Highway Robbery

After returning from Sardinia on Monday afternoon, I unpacked and then repacked so that I would be ready on Monday morning for my next Slow City trip.  When I talked to Manuel in December about the work I had begun to plan, I showed him the map of Spain’s six slow cities.  He quickly zeroed in on one—Rubielos de Mora, in Teruel.  It turns out that Manuel spent his summers in the neighboring town—Mora de Rubielos—from the age of 10 to the age of 16.  “If you go there to do fieldwork,” he said, “I’m coming with you.”  So we planned a trip for this week.  It’s about a 4 ½ hour drive from Barcelona, meaning that we needed to spend a night.  I arranged interviews with the mayor and others involved in the Cittaslow movement, and Manuel picked me up yesterday morning after I had dropped the kids at school.

It was a glorious day, perfect for a road trip, and we both commented on our good fortune to have two whole days together to work, talk, and explore.  We were in that lighthearted mood that comes from driving out of town, away from stress and toward adventure.  After a couple of hours, we stopped for gas and a coffee at a rest stop on the AP-7, the main highway going south out of Barcelona.  After filling up the tank, we had to cross the highway on a footbridge to get coffee, and then resumed our journey.

We hadn’t driven more than a few kilometers before the car starting making a funny noise, and just as we decided to pull over and check it out, the car swerved into the left lane and then back again.  Everything went into slow motion, and I was sure we were going to go over the shoulder and down a steep embankment.  But Manuel handled the car masterfully, letting the car move rather than jerking the wheel back.  He was able to pull it over onto the shoulder safely.  Fortunately there was not much traffic; my stomach flips when I think about what could have happened if there had been a car—or worse, one of the 18 wheelers that frequent the highway—right behind us, or in the left lane when we swerved out of control.

We both got out and clicked into emergency gear.  The right rear tire was completely flat—we were practically driving on the rim.  There was an emergency call booth about 50 meters away, so Manuel put on the reflective vest in the glove box and went to call while I found some reflective triangles in the trunk to put out behind the car.

Within a few minutes a car approached, driven by a guy wearing what looked like an official highway jacket, complete with reflectors.  I couldn’t believe our good luck at getting help so quickly.  I should have realized that things that seem too good to be true usually are.  He pulled up in front of our car and I showed him the tire.  He walked toward Manuel, who was still on the phone, and told me I needed to put the triangles farther away from the car—it made sense, so I started to do it.  When the man approached Manuel, I could tell that Manuel was telling him that we did not need help, and he called to me to stay with the car.  In the meantime, the man had started to come back toward me, and told me again to put the triangles farther away.  I put the first one down, and then turned around to return to the car.  In that very short time—no more than 30 seconds—the man had taken off in his car.  This didn’t alarm me—it seemed odd, but I thought perhaps that he had gone for equipment.

I decided that the whole incident was unique enough that I should capture it on film, and I went to the car for my camera before returning to move the second triangle.  But when I got to the car, I noticed that my bag was not where I had left it on the floor in front of my seat.  I looked in the backseat, and even in the trunk, and only then realized the man had stolen it.

I didn’t panic—what could I do?  I just walked up to Manuel and told him it was missing.  He seemed more alarmed than I did, and immediately called the highway patrol again to report the robbery.  Then I called Alec to ask him to start canceling my credit cards and to shut down my phone.

My bag had the usual things inside—cell phone, wallet, cosmetics bag, etc.  But since I was going on a research trip, it also contained enough electronics to equip a small village—my iPod, my iPad, a very good digital camera, a video camera, and my digital recorder for doing interviews.  It also had my glasses and my sunglasses.  All of these things are replaceable, albeit with some cost and inconvenience.  What is not replaceable is my notebook, which held all of my interview notes, thoughts about my research, and important contact information for various people. My Spanish “green card” was also in my walled, along with Milo’s.  It will take a lot of time to replace it all.

Manuel and I waited in the weeds beyond the shoulder of the highway in the hot sun.  I found some sunscreen in my bag, and Manuel and I both found hats.  He was quite the picture in his yellow vest and baseball cap.  Afer reassuring him that I was fine, we began to laugh at the absurdity of the situation, and the hazards of coing academic fieldwork.

