​
​When I walked, 34 weeks pregnant and shivering in my paper gown, into the operating room for an emergency c-section to save our unborn Little Angel, I was extremely surprised to hear an enthusiastic Irish jig playing in the background!

This was June 2009.  At age 33, I'd watched characters head into surgery in a gazillion TV shows and movies.  Typically they were wheeled into the O.R. on gurneys, rather than walking in on their own two feet.  So walking in was my first surprise... but even more eyebrow-raising to me was this music!  Not once had I ever heard of a surgical crew listening to music.  (Obviously, I'd never asked!)

Operating rooms in television tend to be silent and tense, with only the sounds of machines whirring or beeping and the patient's heartbeat.  There are often grim-faced doctors in scrubs saying serious things to their operating team like, "Pass me the smaller scalpel please."  Yikes! 

Yet in this brightly lit surgery room, spirited music was playing and the surgeon and his nursing staff were joking around with the anesthesiologist while they laid out and checked the sterile operating tools.  They all seemed completely relaxed, as though they were casually getting ready to go out for drinks together.

​(Maybe they were!  My c-section took place at 2pm.  Happy Hour at 4?)  
​
I must have looked as surprised as I felt, because before they began the surgery my world-class perinatologist/surgeon explained, "You'll know everything is going well today as long as we're joking around." 

Aha.

Luckily for me (and for our sweet Little Angel, born about two minutes after surgery officially began - and promptly whisked off to the NICU!) the physicians and nurses in the O.R. that day talked baseball.  They discussed the San Diego Padres throughout my short surgery and also while my amazing perinatologist stitched me up. Thanks to the spinal block I'd felt a vague tugging and pulling but no pain... stayed awake the whole time... and faster than I could ever have imagined possible they were wheeling me out to the recovery ward!

I learned something that day about professionals working in high-stress situations.

​A light-hearted, jovial atmosphere among experts doing their job means that things are probably going to be okay.


Fast forward!

Yesterday, 11am.  Nearly seven-and-half years later.

Our family of five (including beloved Little Angel) is standing inside a sterile room at the police headquarters of a small town outside of Barcelona, Spain.  The door behind us is open and waiting in line are a married couple and two other people.  One of these people, a woman who appears somewhere near my age, wears a very elegant Hijab and kaftan. She is standing alone and her expression is somewhat unreadable, but when I look closely at her eyes I sense worry.  

I wonder where she is from.  I wonder if she has seen us holding our American passports, and if so, what she thinks about America.  I wonder if she is here today for the same reason that we are.  I wonder if she needs assistance.  Under other circumstances, I would speak to her and perhaps make a friend.

Usually in life I am the helper, the teacher.

Today though, I need help too.

Our family is waiting together with baited breath to see if the clerk in charge of registering us for the year-long Spanish residency card is going to accept the children and me, even though we have accidentally overstayed the 30 day registration deadline given to us by the Spanish consulate. Technically, we may now be a little bit illegal?!?  It's a gray area... we're not entirely sure.  We fall somewhere on the spectrum between 'completely legal' and 'sort-of not'.

The children are wearing their school uniforms, with (fairly) neatly brushed hair and grubby Pokemon cards clasped in their hands. ​ They are trying to play quietly, although it's hard to stay quiet when you are nervous and excited.

​I have chosen a blouse and a long skirt for the appointment; not knowing what to expect, I've decided to simply try to look respectful.  There has been no time for makeup today, I've been too busy filling out forms all morning.

​Señor Aventura is dashing as always, and he has already begun to chat up the government clerk sitting in front of us in his warm, genuine way.  My husband has rarely known a stranger in his life, as he makes friends easily with just about everyone he meets. ​ It's a gift!

  
I am now standing off to the side a bit, camera in hand.  I am so relieved that Señor Aventura has taken over the conversation... I tried to talk to this clerk while my husband was parking the car and it was difficult!  Unlike the salespeople and school representatives who have been so patient with my growing ability in Spanish, this guy immediately pummeled me with questions in rapid-fire and I found myself racing to keep up, stumbling over my verbs as I tried to answer.

Now that my husband is here though, the tenor of the meeting has changed.  It is calmer, and the government clerk is nodding and even smiling a bit.  

"So you entered the country on the 3rd of August?" he asks my husband in Spanish.  
"Yes, but I am already registered.  I have completed the full process.  For my wife and children it was more difficult, more complicated.  The online signup was tricky, the signup website didn't always work."
"I see, okay... okay. But this other child - his passport says he has arrived on the 27th of July?" he frowns and looks up at my husband again.
"Yes, you see we flew in separately.  I took one child; my wife brought the other two."
"I see.  You did not fly here together as a family."  He frowns slightly. 
"Exactly."
"And you arrived in Barcelona on different days?"
​"Yes."
"Will you be working here?"
"No... we are not allowed to work here according to the terms of our visa."
"And what is your work in the United States?"

Their conversation continues. The clerk studies our passports and papers carefully, and my teeth clench a little in my mouth.  What will he say?

Then comes our big moment... the moment of truth.  He looks up at my husband and speaks in very precise Spanish.

"You have seen the show, "Making a Murderer?"
"What?" responds my husband, confused.
"You have watched, 'Making a Murderer' on Netflix?"
"No," says Señor Aventura with a growing smile, "But I have heard from many friends about that show!  It sounds really great.  I love those original series!  I am enjoying another really fantastic show right now, also very well done, called 'Narcos.'" 
​
The man's face lights up in recognition.  "Sí!  I have seen this show and I agree with you.  'Narcos' is an excellent program!  The acting is impressive - very realistic.  I really like these Netflix series."  

Señor Aventura and the clerk begin to chat together amiably in Spanish about the merits of these two shows (and others, like 'Breaking Bad').  Their conversation strikes me as almost surreal... and then I realize what has just happened.

Suddenly, I know everything will be okay.  
Our residency cards will be approved, and we will stay in Spain for at least a year.  

When the serious government clerk in charge of immigration at the police station chats in a relaxed fashion with your husband about original Netflix programming; laughing and discussing the personalities of different characters as he carefully processes your paperwork and expertly takes your fingerprints, it's not terribly different from going through surgery with a team of perinatology specialists listening to lively Irish folk music while talking about baseball.

