Firsts

Yesterday was a day of firsts for our family. First day of September. First day of school for the kids. First day at the office for Alec. And for me, the first day that I am officially not a dean anymore. Although I took the month of August as vacation, my contract ran through August 31 and, even though it’s been weeks since I signed an official letter or made a policy decision for the school, it actually feels different to have it be real. When we first got here I had a couple of strange dreams about being back at school in New York, but those have subsided. Even if I did not embrace all aspects of my job, it’s still a big identity shift. I am sure it will feel more real when I get my first—smaller—paycheck.

The kids picked out their own first-day-of school outfits. As you can see in the photo below, Milo selected his human highlighter FC Barca jersey and socks, while C.C. went for pure comfort. For C.C., a terrific suit of clothes means picking the things she likes best regardless of whether they match at all. So she chose her dark green shirt with dinosaurs, and her comfy cropped cotton pants—purple and blue stripes (you probably can’t see the stripes in the photo, but trust me—they are there!), along with her bug socks and sneakers. I tried to nudge her gently toward another shirt or pants, but she would hear nothing of it. There are enough battles to wage without bickering over clothing, no? And who can argue about prioritizing comfort? She felt great, and that’s what really counts.

Alec and I parked our borrowed, dented up Peugeot with 300,000 kilometers on it amidst the Range Rovers and BMWs, and walked the kids into their classrooms. They are in the same, sunny, small building—Milo on the first floor and C.C. on the second. This is the first time they’ve been at the same school, and they seem to get a kick out of seeing each other every day.

Fortunately, they both had terrific first (and second) days. Even grumpster C.C. says she likes it better than PS 10. When we picked her up today she informed us, “If PS 10 wants to get any business, they should teach math like they do at Ben Franklin. In fact, I think there should be a Ben Franklin school in Brooklyn!” After they had gone to bed last night and Alec and I chatted about the day we agreed that at least we seem to have made the right choice about school.

Meanwhile, yesterday and today I attended a PTA sponsored orientation called “Making Barcelona Work” for new parents like us—one of the Moms hosted us at her home. The first topic covered was “driving in Barcelona” in which we learned about parking and getting towed—apparently the school is a big tow zone. So 15 minutes into the 3 hour session I realized that I had parked on the wrong side of the street; I sweated for the rest of the time, certain that the car would be gone when I got there, and that I’d have to call Borg to ask him to send written permission for me to get the car out. Fortunately, it was there when I got back, so I only had to sweat about getting it down the massive hill; it’s been six years since I drove a stick shift, and the hills here are no joke. I kept trying to channel my experience driving my first car—a used, standard VW GTI—in San Francisco. As it turns out, it is kind of like riding a bike; it just comes back to you.

Most of the expat folks who have moved here have done so for the husband’s job (the vast majority of women in this particular group do not work), or have come on a lark, to get away from it all. Which means they have enough do-re-mi to float themselves for a year or more.

Today’s session was about cultural adjustment. Apparently, the two categories of people who have the most difficult are “trailing spouses” and teens. As the woman leading the workshop talked about how teens often feel about moving--anger, frustration, loss—I had to wonder if she had gotten teens confused with 7 year old girls from Brooklyn.

Research shows that many people who move to new countries go through stages very much like Elizabeth Kubler-Ross’s five stages of grief—denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. When I described C.C.’s behavior, the workshop woman said, “Well, there is other research that shows that people can get frozen in one of the stages. Sounds like your daughter is frozen.” “Terrific,” I think, “how can we get her to thaw out?” Night after night she tells us over and over: “I really want to be with Blanca,” and that she’s angry at us for bringing her here. She has no friends, no toys. We listen, we hold her, we tell her we understand. But frankly, we are all starting to sound like broken records. So I plan to spend a bit of time cooking up “Operation Un-Freeze.” Suggestions from all of you very welcome.

I’m sure it sounds worse than it is. She seems to love school, and today identified a girl she thinks could be her friend. She even went so far as to admit, “Part of me likes being here, and part of me doesn’t.” So perhaps we are making progress after all.

As for Milo, he seems much more laid back about the whole thing. However, when we were about to leave Brooklyn at the end of July, he announced: “I’ll go to Barcelona, but only for five weeks.” Every now and then he asks one of us how long we’ve been here. When he asked yesterday and I told him “Four weeks,” he said: “So I guess we’ll be packing up pretty soon, right?” Not just yet, Milo. Not just yet.