 When the tow truck arrived, and I had had a chance to study the rip in the tire a bit more, I said to Manuel, “You know, this might sound like a conspiracy, but isn’t it odd that we got a flat so soon after leaving the rest area? And that that guy found us and pulled up so quickly after we pulled over? What if he punctured the tire and then followed us?”  It seemed somewhat farfetched, but when we talked to the tow truck guy about it, he said he was sure that’s what had happened.  Just the day before a woman driving from Madrid had been forced out of her car and her car stolen.  So we had been set up. 

We road in the tow truck to the nearest town, where we were dropped at a tire fixing place.  By this time it was 1 o’clock, so of course the place was closed for lunch.  We found a café next door and ordered a couple of cold beers—nothing has ever tasted better—and some sandwiches.  It was 3:30 before we had a new tire and were back on the road. 

Then we had to go to the Guardia Civil to report the incident—I will need the report in order to collect insurance.  The Guardia Civil is actually part of the army here, and the tow truck guy advised us to go there instead of to the police, because the Guardia Civil would be more efficient and professional.  At first it looked like they might not take the report, because the crime occurred just before we crossed the border from Catalunya to Castillon.  But finally they agreed to do it, and to send the report to Catalunya afterwards.  So that took awhile.  The report was quite complete, and even says things like, “Señora Lisa Servon, daughter of Joseph and Lois…”.  So, Mom, your name will live forever in some corner of the Spanish bureaucracy.   After obtaining a dizzying number of signatures and official stamps, we were finished.  I asked the officer who helped us for his name, in case I needed to get in touch.  “Right here,” he said, pointing to the first page of the report.  He pointed to a number, his number, which is I guess how he is known.

It was 5:30 by this time, and we got a coffee at the bar across the street, got back in the car, and set off, again, for Mora de Rubielos—still a 2 ½ hour drive away.  The good news is that neither of us was too fazed by the incident.  I felt a little shaken up once we were in the tow truck and everything began to sink in.  But for the most part, I can take these things in stride.  No one was hurt, and almost everything can be replaced.  Although at first I kicked myself for leaving my bag in the car, and Manuel swore that he should have locked the car, we came to realize that we were actually lucky.  A thief as organized as this one surely would not have left empty-handed, and at the very least we did not have to deal with any violent confrontations.  He might have stuck around to rob Manuel, or take our luggage as well, but the fact that Manuel was on the phone calling the authorities told the thief that he did not have much time.  We were lucky, too, that we broke down so close to an emergency call booth.  Although Manuel had his cell phone, it would have taken longer to reach the right person that way.

We pulled into Mora de Rubielos just after 8 pm, Manuel pointing out mountains he had climbed, forests he had gotten lost in, the house his family had rented.  We had been on the road for more than ten hours.  But the sun was still quite bright and the village felt peaceful and welcoming.  I needed to get out of my dress and shower before I could move another inch, so we agreed to meet in a half hour to go to dinner.  Feeling mostly revived after standing under the hot water for a very long time, I put on clean clothes and opened the corner window onto my tiny terrace.  The swallows were looping and diving, and a few people made their way leisurely through the streets. 

We met outside in the plaza and walked to our restaurant—Melanosporum in the Hotel La Trufa Negra—for dinner.  On the way, we passed a few cafes where people were enjoying a beer at the sidewalk tables.  A little farther on we heard singing coming from behind one of the doors, a group of people singing.  Manuel said it was La Jota, a traditional Aragonese song. It was beautiful, and Manuel sang along as we walked, clearly so happy to be back in this town that he had not visited for 25 years. 

We had a delicious dinner featuring local mushrooms, black truffles, and local cheeses. And some terrific red wine from Teruel.  The events of the day started to slip away.  And then, after comparing notes with Alec once more, I fell quickly into a deep sleep.

Sardinia!

I am in love with Sardinia.  Rugged landscape, strong sun, delicious food.  And the beaches—oh, the beaches.  We spent our three days there going from an amazing beach (Cala Luna) to a spectacular beach (Cala Friuli) to the most beautiful beach I have ever been to (Cala Mariolu). 