"As long as we're joking around, you'll know that everything is fine."

My stomach unclenches and all of the non-permanent wrinkles in my forehead smooth out.  I feel elated and exhausted all at once.  "I'm ready for a glass of champagne and a nap!"  I haven't realized until now how long I've been holding my breath, just waiting and hoping.  The rest of the day passes by in a happy blur.
​

​Later in the evening after the kids have gone to sleep, I sit in front of our fireplace and reflect for a while about the most important things I will take away from this intensive application process for our Número Identidad de Extranjero (NIE) and Tarjeta Identidad de Extranjero (TIE).  

​Despite all of the lines, documents, stress and time spent traveling from office to office preparing for this day, what I will remember most about the process of registering our NIE and getting the TIE will be the interesting people we've met along the way.

​In addition to the Netflix loving government clerk, we've met...

​Copy store guy.  I don't know his name... he looks like a 'Señor Alfredo' though.

Señor Alfredo appears to be about 70 years old and is always standing, alert, at his front counter.  He is ready all day long to greet anyone who may walk through the door of his stationery shop.  (Don't his feet get tired?) He has helped me on three different occasions to make copies of our passports and visas for the NIE/TIE appointment, along with other documents.  Señor Alfredo is a little gruff but strikes me as a heart-of-gold type.  I'm glad to have him on our team!

In Barcelona copy stores are not automated, and real humans hold jobs that are self-service in the USA (or conducted by machines).  If you need copies made you go to a copy store where the proprietor takes your documents behind his/her counter and makes copies for you. You do not make your own copies! Copy machines are stored away from customers and treated like treasures.  

​Photo shop guy.  We've spoken to this guy so many times in the past three weeks. I'll be truly embarrassed to ask him his name again... not sure if I ever knew it.  For the purpose of this blog, I'll call him Agustin.

Agustin is a younger, dark-haired man who runs a Kodak Express shop two blocks from our apartment. I think he may be in his late 20s or early 30s.  His face is usually serious and focused but he is always kind, patient and helpful.  He typically works in the shop alone, selling everything from prints to memory cards to picture frames.  Over three weeks he has printed us a variety of school photos and government required photos.

Agustin's corner photo shop has been especially deluged recently by Catalan mothers and children who need official pictures for their schools and other documents.  "It's that time of year again," he recently told me.  He takes photos of the children with his high quality camera, prints them out digitally, and then cuts out each individual picture one by hand.  This job was surely automated years ago in the USA, but here it is providing a stable living for Agustin and his family.  I love this about Spain!

Agustin's Dad. Or his grandpa?  While waiting for our passport-sized photos to be printed and cut out this week, the kids and I talked for a while in Agustin's shop to an older man working with him.  Impeccably dressed in a suit, this gray-haired gentleman (perhaps in his 70s or 80s) was very outgoing.  He shared enough of Agustin's features and mannerisms to make me feel fairly confident that they're related.

"Where are you from?" he quizzed me.  "England?"
"We come from California."
"Ah!  The United States!"

​"My English is not very good," he added, and then promptly quoted my kids and me an elaborate, lengthy passage from Geoffrey Chaucer in perfect English with a thick Catalan accent.  

When he finished reciting his piece, he grinned broadly at my children.  "I remember memorizing this a long time ago in school!" 

We loved him instantly.

Friends At The Bus Stop

Señor Aventura and I have struck up a lovely friendship with a younger Catalan couple we talk to every morning and afternoon, waiting together at the bus stop to put our kids on the bus and take them off.  They are the kindest people, extremely intelligent and warm. Their three year old son has bouncy brown hair and the biggest smile I have ever seen! He is always the first to exit the bus when it arrives in the afternoon and he springs like a little monkey into his papa's waiting arms... giggling and full of joy.  "Papa!" he sings out every day.  "Where is Mama?"  He carries a tiny backpack with a cartoon animal on the zipper pocket.  

We've been updating these friends daily about the residency card process, and every afternoon they've checked in with us to see what progress we have made.  "I have a good feeling about it," the wife has encouraged me.  "I hope it will work out."  Together we have lamented red-tape and bureaucracy that come with going through government processes in every country.  They explain Catalan history to me and we often discuss similarities and differences between our culture and beliefs.

I cannot wait to tell them now that everything has been settled in our favor! 

These are just some of the people who have helped us along our path to get residency cards, but for me they represent countless others who have also welcomed us here over the past two months.  

"Where did you learn to speak Spanish?" our new Catalan acquaintances ask. "Are you here for work?  Are you settling in okay? Do your kids go to school here?  How do you like living in Barcelona so far?  How long will you stay?"  

Locals here are kind to our children, and patient with us.  They seem warm and interested in our adventure.  The good people of Catalunya have given us a sense of belonging; a sense of being known.  

When we explain that we come from the United States, California to be precise, their eyebrows sometimes lift in surprise.  Barcelona hosts a lot of British residents, not quite as many Americans... at least not in the neighborhoods where we've been spending our time.

California is a place well known to people here from movies and television - yet geographically so far away from Spain, it could be another world.  It is almost mythical. Shopkeepers often tell me they would like someday to visit the United States.  They have never seen California in person.  They would like to watch the Lakers play.  For them, California is as exotic a place to hail from as Spain might seem to many Americans.

In these exchanges we laugh a little together, and swap small stories. 

"Welcome!" they tell my family and me.  "Welcome to Barcelona. ¡Bienvenidos!  Benvinguda!" 

Now that we are fully legal with official residence cards en route from Madrid, their warm welcome feels even more real.  

"Gracias!" we exclaim.  "We are so happy to be here!"

I don't consider myself to be a super-intuitive person but I have definitely known others who have possessed a sort of sixth sense.  One person close to me has always been able to find lost objects, getting images or impressions of them... for example, keys lost in a couch, jewelry fallen behind a dresser, etc.  

My intuitive claim to fame, back in the early 1990s when landlines were still in use (and before we had caller ID) related to the telephone.  I was lucky to have my own telephone line and often got an impression when the phone began to ring about who was calling me.  I somehow just knew from the way it rang who would be on the other end of the call. On a few occasions in high school I even startled friends by answering the phone with their name, e.g. "Hi Sally!" leaving them to ask, "How did you know it would be me?"

