week after our arrival in Europe, we board the bus to Granada (a much more pleasant experience than Ryan Air on numerous levels) to start a new chapter.   

London Daze

Flying to Europe from the west coast is never comfortable in cattle class, so basically the flight met our expectations.  Before our journey, we’d read up on the latest theories about how to minimize jetlag. One measure advised adopting the eating schedule of the country to which you are flying. For us, this translated into no food after 2pm PDT or 10pm London time. Normally, this would have presented a challenge.

However, we neglected to read the fine print of our itinerary and learned upon boarding that Icelandair offers only food for purchase. There we were in Seattle airport...a foodie’s paradise with Ivars, and numerous gourmet options and we boarded our flight empty handed. Fortunately, children were exempt from the food blackout.  Zoe was committed to staying awake the entire flight, as evidenced fact enhanced by her drink of choice: caffeinated tea. I think she was waiting for me to fall asleep so she could tune into the Hunger Games. JT and I wisely had no such qualms and slept as much as we could.

Icelandair, on the positive end, moved our seats from their original spot at rear of the plane to the front, thus making us near first in line to clear passport control in London. The U.K. agents make US passport control look like teddy bears, they don’t crack a smile or exude an ounce of warm.  Fortunately, the process was far more efficient than I remember, maybe it was the computerization, but we were out in less than 15 minutes, and given our level of exhaustion, it was awesome. After short naps, we walked around Piccadilly Circus and took the kids to our favorite bookstore, Waterstones.

Armed with rain jackets and hotel umbrellas, we were prepared to face the worst London could throw at us. Fortunately, we faced nothing more severe than scattered showers and even saw the sun on our last day. With only 56-hours at our disposal, we planned to cram more into our stay than in all of our previous visits. This ambitious plan might have exploded in our given the time change and jet lag, but our time in London was largely a success. To start, we borrowed a page from the Tomeo family playbook and let each family member choose one activity. JT chose the London Eye (the giant Ferris wheel), Tom: Indian food, Zoe: Kensington Palace and Naomi: the Tower of London. Since many of these places were covered by the London Pass, we sprung for those and subsequently enjoyed a ride on the Thames, a tour of the Tower Bridge (the picturesque bridge that we thought was the London bridge), and The London Bridge experience (the actual London bridge).

Despite having seen many fascinating historical sites, the crown jewels and a palace, the London Bridge Experience was hands down the kid’s favorite. It’s basically a haunted house with some historical skits thrown in.  Our kids have never really been to a haunted house, so this proved to be the most memorable experience. With narrow passages, scary tableaus and bloodied people leaping out from every corner, my ears hurt for some time afterwards as Zoe screamed directly into them for several minutes solid at the end of the tour.

The Indian restaurant was amusing for different reasons. Tom chose a restaurant recommended by his London-based friend, who clearly placed food over family-friendly when making his suggestions. The restaurant lay just around the corner from Parliament and seemed to cater to a well-heeled clientele based on the elegant wood paneling, white table cloths and lack of kids menu. This was not your garden variety Indian food of shared curries and chicken tikka masala, but amazing Nuevo fusion Indian food. We endured several tense moments with Tom quite literally sweating it out while we debated how to surreptitiously bolt before ordering. With our completely exhausted children teetering uncertainly on the edge of collapse, we negotiated dishes they could live with and they rallied to actually enjoy the meal.  (although Zoe eschewed the native cuisine in lieu of basic Scottish rump roast).

Ryan Air, most noted for its rock bottom fares and on-time arrival percentage, was the low cost carrier we selected for our flight to Malaga. This portion of the trip was without question, the most stressful. This flight was responsible for my combing through every luggage retailer in Reno and Carson, tape measure in hand, in search of the elusive 20cm x 40 cm x 55 cm carry-on bag. Seriously, a cottage industry of youtube videos and products have sprung up around people trying to get as much luggage as possible onto Ryan Air flights. They have the box. And they use it.

We breezed through checking our luggage (just a hair under the 20 kg limit each), and snuck each carry-on out of the line of sight into the box and determined that one piece was a clear no pass. Upon boarding the lines were immense, and every 5 steps bold signs warned 1 carryon only IF IT FITS.  (seriously women are not allowed a purse separate from their luggage). Just as we a couple people back from boarding, an attendant pulled an elderly gentleman over to grill him about his luggage. It didn’t fit in the box and given the 35 pound per bag checked baggage fee (a whopping $55), he was naturally fighting it. I used this distraction to angle my overloaded backpack out of view and successfully snuck out the door. Ryan air is like riding a bus. Actually based on the tourist bus, it’s a step below riding a bus. The seats are tiny, advertising is pasted to the overhead bins and they pitch lottery tickets on the loudspeaker. Later, I read in the Malaga local paper that 3 Ryan flights in a single day had been forced to make emergency landing for running too low on fuel after being delayed en-route for weather.  Hmmm, I guess cut rate fares have a price.

All in all we love London. I could live here if only it weren't so bloody expensive. The prices would be reasonable if the pound and dollar were at parity, but far from it. Factoring in the exchange rate, and suddenly we are pouring money down the drain. Its been lovely, but a couple days feels just right.