We arrived in Cagliari on Thursday afternoon, picked up our rented van—Hooky Van #3—and headed northeast.  We had rented the first floor of a two storey house in Galtelli, in a pretty spot high on a hill overlooking the town and with a view of the mountains.  Everything looked great, except that it seemed as though the living room was missing.  Giovanni, the man who met us to let us in, simply shrugged when we asked him about it, so we had to call the rental office.  The woman explained to me on the phone that the living room was in the upstairs unit—she had photos of both on the website.  Rather misleading.  After much back and forth, she agreed to let us use the upstairs as well, as it was not rented. We ended up using the downstairs for sleeping and bathing, and the upstairs for cooking, eating, and hanging out.  It had a terrific terrace where we ate our dinners.  We are the first people to have rented the place this season, and the downstairs unit is new—I expect that we will be the first of many to complain.

We drove into nearby Orosei for dinner that night—delicious, thin crust pizzas and fresh salads.  These are two things that are in short supply in Barcelona.  After a leisurely morning on Friday—the children ran around trying to catch lizards while the adults lingered over breakfast—we decided to drive to Cala Gonone and made our way to its small port.  The marina is lined with small shacks from which people sell tickets for boat tours to the various beaches that dot the coast. Most of these beaches are inaccessible except by boat; they sit at the foot of 900 meter white cliffs.  The aquamarine of the water surrounded by the white stone is absolutely stunning. 

We hired a boat to take us to Cala Luna, one of the closer beaches.  The driver left us off and we crossed a small bridge to the shore.  The children had stripped down and dove into the sea as soon as we touched land.  It was hot, and the water a perfect refreshing temperature.  C.C. borrowed a mask that fit her perfectly and spent hours studying the silvery white fish that swam in the shallows.  I fell asleep after a good long swim and some lunch.  Afternoon naps on the beach are my absolute favorite naps. We made a caprese salad and grilled steak and local sausage for dinner, washed down with the inky, local Canoneau wine.

Saturday threatened to be grey, and we debated whether to head back to the beach or to go to the mountains, but in the end decided to risk the beach.   This time we drove, to another beach south of Cala Gonone called Cala Friuli.  You park on the top and then descend a steep, winding staircase cut from the stone down to the beach.  Cala Friuli’s beach consisted of large-ish white rocks.  You have to arrange them just right beneath you to get into a comfortable position.  We swam again, ate sandwiches on the beach.  I napped.  It was beginning to feel like a routine, a very nice routine.

We decided to drive into Nuoro for dinner in order to get a sense of local culture.  We ate gelato in the piazza and strolled the main avenue.  I had found a slow food restaurant that opened at 7:45 and, as we were a party of nine, we decided we should get there when they opened.  Il Rifugio is the kind of restaurant you wish you had in your neighborhood.  Simple wooden tables, delicious aromas emanating from the kitchen, warm, attentive service.  The kids ate pizzas while the adults had local seafood and pastas.  Alec’s primi piatti was outstanding—a half-moon shaped pasta with a dough more like gnocchi than ravioli, stuffed with cheese and almonds, sauced lightly with slivers of guanciale and orange zest.  Amazing.  The panna cotta—served either with chocolate sauce, caramel, or forest fruits—was perfectly creamy, yielding easily to the spoon.  We left happy and full, drove back in the chilly night air and fell into bed.

On Sunday we got a bit braver, and rented a boat in order to get to what was purported to be one of the most beautiful beaches—Cala Mariolu.  Eirik knew how to drive a boat, and the waters had seemed easy enough to navigate.  Everyone suited up in life jackets and we set off.  It was a fine day, the sun shining and the water glittering.  Eirik steered us skillfully out into the open water and let the kids take turns “driving” the boat.  We passed Cala Luna, Cala Friuli, and several other beaches tucked into coves, counting on a map until we were certain we had reached our destination, a beautiful beach divided by a large rock.  We pulled up to the beach—C.C., our little fish, jumped out and swam to shore—and unloaded our towels and dry clothing, bags of sandwiches and bottles of water.  Andres and Dmitrius quickly scrambled up to the top of the high rock—it was about 10 feet tall—and jumped into the sea.  I had to do it, too. What a feeling!  I don’t like heights very much, and it did feel high up there, but so glorious to jump into the cool, blue water.

A couple of large parties of Italians had taken charter boats there for the day, and cheered each other on as one after another jumped into the water—teenage boys, older men, women in bikinis.  We had to keep moving our towels as the sun began to fall behind the cliffs—it was cool in the shade.  Finally, after everyone else had left and the sun was gone for good, we packed up and sailed off, but not before Alec pulled a muscle in his leg bringing the boat to shore.