With the advent of caller ID and cell phones, this tiny bit of intuition lost its value and I retreated quite happily into a normal life with no special sensitivities.  

Recently in Spain though, I've noticed to my surprise that I've been having more intuitive moments.  Last week, for example, Señor Aventura and I were sitting on a bench in the subway station waiting for our train.  We began to talk about our upcoming anniversary (14 years!) and where we should go to celebrate it.  Suddenly we noticed that our train had arrived.  We jumped up quickly, raced through its sliding doors just as they were starting to close, and rode it to our stop.  

When we exited the underground train and began to take the escalator up toward daylight, I suddenly had the strongest feeling that I was missing something important.  "What is it?" I scanned my mind, and then without any factual basis I told my husband, "Wait.  I've lost my phone."

"You've got it, you just had it," he replied.
"No, it's gone."
"I'm sure it's in your purse."
"No, I don't think so."

We pulled off to the side of the station so others could pass us by, and I pulled out all of the contents of my purse.  I also emptied my pockets and looked through my jacket.  No cell phone.

"Where could you have left it?" he asked.
"I must have left it on the bench at the other subway station," I replied.  

We caught the attention of a subway attendant, who promised to radio back to the other station.  Within minutes we jumped aboard the next train, returned to our original station, and tracked down some help.  A man nodded at me and pointed to a door, beckoning me over.  "Can you describe the cellular?" he asked.  

Sure enough, they'd found it and put it in their safe.  

Again, the only reason why this story is relevant (after all, everyone loses their phone sometimes) is that I knew I'd lost the phone before I'd actively looked for it, and before I even realized that I could have left it at the station.  Weirdly, I just knew it was gone.

Anyway.

Fast forward.  Yesterday afternoon, we'd planned to go see "Kubo y Los Dos Cuerdos Magicas" (Kubo and The Two Strings) as a family.  While waiting to leave for the movie, I went downstairs and watched my boys play some soccer... then played tennis with The Scientist for a while. (Our 11 year old turns out to have a natural ability with the racket, and is impressively good although he's never had a lesson. #proudmama!!!)

At 4:00pm, I left my boys playing on the cement soccer field to go upstairs and get ready for the movie.  "Come up right at 4:30," I told them.  "We don't want to be late for the movie." As I was walking away from them, I looked at my eldest boy holding the soccer ball and suddenly I got the strongest feeling that his little brother might get hurt.

"Don't kick the ball near Soccer Dude's head or stomach," I told The Scientist.  "I don't want anyone getting hurt. 

"Sure mom, no problem," agreed The Scientist.  "We're just going to pass it back and forth a little longer."

I smiled at them both, noting that Soccer Dude was putting on his goalie gloves.  It was a beautiful, warm afternoon and the boys were in good spirits ~ getting along well.  

Then I left, feeling good that they were safe in the completely protected cement soccer court that is part of our apartment complex.  Many other children and families were around.  

Around 11 minutes later though, the buzzer in our apartment began to ring insistently.  

"Oh no," I found myself thinking.  "That's got to be a boy.  Nobody else would ring it so many times at once.  That can't be good.  They know we aren't leaving for another 20 minutes... maybe they are fighting.  Or, someone got hurt."  I shivered involuntarily, remembering the last words I'd told them.  "I hope Soccer Dude is okay."

I buzzed them up and a few minutes later, our doorbell rang and Little Angel went to let her brothers into the apartment.  

"Mom!" called The Scientist urgently.  "Soccer Dude is hurt!"

My jaw must have clenched a little as I strode quickly down the hallway.  I looked first at my 9 year old son's face and chest.  Both seemed okay.  He was not crying.  I didn't see any blood.  

"What's the problem?"

"It's my arm, and my hand," Soccer Dude said.  "It really hurts.  I was trying to block his goal.  My hand got pushed so hard, all the way back.  The ball snapped my hand back toward my arm."

"It was an accident!" exclaimed his big brother.  "I didn't mean to hurt him.  I was just kicking the ball."

"Yes.  It was an accident, Mom," Soccer Dude agreed. 

In my mind's eye I tried to visualize what they were telling me, to understand what had happened.  The Scientist must have kicked the soccer ball toward the goal.  He has a very powerful kick.  His little brother, playing goalie, must have jumped up to block the kick, using his gloved hands.  The force of the ball must have made a strong impact on his wrist, if it snapped backward.

"Can I see it?"

I examined my son's wrists, first the painful one and then the other.  He'd had a broken wrist four years ago, as a kindergartener, when he fell off the monkey bars at school.  I had clear, vivid memories of what his wrist had looked like back then, before I took him to the emergency room.  It had been misshapen and swollen, and he'd been very pale and sweaty.

He did not look that way now.  I looked for signs of swelling or a broken bone.  We put ice on it, fifteen minutes on and fifteen minutes off.  There was no immediate sign of urgent trauma, but still.  We agreed to keep an eye on the wrist.  We decided not to go to the movies.

"On a scale of 0 to 10, how much does it hurt buddy?"  

"Six," he replied.  

I winced, knowing he has a high tolerance for pain.  His six is someone else's eight.

Several hours later, the number had risen.  Soccer Dude's wrist hurt him so much, he was having trouble falling asleep.  

"Mom, can you look at my wrist again?  It really hurts."

When I examined it this time, the picture had changed a little.  Now there was clear swelling and bruising beginning on both sides of the wrist.  His thumb was also hurting him quite a bit.  Flexing the wrist was very painful.  

"What do you think?" I asked him.  We've been through enough medical situations together between his injuries and allergic reactions over the years.  I know I can trust him not to overreact, because he hates hospitals and only asks to go to the doctor when he really needs the help.  "Can it wait until morning?  Do you want to wait to see a doctor tomorrow?"

"I'm sorry mom," he said.  "I know it's late, but it really hurts.  I don't want to go to the hospital, but I think I need help tonight."

"Okay.  We'll figure it out.  You probably need an x-ray."

I got out of bed, threw on some jeans and a warm jacket, and put our Spanish health insurance information into my purse.  Soccer Dude tried to zip up his own jacket but his lip began to wobble when he couldn't do it.  "It really, really hurts mom."