We had another grill fest, and sat outside for a long time talking.  Vibeke suggested we play cards, so we did for awhile, until we realized that the deck we had bought at the grocery store was missing all of the eights, nines and tens.  We found another partial deck in the house and made do with that, playing until Vibeke and Alec tied for the lead, and we decided to turn in.

We managed to leave early enough this morning to stop in Cagliari on our way to the airport for one last, fantastic gelato at L’Isola del Gelato on Piazza Yenne.  And now we are home again, just in time for a full week of fieldwork for me, and the kids’ last, short week of school.

Milo loved having a 5 day playdate with his best friend, Peter.  One morning I asked Milo when he had woken up and he told me: “I woke up first of all, but I just stayed in the bed because I knew when my friend Peter woke up, he’d want to do something fun with me.”  Although they sounded like an old married couple at times, they are very good buddies, and I hope they stay friends for a long time.  C.C. loved hunting lizards, looking for fish, and jumping off of the big rock all by herself.  And we had a terrific time with our new friends.  All in all, a successful trip.  I had begun to feel overwhelmed by all that has to happen these last three weeks in Barcelona and, as I napped in the Sardinian sun, the sound of the ocean filling my ears, I began to slowly unwind.  Upon returning, everything seems somehow more manageable.

Photos of the Day

From London to Barcelona, and Off Again

Somehow the days fly by now without a moment for blogging.  I am finishing fieldwork, working hard on a paper with Manuel, Amalia and Joana, spending 6 hours a week rehabbing my knee, and doing all of the million little things that need to be done when you pack up a house, prepare for a six week trip, and organize an international move.

So my trip with Milo, despite being a work trip, was a respite from much of this.  When we arrived in London, I made a silent pledge to try and move at Milo’s pace, to check myself when I found myself about to say, “Keep up,” “Let’s go,” “Hurry.”  I checked myself a lot.  Like most 6 year old boys, Milo looks at everything, touches everything, takes the long way around mailboxes, garbage cans, and streetlights.  So we did not do as many things in a day as I would have.   We spent more time in our hotel than I would have.  We stopped to rest on more patches of grass than I would have.  In the end, it was just right.

On Sunday we went to Margo and Gregory’s place—Gregory is teaching a course with a group of UT students—had some lunch and then strolled to Regent’s Park.  Unlike our first two days in London, which were unusually warm, dry and sunny, Sunday presented us with more typical London weather—grey and drizzly.  We wandered, took shelter at an ice cream stand when it began to drip, found a playground and, when it truly started to rain, caught a cab to Harrod’s.  Milo calls Harrod’s “the Gruffalo store” because it is there that I bought him the children’s book by Julia Donaldson.  Check it out, and also be sure to see the recent BBC production of it, which I think you can download.  It’s terrific.  We loaded up on a few more Donaldson/Scheffler books and then went to the Wagamama at Harvey Nichols for more noodles.

Monday I had a meeting with the head of the well-being group at the New Economics Foundation.  Margo picked Milo up and took the two boys to the Natural History Museum, where they got activity backpacks and pith helmets and did some exploring.  Meanwhile I had a terrific meeting with Charles Seaford—NEF has done some very interesting work on creating measures of well-being.  David Cameron recently announced his intention to measure and work toward well-being, instead of focusing so much on GDP.  Other governments at all levels are doing the same. 

I met up with Milo and the boys for lunch, and then we set out for the airport.  We finished reading the first Harry Potter book on the airplane; Milo is hooked.

After that it was a short week—two long days of work, and now we are bound for Sardinia, one last mini-trip before we leave Barcelona.  We had planned to do something this weekend with our friends Vibeke and Eirik, and their sons Andres and Peter (Milo’s best friend).  When Alec saw the incredibly low fares to Sardinia, we couldn’t resist.  So, in true Spanish style, we turned a 3 day weekend into a 5 day weekend, bought tickets, rented a house and a 9 person hooky van (Andres’ friend Dmitrios joined us), and packed up again.

Photos of the Day

Milo and Me, in London

As I got deeper into my slow cities, happiness and well-being research, I realized that there was a lot going on in London, enough to make a trip worthwhile.  Once I set up my meetings and discovered that good friends from Austin who also have a six year old son would also be in London, I bought tickets for Milo and me.  Ben, our friend Margo and Gregory’s son, is an only child and Margo assured me that he would be hungry for some kid time.  For some of my work—the part that involved food—Milo could tag along.