Señor Aventura opted to stay with The Scientist and Little Angel, encouraging us to take a taxi.  

And this is how, around 10pm last night, Soccer Dude and I found ourselves in the elevator headed down six floors on our way into the night to find an urgent care and get an x-ray.  

"I'm sorry, Mom," Soccer Dude repeated as he hugged me.  "I know it's late."

"Honey, I'm not upset at all.  My only regret is that I didn't listen to my intuition earlier today. I had a feeling that something was going to happen, but I didn't stop you two from continuing to play.  Oh well.  We'll figure this out."

When we got to the lobby of our building, everything was deeply silent.  Unlike the exciting Gracia neighborhood, most of Sarrià (families and elderly people) was sound asleep by 10pm on a Sunday night.  

We sat down on the black leather couch in the lobby and tried to formulate a solid plan. "We need to find a clinic that takes children," I said.  "And, it needs to accept our insurance."

"How will we do that?" asked Soccer Dude.

"Let me think for a minute..." I responded, looking through Google Maps.

Just then, a black car drove toward our building and parked.  We could see its lights through the glass walls of the lobby.  Its passenger door opened and out popped a little girl, holding a bag of sand toys.  She was followed shortly thereafter by another little girl, and then another.  The three girls began to carry their backpacks toward the door of our lobby.

"I wonder if they live here," I thought, and then noticed their mother was walking toward the door as well.

I opened our lobby door for her.

"Hola," I greeted her.  "Lo siento, yo no hablo español muy bien.  Creo que mi hijo puede haber roto un juego de futbol hueso.  Conoce a un hospital cerca de este apartamento para los niños?"  (Hi, I'm sorry - I don't speak Spanish well.  I think my son may have broken a bone playing soccer.  Do you know a hospital near this apartment for kids?)  

Like every other Catalan person I've met, she answered me with a smile and perfect English.  For once I was in no mood to protest the use of English; we were very tired and it was late at night.  I was grateful to speak in my language and just needed to find a clinic for Soccer Dude.  

"Yes of course," she replied.  "There is a very good clinic near here.  What insurance do you have?"

I explained our insurance and she pointed me toward a hospital emergency room a short walk away.  "You do not need a taxi," she explained.  "It is less than 10 minutes walk."

She also confirmed that they took children.  As we gathered our jackets and my bag, we thanked the kind mother and her children.  She and her husband welcomed us to the building.  As it turns out, they live right above us on the 7th floor!  Soccer Dude and I bid them goodnight and headed out into the dark evening.

Soccer Dude is such a brave kid.  I tried to put myself in his shoes as we walked down the street...  Nine years old, slightly homesick, tired, hurting, and walking at half-past ten toward a hospital to see if he had a broken bone.  He must be a little scared.

There wasn't much to bring joy in that picture... but my boy managed to speak as positively as he could with me in Spanish as we walked down the hill toward the hospital, following the map on my phone.  

"I really, really hope it's not broken, Mom," he said a little sorrowfully.  "Tomorrow is the first day of soccer at school."

"I hope not too.  Let's hope it's just a sprain."

As we continued our journey down the dark street, I could feel my heart racing a little. This was not the first time I'd taken Soccer Dude to an urgent care or emergency room late at night... but it was definitely the first time we'd walked there alone in a foreign country.  I reminded myself how safe Barcelona is, even at night, and every time we passed a woman bicycling or walking on her own, I reinforced to myself that walking in the dark in our neighborhood of Sarrià is not a big deal.  Yes, it is a little too quiet.  But the quiet here doesn't have to be menacing.  Our street was mostly decently lit and there were still people walking here and there. 

"I wish we were there already, Mom," said Soccer Dude, grabbing my hand tightly.

"Good news!" I smiled at him cheerfully.  "We nearly are!"

We arrived at the Hospital Universitario Dexeus Quiron Barcelona and followed the neon signs toward "urgencias".  These led us toward a small, brightly lit waiting room and a kind-faced woman with brown hair... perhaps in her mid-twenties.

I stumbled my way through an explanation in terrible Spanish of what had happened to my son and how we hoped a doctor could check his wrist.

"Of course, madam," she smiled, and then helped me figure out our insurance number before giving us four registration stickers and a wrist band.  "Make a right and wait in the room until you are called.  Your number is M267."   She highlighted the numbers on the paper for good measure, just to be sure we were clear.

The waiting room was slightly bigger than the lobby, and very bright. Everything, in fact, appeared to be white.  On the wall a flat-screened television replayed a Barcelona futbol game, which the people sitting opposite us were watching casually.

"Do you want to watch this?" I asked Soccer Dude, but he shook his head and leaned against me instead, closing his eyes.  

"How are you feeling?" I asked.

"It really hurts," he said.  "Especially when I move it."

"Okay."

About twenty minutes later, our number was called.  Wide automated gray doors swung open, ushering us into a long hallway lined with triage rooms.  A nurse beckoned us into room 22 and motioned for Soccer Dude to sit down on the examining bed.  

She had no English, but somehow I managed to communicate in Spanish the reason for our visit, and take her through his known allergies when she asked.  She had me write them down on a tongue depressor, just to be sure she was understanding perfectly.

"The doctor will be here soon," she promised.

Sure enough, within about 10 more minutes, a doctor entered the room.  He was young, with dark hair and a kind smile.  I would have pegged him for a resident, or a newly minted physician in his early 30s.  He looked like a futbol player himself.

"Let me see your hand," he asked Soccer Dude in English.  

Soccer Dude held out his arm tentatively.  The doctor began to palpate the bones, feeling for anything out of place.  He pressed on his thumb and the socket between the base of the thumb and the rest of the hand.  "Does this hurt?"

"Yes," agreed Soccer Dude, his eyes filling with tears.  "Yes."

"I am going to order an x-ray," the doctor nodded at me.  "It is not an obvious break but we are going to check to be sure."

"Good," I agreed.

Moments later a blonde nurse closer to my age arrived and walked us next door into the x-ray room.  "Mama, you wait out here," she said after I helped wrap the heavy protective lead drape around his small body.  She led me to a small exterior room while she took two x-rays of his hands.  

I could hear her talking to him inside of the next room, and wondered what Soccer Dude must be feeling, alone in a dark hospital x-ray room late at night.  

Happily, the x-ray pictures took only moments and soon enough I heard her say to him, "We finish."

Back in the triage room, Soccer Dude lay down with his head in my lap.  "I hope it's not broken," he whispered as his eyes drooped and then shut.  "I hope I can go home soon."

As the minutes ticked by and Soccer Dude dozed, I thought again of the afternoon.  I remembered the sense I'd had that something could happen right when I left the cement soccer field; and the way I'd pushed it to the side.  "I should pay more attention to those feelings when I get them...  if I ever get any again."

When the door slid back open, the young doctor was holding out a piece of paper for me. "It is a fracture of the radius," he explained in Spanish.  "The x-ray shows a fracture.  Do not worry though, this is a very common injury in children - especially athletic little boys."  

He smiled at Soccer Dude resting in his Barcelona jersey and Messi sponsored Adidas turf shoes. "We will put him in a cast for three weeks.  Then we will check it, and perhaps he will not need a cast any more."

"What did he say, Mom?" asked Soccer Dude, eyes wide.  "Am I okay?  Is it broken?"

"Honey, he says it is a fracture.  That means a break.  So yes, one of the bones is broken. But you will be okay.  Just three weeks in a cast.  You can do this.  Remember... we've been through this before."

When Soccer Dude fractured the ulna and radius of his other arm four years ago, I had to argue somewhat strenuously with the ER staff at the pediatric emergency room in San Diego against the use of general anesthesia to reset his bones.  Not only was the anesthesia unnecessary and with its own inherent dangers, but it was also expensive.  "We don't want him to feel any pain," they'd said, and I'd told them, "My son is very strong and can deal with a few minutes of pain.  He has a history of severe allergies to medication and we don't need to add additional, unnecessary risk to this situation."  

"Well, you're his mother," they'd finally agreed.
"Yes. I am."  

We compromised on using a local anesthetic, and it went just fine.  
"I'm impressed," the doctor had remarked to her nurse.  "I'm loving this local right now."

Last night, I looked into the face of the dark-haired young doctor and broached the topic warily, preparing myself for another argument.  "Do you plan to use anesthesia for this?"

He frowned at me and shook his head.  "No, no.  There is no need for this.  No anesthesia.  We will bring the casting materials here to you in a few minutes.  It will not take long."  

I exhaled.  "I love this country."

Sure enough, a nurse wheeled in a fully loaded cart a short time later.  It contained a basin, several types of wraps, some medical tape and scissors... and probably other items I did not notice at the time.  "The doctor will be back soon to make the cast," she smiled.

"Do not worry!" the doctor spoke gently as he encouraged Soccer Dude.  "It is only a half-cast!  You will be well very soon."

He made sure the bones were in the correct position and proceeded to expertly wrap Soccer Dude's small arm, constructing a plaster cast around the fabric sleeve, then wrapping it all neatly with a large fabric bandage and securing it with medical tape.

"All done!" he said.  "You can go home now."

"Do we need to check out with the woman at the front desk?"

"No," he said.  "You can just go home."

And that was that!  The receptionist kindly called us a taxi and encouraged us to wait indoors until it arrived.  The taxi arrived and it's balding driver and I negotiated our way through three languages to figure out the route home, since driving in Barcelona is much more convoluted than walking due to one-way streets.  

By 12:30am, Soccer Dude and I were at last home entering our cozy apartment.  

In almost exactly two hours we'd walked to a hospital, received a checkup and an x-ray, gotten a diagnosis and a cast, and taken a taxi back home.  

While his brother and sister slept nearby, I helped my son bathe to wash away any hospital germs, making sure to keep his cast protected from water.  I helped him take the cap off of the toothpaste so he could brush his teeth, since it's hard to do with only one good hand.  Soon he was tucked into bed.

"You're staying home from school tomorrow," I told him.  "It's 1am.  Just sleep, get a lot of rest so your arm can heal.  Tomorrow we will have a good day.  When you wake up we will do something special together."

"Okay mom," he sighed, wiping away tears.  "I'm so, so sad to miss the first day of soccer." 

"I know, buddy."  I gave him one last hug and trudged down the hallway, exhausted.  

Sleep did not come easily though.  My mind replayed the events of the day.  I thought about what it means to be a mother, and how tough it is to watch the people you love most suffering and not be able to bear the pain or sorrow for them.  

I thought about the future, recognizing that I cannot protect my kids from the hard things that will inevitably happen in their lives. The best gift I can give them as a mom is to be there for them but also let go enough to allow them to develop their own inner strength and grit.  It's a tricky balance between caring and nurturing... and also slowly taking my hands off the reins.  

Someday I will no longer be here to help Soccer Dude, The Scientist or Little Angel... so my job right now is to teach them by example how to be courageous and calm in a variety of situations, while helping them gradually learn how to take good care of themselves.

I hope this is one of the gifts that the year of European adventure will yield for our family! Even through the harder days, I pray that this amazing time abroad ends with stronger, even more resilient kiddos prepared to weather all manner of sticky situations (and soccer balls) with confidence, grace... and intuition!​

As we've moved around the city this past week, working on the visa problem and completing what Señor Aventura calls 'tramites' (which roughly translates to endless  paperwork) I've taken some photos along the way!

It's been such a busy week, there hasn't been much time to write... but here are some images to share the general flavor of our life at the moment.

Despite the trouble with the visa, we've had a great week!  We've finally settled into our apartment; decorating it a bit and cooking almost all of our meals at home.  It feels really good to be completely unpacked and able to focus on building a normal routine!  

Dusk is falling as I sit and look out our office window, gazing upon the thick storm clouds rolling swiftly over the tops of the buildings around us. I'm so grateful to have this warm and wonderful brick shelter.  We've experienced several powerful rainstorms this week, complete with a brisk wind and much cooler temperatures.  

The Aventura family is ready to wrap our arms around Fall as it approaches... a season we hope (visa depending) to experience in Spain for the very first time!

It was just one little sentence.  Twenty words, more or less.  

Such a tiny thing, we didn't even notice it.

"The holder of a residence visa must obtain a foreign national identity card within one month of his or her entry into Spain."