Milo and I have never traveled alone before, and I was really looking forward to a few days that would allow us to have a lot of time together.   I had taken C.C. and my Mom with me to London a couple of years ago for another work trip, and it was really special.  Alec decided to take C.C. to Teruel, the dinosaur capital of Spain, for a little special time of their own.

We landed at Gatwick just before 9 pm on Thursday evening—10 pm in Barcelona—and decided to take a taxi given the late hour.  Milo fell asleep on the way to our hotel, and then shuffled into the lobby and lay down on one of the comfortable couches while I checked in.  We’re staying at the Knightsbridge Hotel, one of the Firmdale properties.  There are several in London and one in New York City.  I love the ones I’ve stayed in here.  The rooms tend to be small but funky and well-appointed, with terrifically comfortable beds.  And each hotel has a living room and library, where guests are encouraged to hang out, read the paper, and help themselves to food and goodies from a well-stocked “honesty bar.”  I love hotels—the anonymity they afford, the luxury of having one’s bed made every day, the room darkening curtains that encourage naps and sleeping in, the fact that I simply cannot get up and do the laundry, pay the bills, clean the kitchen.  When I find one I like—and it does not have to be fancy—I am loyal.  I love the Firmdale hotels, Kimpton Hotels and the Standard in the US, the Room Mate hotels in Spain. 

Right now I’m sitting in the living room of the Knightsbridge, looking out at the rain and drinking fresh mint tea while Milo slumbers down the hall in our room.  If he were to wake up (which he won’t) and not find me there, I know he would come right out; he’s made friends with all of the desk staff, fetching newspapers, videos, and nail clippers.  We spent the day today with Margo, Gregory and Ben, and afterwards Milo invited everyone over to “my house.”  Milo lives wherever he happens to be sleeping that night.

On Friday we spent the morning at the Princess Diana Memorial Playground in Kensington Gardens—hands down the best playground I have ever visited.  Milo agrees.  Its central feature is an enormous pirate ship complete with towers to climb, and situated in an enormous sand lot surrounding by bubbling fountains to play in.  There are also teepees, musical instruments that one plays by stepping on or striking them, swings big enough for five kids at a time.

We then met with the Slow Food London people at Covent Garden, had a little chill out time back at the hotel—Milo likes his chill out time—and then went to the South Bank to grab an early dinner at Wagamama and see a show called Free Run playing at the Udderbelly—an enormous inflatable purple cow that houses a small theatre.  Free Run is a show that incorporates acrobatics, martial arts, and something called parkour, which involves flipping and running around walls, poles, fences, etc.  I found it a little thin, but Milo was enthralled.  If you have a boy between the ages of 5 and 14, it’s just the thing.

One of my favorite things to do when I travel is to visit local markets, and Borough Market may just be my favorite market of all time.  Located right near the London Bridge tube stop, it is a fabulous selling spot for vendors of extremely high quality ingredients —fruit, vegetables, cheeses, spices, breads, meats—and prepared foods –jams, yogurts, pastries, and loads of hot food to eat right on the spot.  Since we were not in a position to shop, we had to eat our way through.  We started out at Monmouth Coffee, where I got the perfect flat white and two chocolate truffles, and sat on stools next to the communal table to sip, nibble, and read from Harry Potter.  I had recently started reading the first book to Milo, and he had become quickly addicted.

Next we set out to find the grilled cheese sandwich I have been dreaming about since I first ate one three years ago.  I had come to London for some meetings and Jody had come with me to hang out, see art, and eat.  Gourmet magazine had recently put out a special London issue (I really miss Gourmet—I have not found anything that comes close to replacing it, for me), which I had read from cover to cover.  Ruth Reichl, in her introductory piece, waxed rhapsodic about the “platonic ideal of a grilled cheese sandwich,” discovered at Borough Market. She confessed that she had stopped there to try it and, even though she was on her way to lunch, ate two.  It was perfect, this sandwich—thick slices of buttered, grilled, country bread filled with an amazing mix of cheeses from Neal’s Yard Dairy.  Sometimes it is hardest to do the simplest foods well.  When I went back two years ago, I dragged my mother and C.C. there in a jet lag haze—it was the first thing I ate after landing.  I had to have another. 