Surely we must have seen these words.  One of us must have read them at some point, perhaps more than once?

What were we thinking about, as we skimmed right over them?  
What were we juggling, as we ignored that sentence completely?  

After all of the long months of work Señor Aventura and I put into the process of getting approved for our non-lucrative residence visa... multiple four hour drives in traffic to Los Angeles from San Diego to meet with officials at the Spanish Consulate... the certificates we had to get apostilled by the FBI verifying that no, we have no criminal record; yes, we are legally married... and yes, the children are ours. Fingerprinting. A sea of forms to fill out.  After the health certificate appointments, the passport photo appointments; the never-ending stream of appointments!!! Wouldn't you have thought that at least one of us would have noticed that sentence on the consulate website?

​
​Unfortunately, we did not read it though until September 13th, 2016... around 3pm Spanish time.  
​
I arrived in Spain with Soccer Dude and Little Angel on July 27th. My husband joined us on August 3rd with The Scientist.  It's now the middle of September.

It's a simple math problem.  When you add it all up, x = > one month.  We have all been here now, officially, around six weeks.

Yikes!!!!

We got empadronamiento papers... although not for the kids.  We bought a car.  We found an apartment.  We vacationed in Italy and France.  We attended a ton of school meetings. We essentially lived at IKEA for the better part of a week, purchased school uniforms and supplies, and our kids began their school year.  We met up with friends (old and new), had a few doctor's appointments, bought a sea of groceries, did endless laundry, hiked and swam and looked into taking classes in Spain.  Señor Aventura discovered new and beautiful bicycle routes.

We set up a life!  

We didn't register within 30 days. 

Key movie music here - the tricky, dramatic kind that sends your heart racing during a suspenseful moment in the film. Because that's exactly what my heart does every time I let myself think about this... it races and sometimes even skips beats.

When I finally read the one tricky little sentence that could change our entire European adventure, I quickly took a photo of the screen with my cell phone and sent it to my husband who was out trying to get a replacement for our car battery that had just died.

"We missed the deadline to register for our Tarjeta!!!  I think the kids and I have missed it!!!"

It's hard to know whether this is going to be a big deal.  After all, Señor Aventura is properly registered and due to receive his Tarjeta.  His card is in the mail, on the way from Madrid.  He is now legal... we are his dependents.  Could this be enough?

"Just explain what happened," consoled my mother when I tried to describe the problem to her over WhatsApp.  "Just tell them the truth, that you thought you had 90 days to register your visa. You didn't see the deadline on the Internet.  I'm sure they will be reasonable."

"You don't understand what it's like here," I sighed.  "I wish it was that easy.  Many things are "estricto y de acuerdo con la ley" here. (Strict and according to the law.)  Especially if you are un extranjero... a foreigner.  When they say to be on time, you need to be on time."  

My voice wobbled a little. "Mom, I don't know what we will do if they won't give us the foreign identity cards.  Without them, our visa will expire on November 8th and legally we will have to come home to figure it out. The kids will miss part of their school year.  We'll have to leave the new apartment!"

Go home.  Go home?  Back to California? After just a few months?  
What about our grand adventure?  The adventure of a lifetime!

"WHAT???!!!???  Go back?  No!  I don't want to go back.  Not yet!" exclaimed The Scientist when I met the school bus.  "Mom, we just got here!  I made another new friend at school today!  I do NOT want to go home, yet.  I'm sure this will all be okay."

"Hmmmm...." added his little brother thoughtfully.  "I don't really want to go home either, Mom. The only silver lining would be if I could get to see my best friend Mini-Muller. Maybe we could go see Mini-Muller in California, get the visa problem fixed, and then come right back?"

"Mommmiiieeeee!  I can't go back to California!" whined Little Angel.  "I made a best friend today!  She and I are BEST friends.  I need to stay!  Besides, I took my first Chinese class today.  I want to learn Chinese!"

"Why am I the only one not making friends yet?" added Soccer Dude sadly, casually changing the subject.  "The Scientist and Little Angel both have best friends here.  Why can't I meet anybody?"

We walked home a bit dejectedly.  

Once I'd given the kids some snacks at our apartment, I called the Spanish Consulate in L.A.  

"Why didn't you register your visas during your first 30 days?" asked the lady on the phone.  "We state clearly that you must do so, right on our website!"

"We were confused!  The date on the visa in our passport says November 8th, so we thought we had until then!" 

"I'm sorry.  There isn't anything we can do for you from here while you are in Spain," she said.  "If you were in Los Angeles we could help you, but in Spain, you will have to go to see the local police.  You will have to explain and plead your case.  They will decide.  I can't guarantee you anything."

"It's like," she added, her voice softening, "Immigration, here in the United States.  You show up with your papers, and the immigration officials decide whether or not they will accept them.  You will have to see if the police in Barcelona are willing to accept your papers a little late."

I nodded, although of course she could not see me nodding at her over the phone.  

​"I understand. Can you tell me what is the worst case scenario, if they say no?  Will we have to go back to Los Angeles to work this out with you?"

"Yes, that would be the worst case," she agreed.  "In a worst case you would come back to Los Angeles and we would help to resubmit the application. 

"But that could take weeks!!!" argued Señor Aventura when I recounted our conversation for him later.  "The kids can't miss weeks of school."

"I know," I agreed.  "But we can't stay here illegally either."


​So... as they say... when the going gets tough, the tough get going!!!  

Since Tuesday, Señor Aventura and I have been powerhouse of activity getting ready for our upcoming TIE appointments.  (Those are the appointments where the local police will either accept our papers and approve us for official residency status, or they will reject us because we did not apply in time.)

To prepare, we have visited multiple police stations, the U.S. Consulate of Barcelona, a translator's office and two Ajuntamento de Barcelona offices.  We want to make sure that all of our papers are in perfect order by the time of our first TIE meeting this coming week.  

It's hard to follow this process without actually seeing it with your own eyes, so I've been taking pictures of Señor Aventura in our appointments along the way.   

These Catalan words (below) are stamped into the marble floor of the Ajuntamento de Barcelona office located in Placa Sant Miquel.  It translates to "Wait your turn." Government business is serious business here, and they aren't messing around. 

So... we are waiting.

It feels like we've been waiting for such a long time.  

Señor Aventura and I dreamed up this yearlong European adventure back in 2004... we thought and talked about it throughout twelve years, a wedding, three children, a death and a renewal of vows. 

We finally set our path into full motion one year ago in September.  

Yet as we've discovered, it definitely isn't as simple as saying, "Let's move to Spain!" Nothing ever is.

Step by step, day by day over the past year, we built this together.  We slowly brought our dreams into reality.

​Even now that we've been here for six weeks, we are not yet assured of our future.

So it's with a prayer, and perhaps a four leaf clover and pinch of salt thrown over the shoulder, that we will try to be patient and wait these last few days for a final answer.

Will the Barcelona police grant tarjetas for the children and I, so that the five of us can finally become legal, official residents of Spain?  

With luck, in two weeks we will know at last.  ​

​Emotions have been running high this week in our brightly lit, sparsely furnished Sarrià apartment. The five of us have been 'feeling all of the feelings' during seven days of intensive change and transition.

Was it really just five days ago that we moved?  

Unbelievable. After spending three full, sometimes frantic days at Barcelona's Gran Via IKEA furnishing our entire apartment (rented 'sin muebles'), we moved in while workers were literally painting the walls and cleaning the kitchen.

While an IKEA crew was putting together our beds so we would actually have a place to sleep that night, Señor Aventura and I attended the first of six 3-hour school orientation meetings this week for our kids.  So, our amazing Australian babysitter 'Nicole' (blond, tall, athletic, professional!) was here to deal with the argument that broke out in our living room between the IKEA workers and the building's night security guard.  ​

​"We didn't really understand what they were fighting about," said The Scientist, who witnessed the argument.  "I think it had something to do with their big truck."

Yikes!  By the time we'd gotten home though, the beds and couches were assembled and our three kiddos were racked out asleep - so tired from six weeks of travel, apartment hunting and endless errands.  They looked so contented in slumber.

"We're home," I whispered to my husband.  "We have a HOME here."  
We hugged quietly in the doorway to the bedroom Soccer Dude shares with Little Angel.

​Since that day we've tackled and mainly completed all of the endless back-to-school shopping and continued picking up many smaller things needed for an apartment - like bathroom trash cans, an ironing board and iron, hangers and laundry hampers. We spent one harried evening labeling all of their new school uniform pieces and school supplies, packing snacks and getting ready for our first super-early morning rush since June.

Just when it felt like summertime might never end, AT LAST (hallelujah!) we waved goodbye yesterday morning to our excited, nervous children as they boarded the tiny white school bus. ​

I'm not sure who had more butterflies in their stomach while we waited for that bus to arrive.  I won't lie, my heart was in my throat a little.  "Who will they sit with?" I wondered. "Will the other kids be nice to them?  Will they be nice to each other?"

All of these jitters evaporated when the sweet little bus pulled up.  Its front door slid open and our first sight inside was the beaming, radiant face of Señora Marisela who greeted all three of our children (and the children who boarded in line behind them) warmly with a big hug and kiss.  "Welcome to the first day of school!" she sang out in Castellano. I could see each of my kids visibly relax.  Soccer Dude's face illuminated as he was greeted by a boy on the bus, and I knew everything would be okay.

​Señor Aventura and I were amazed by the silence in our apartment when we returned home yesterday morning.  We spent a full hour ensconced in this beautiful silence, marinating in the peace.  We hadn't experienced so much companionate solitude in six weeks.  We smiled and hugged but neither of us spoke much for a long time, enjoying the surreal tranquility.

I cleaned the apartment fully, unpacking suitcases, making beds and doing laundry. Slowly I put order into our new home.  Señor Aventura did some work and then mapped out a bicycle ride.  Eventually we began talking like long-lost friends who hadn't seen each other in a while.  We found ourselves laughing, and every so often one of us would remark how strange it felt without the children around.  After all, we had not been apart from them for so long.

"I can't wait until they get home!" I said out loud more than once.  "I can't wait to hear about their day!"

I truly looked forward to greeting their school bus, carrying their backpacks and hearing about every detail of their school day.​

The bus.  Wow.

Riding the bus is a big change for three kids who have been driven to school every day of their lives by one parent or another, for as long as they can remember.  This was the very first time our kids had ever taken a bus by themselves from one city to another... especially (and probably most nerve-wracking for them) a school bus filled with other children their age, none of whom they know yet.  

Millions of American children ride school buses every single day.  It isn't rocket science, and our family didn't invent anything new yesterday.  Still... for the three Aventura kiddos (and their mother with helicopter tendencies) taking the bus to a country town 20 minutes outside of Barcelona represents a big, exciting step toward their growing independence. 

When we first discussed leaving San Diego to build a life 6,000 miles from home, I'd pictured Bohemian, nurturing mornings where I would hold the hands of my younger children while we walked happily to a neighborhood school close by where I could also volunteer - something I have not been able to do as a middle school teacher.  I would at last accompany my children on field trips, and run little errands for their teachers.  I was going to be the expat Mom of the Year!

I LOVED this vision.  Even though I'm not naturally well-coiffed I vowed I would work toward being that perfect mom I've seen throughout my many years in my classroom. (There's always at least one, every year.)  I would finally be that mom who shows up early in casually chic clothes and nicely brushed hair; the relaxed but organized mom who coordinates bake sales and field trips; the mom who knows the other moms... whose kids always have matching, clean clothes and neatly braided hair.  

My children (who still care about these things, especially the younger two) would feel so proud to have their mom attending all of their events and presentations.  They would pretend they didn't want me to snap so many photos from the audience, and then ask me later in private with big smiles to show them every picture I'd taken.  

It was a really great vision, something to look forward to.  Those dreams got me through some tough days.  Whenever I worked a 12 hour day last year - which happened a lot due to my own type-A personality, I would apologize to my kids and promise that this year would be different - that this year, I would be PRESENT.

The heart is unpredictable though; and even though I'd planned on one kind of life, we accidentally fell in love with a Barcelona school that didn't mesh with any of my best-laid plans.

Agora International Sant Cugat.

Agora International Sant Cugat is quite simply phenomenal.