Milo and I went first to the site where the stand (which also made raclette) had last stood.  It was not there.  I remembered that it had been in a different location the first time I’d been to Borough Market.  Not there.  Finally I asked a market worker who told me the stand was no longer there.  I was speechless.  Isn’t London one of those places where things aren’t supposed to change?  I love that I can go back and back to favorite places.  What had happened to the grilled cheese?!?  When I finally found my voice, I said, “Really?  But why?  Have they moved somewhere?”  The perplexed market worker simply shrugged and said, “Sorry, I don’t know.”  How could something so delicious simply vanish into thin air?  I imagined that something terrible had happened to the grilled cheese makers—a fatal accident, a horrible illness.  It could not be that he had just decided to stop—no normal narrative could explain this mystery. 

I had to regroup, so I bought a freshly cooked prawn and garlic wrap, full of crunchy greens and spicy sauce, at Applebee, a vendor with a storefront just down from Monmouth Coffee.  I washed it down with a cup of fresh watermelon juice.  Then a raspberry meringue.  And then an irresistible scone filled with jam, cream and fresh strawberries from Konditor and Cook.  I was full, but bought a bag of new spring cherries for later.

Borough Market is Slow Food heaven, and we got there early enough so that I could have some good chats with the vendors before the market got too crowded.

We had a little time to kill before our afternoon theater date, so we headed toward the river to walk, drop into the Tate Modern shop, and read a bit more on the green in front of the museum.  I had bought tickets for us to see a show at the Unicorn Theater, a nonprofit children’s theater not far from London Bridge.  The show, The Night Pirates, comes from a children’s book and is about a boy who joins a band of rough, tough girl pirates who steal the front of his house late one night.  A far cry from Free Run—very sweet.  And Milo was once again enthralled.  I love that, although he is starting to want to be cool, Winnie the Pooh is still his favorite book and he loves all of the Pooh videos.  “No bad guys, and no smooching,” he says, by way of explanation.

I had promised that we could order room service and watch a movie one night, and Milo picked Saturday.  He wanted to get right back to the hotel after the show and, again, “chill out.”  I had picked up a little cold somewhere, so had no reason to argue.  Milo played on my iPad and I dozed on the bed.  We borrowed a DVD from the hotel’s library, ordered in some food, and kicked back.

Later, after Milo went to sleep, I did some internet digging to see what I could turn up about the Grilled Cheese Disappearance.  I found that the vendor was called Kappacasein.  And on its website, I learned that they had left Borough Market.  The home page cryptically explains that “We have been forced to find a new home for our market stall after being caught up in a dispute over loyalties.” Hmmm. The site listed a new address, and opening times, but sadly they are only on Fridays and Saturdays.  I take solace in the knowledge that the sandwich of my dreams still exists; I’ll simply have to come back to London to eat another one.

Our Days are Numbered

We got C.C. a blank wall calendar for Christmas—the page above each calendar page was pure white so that she could draw whatever she liked.  She sat on her knees, hunched over it on the dining room table, her markers spread around her.  “What happens in February, Mama?” she would ask me.  “Valentine’s Day,” I would say and she would incorporate whatever holiday or other theme into her drawing.  It has a dinosaur theme, of course.  May, the Mother’s Day month, shows a mother Maiasaura and her baby in a next.  Maiasaura means “good mother dinosaur” and C.C. says the mama is me and the baby is her.

Today we turned the page from May to June.  C.C. had drawn an airplane with a Spinosaurus pilot, flying all of us away from Barcelona.  As it turns out, we don’t leave until July 1, but turning that calendar page did really make something shift inside me.  Now I can see all of the days we have left on one calendar page.  The kids have two weeks left of school.  It sounds trite, but the past six months have absolutely flown.  I finally feel as though I live here.  I have friends, my work is going well, I know where to buy chocolate chips, peanut butter, and drugstore mascara.

So I have started to shut down various threads that have been a constant for me this year.  A couple of weeks ago, as I looked at my schedule and thought about all of the travel I had left, the guests yet to come, the moving arrangements that needed to be made, I realized I needed to end my Spanish lessons.  So I’ve already said goodbye to Sylvia, who has been my tutor since I stopped going to the intensive, four hour per day school.

I love my life in Brooklyn, and I miss my friends and family, but a part of me wishes I had more time here.  Just a little—one more year, maybe.