Can we call it true love yet?  Are we still in the crush phase?  Will the affection we feel for this amazing school hold up over time?   

Based on the evidence of the past five days, I would say that this may turn out to be one of those rare stories you read about from time to time in "PEOPLE" magazine... stories about love at first sight.  

I recall the morning about a year ago when Señor Aventura and I first found Agora International Sant Cugat on the web.  I'd done so much research into the many, many private and international schools in Barcelona. He and I had already decided on applying to at least four other schools.  Then we found Agora.

"Honey, look at this one!  Wow - how cool is this?  It's based on four main pillars... multilingualism, music, sports and new technologies.  The core teaching is done in Spanish, Catalan and English. What could be more perfect for our kids?"  

"That definitely sounds too good to be true.  The whole point of moving to Spain would be for the kids to become bilingual.  To add in music, sports and technology on top of that?  I really like that.  We should contact this school!"

As we talked and researched, we grew more and more excited.  My husband suggested that we look on a map of Barcelona to see where the school was located in the city.

To our surprise and disappointment, the school wasn't anywhere in central Barcelona!  Instead, it sat beyond the mountains, 20 minutes away by car.  "Sant Cugat is a town, not a neighborhood," explained my husband.  "It looks nice but that's a little too far out of town for us, babe.  We want the city experience, not country living."

He was right.  We put Agora on the back burner, deciding to contact them anyway but pursue the other options more intensively.  

We applied to five private and international schools in central Barcelona, schools that were walking distance from cool neighborhoods.  Schools that had great websites!  From 6,000 miles away, we thought we'd figured it all out.  We had both a first and second choice all lined up.  We didn't even submit an application to Agora International Sant Cugat, and we almost canceled our school visit in March because, as Señor Aventura had sagely said, it just wasn't too practical.  "Too far away!" 

Looking back, I thank my lucky stars that we didn't cancel our visit!  We decided spontaneously to keep the interview and check out the school anyway, despite the distance, just for reference. ​

​Yet once we'd seen it up close for two hours... met the teachers, seen the classrooms, listened to the sound of instruments filling the hallways and seen the glorious artwork on the walls; once our boys took one look at twelve futbol games taking place on the vast turf soccer field... that was it.  

There was no going back.  We knew.  We all knew.
We'd found 'the one'.  

"I want to go to THIS school, Mom," declared Soccer Dude. 
"It's my favorite too, mommy," agreed Little Angel.  "This is the one I want!"
"I think we will get a better education there," nodded The Scientist. "I think we will be happier, too."

Their decision was unanimous.

That day back in March, with one nod of my head and a big happy group hug, I agreed with my children.  In that instant I sacrificed the carefully nurtured vision of motherhood I'd hoped to achieve during our family adventure abroad.  

My children will not walk to school slowly holding my hand, eating freshly baked bread and telling me stories... instead, they now ride a school bus for 20 minutes, twice a day.

I will not volunteer in their classroom, because that sort of thing isn't really encouraged at this particular school, as special as it is.  Instead, I will join the Parent's Association and wait to get news of special family events appropriate for me to attend.  I will quietly support in the ways that are officially approved.  

I won't lie, even one week ago I still had a heavy heart about all of this.

Was it worth it?  Was the school going to be what we'd hoped?  Was the bus ride manageable?  Was it worth the many sacrifices?

So far, the answer seems to be a resounding yes. 

The Scientist's main teacher (called a 'tutor' here) blew us away three nights ago with her description in Spanish of project based learning, the social-emotional growth of pre-teens and the flipped classroom.  She described a curriculum very similar to what our kids have experienced at their progressive charter school in San Diego, combined with the incredible addition of Liceu (a music academy), computer science, art, ethics, swimming lessons, a wide variety of competitive school sports, intensive language instruction in many languages including Chinese and German (in addition to Spanish and Catalan), natural science and technology.  

To top it off, in 2012 Agora Sant Cugat was authorized to become an International Baccalaureate World School (IB) and offer their students the opportunity to complete a dual national and international baccalaureate program.  

This next part literally brought tears to my eyes.  Agora Sant Cugat has a relationship with the Fundación Privada Javier Berché in Barcelona, an organization that caters to gifted students and helps to assess their abilities and also provides resources to the school to make certain they are properly challenged.  "We have noticed over the years," said the international student coordinator, "that we do a great job supporting students who struggle, but we wanted also to really challenge and push our brightest students.  These are the students who have the desire to succeed but do work swiftly and inevitably get restless.  Our relationship with the Dr. Berché foundation helps us to identify these children and make sure they get the challenge they deserve."

Señor Aventura and I were floored.
Where ARE we?  Did I somehow invent this school with the power of my intense yearning for it to exist?

Agora International Sant Cugat somehow also manages to have excellent test scores and was named the 10th best school in all of Spain by El Mundo (the major Spanish newspaper) for 2015-16.  El Mundo rated over 1,000 private and international schools in 27 different categories to come up with this assessment, and in the end, our school was named one of the top two in all of Barcelona.  Frankly, after a week, we can see why.

"I can't believe our luck," exclaimed The Scientist when we read the school's exceptional review in El Mundo.  "We didn't know any of this when we picked the school in March!"

"Yes, we got SO lucky!" I agreed.  ​

​As I walked to the city bus stop to wait for my kids yesterday evening, I mulled over all of this.  I couldn't wait to see their tired faces, hear their confidences, and learn at last whether the reality of attending such a school could possibly measure up to our tenderest dreams.

When the bus door slid open once again, Little Angel jumped out first, grinned and hugged me hard. ​

​"Mommy, my tummy hurt while we were driving to school this morning because I was worried that we might not make it.  I wondered what we would do if the bus got lost?  I wondered if I would see you again!" 

"But the bus didn't get lost, did it?  You made it to school. And look, here I am!" 
"Yep!  I had a REALLY good day, Mom!!!  I made two friends!!!"  She wrapped her arms around my waist one more time. 

I hugged my little girl back and beamed at my disheveled, grinning, mainly cheerful sons who had just stepped off the bus. One of them handed me his heavy backpack.  "It was a good day, Mom."

Little Angel and Soccer Dude each took one of my hands.  
​
"Let's go home."  Together we walked down the hill.