Last night, the flickering of lightening bouncing around my bedroom woke me from sleep at five minutes shy of 1am.  I could not yet hear the thunder but I knew the storm was coming.  I had felt it building like itchy energy around us all day long; contaminating the normal humidity with a strange power that thickened the air and made us all a little restless and twitchy.  In a little more than one-half hour, the tempest hit with a sudden ferociousness that reminded me of an Arizona summer monsoon.  I lay in the comfort of my dry, warm abode thankful, yet again, for walls, roof, bed and blanket and listened to the torrential downpour for at least an hour.  During this same period, the power in the apartment building flickered twice and eventually set off a system alarm that rang for 15 minutes until some enterprising soul discovered the “off” button.  There was a major hubbub in the hall with doors opening and closing, muted voices muttering and footsteps ringing on the stairs.  Eventually, as with all things, the raging diminished to a gentle sputter, all returned to status-quo, and finally, utter silence at 4:27am.  At this juncture, I would like to note that neither my mother nor my child were even remotely disturbed by the early morning goings-on.  Both slept as peacefully as the dead and were surprised to hear all my news later that morning over breakfast.  

I would also like to take a moment to point out that contrary to what Frederick Loewe would have us believe, the rain in Spain is NOT mainly on the plain.  There were puddles of muddy rain water and runoff all over the sidewalks, streets, stairs, and doorways.  Rain filled each underpass and dip.  Water literally flooded the city streets and underground garages. Only a small jon boat would have safely traversed from Ferrocarrill to Constitucio along Avenue de la Pineda but the passengers would have needed to lay down completely prone in order to avoid serious bodily damage while navigating under the overpass. In some cases, the water remained perilously high well into the late afternoon even with multiple pump and tubing systems deferring water to nearby drains as quickly as possible.  It was an awesomely horrifying mess and it was clear from our train ride into the city that Castelldefels was not the only region overwhelmed with fluids.  

Our plan for today was to ride the train to Barcelona and meet the real estate agent at 9am at her office on Passig de Gracia (a relatively well-known downtown street similar to Rodeo Drive in Los Angeles), where we might also get a glimpse of the nearby landmarks.  From there, we wanted to visit at least one or two potential long term rentals and discuss our preferences, thoughts and options.  Perhaps then, we could have a nice lunch, go to the market and ride the train home.  It sounded like a lovely plan until we realized that by arriving in Barcelona at 9am, we would be throwing ourselves into rush-hour traffic with hundreds of other commuters leaving the suburbs for the city.  Thankfully we had already purchased a train card so we skipped the long lines and followed the herd to the correct platform.  We managed to squeeze onto the first train which was only slightly faster than the slow boat to China and we plugged along studying the murky countryside and our heavy-eyed co-passengers.  Now I know how they can go to dinner at 9pm.  They simply sleep on the train.  Mystery solved.  

We had some difficulty with our initial meeting this morning.  Nothing unexpected and yet it was still a surprise.  Isn’t it funny how that sometimes happens?  Our scheduled 9am meeting soon morphed into “approximately 10am, por favor?” and we were left with some time to kill before we could get started.  Eventually, we explored Passig de Gracia, taking a moment to admire the architectural art of Antoni Gaudi that is so popular in this area.  We slipped off the beaten path and discovered a lovely flower market tucked away inside what appeared to be an old warehouse.  The flower market had casino-like effect on our perception of time and we unwittingly invested nearly an hour of our lives wandering amidst the foliage and blossoms.  

At this point, we were notified by our agent that she had located a property we could visit today and would like to meet us there.  It’s only a 2 mile walk from where we were currently aimlessly meandering, so surely not a problem, yes?  However, as Americans accustomed to having a real estate agent ferry us around in a large air-conditioned, gasoline-powered vehicle, we were a little unprepared for such personal exertion.  Uphill, nonetheless.  My mother was none too pleased with this development.  I was trying to see things from a more positive perspective.  Perhaps our agent simply wanted us to observe the lovely area and give us a chance to see more of where we might be living?  Perhaps on-street parking would be an issue and she wanted to mitigate any risk of negative first impressions?  Later, we discovered the actual reason why our agent wanted to meet us at every prospective property location: she drives a Vespa.  She’s very attractive in her high heels and fashionable clothes sitting on a tiny motorized bike with matching helmet.  Given how much we walked today and the fact that we did not procure a rental contract and therefore can expect many more similar days in our near future, Mom and I are considering our own motorized options.  Allita can probably fit in a sidecar, right?  

When we finally returned to Castelldefels, we were exhausted, yet exhilarated.  We had accomplished much of our original plan, which is a satisfying discovery we seldom recognize. We did stop for lunch.  We did find a market and make many purchases.  We did see some of the popular sights in town. We also, somehow, magically boarded the commuter train so we were able to quickly return to Castelldefels from Barcelona with only the Gava stop prior to our own.  Because it was 4pm, the cars were mostly empty so we luxuriated in our tiny seats.  All-in-all, it was a productive and lovely day.  Although we didn’t find a permanent home, we did get to see much of the area where we want to live.  Up close and personal.  And, even slimy, wet and under slightly overcast skies, it was quite nice.

We have arrived.  

I feel like there should have been considerably more fanfare and jubilation.  Possibly some sort of Hawaiian-esque welcome with festive dancers and smiling men in brightly colored shirts passing out large glasses of cold sangria instead of rum in a coconut and a lei.  Although, come to think of it, that didn’t happen to us when we got off the plane in Hawaii either.  So I’m apparently having a Fantasy Island moment.  Actually, I’m not sure we would have appreciated anything other than the simple sunny welcome we received.  We were all (even the poor cat) exhausted from the journey.  We trudged through the Barcelona airport, dragging along 9 (yes, NINE!!) pieces of luggage and one feline in a Sherpa bag.  I can’t say I remember many details about the airport except that it had fantastic and exceptionally functional air-conditioning.  An amenity that I did not fully appreciate until I went outside to collect the rental car.  That experience was reminiscent of all the times I left work in Houston in August and then walked 1/2 mile to my car in the parking lot.  For the first time in six years, I actually broke a sweat just standing outside and breathing.  Ahhhh humidity.  I had forgotten about you, my nemesis.  

Many of you have asked me to provide details about the “traveling-transatlantically-with-a-cat” experience.  I will start out by saying that I have never met an animal who travels better than Toby.  Surprise, surprise.  He was amazing.  He slept 99% of the way.  We did have some disagreement about him getting into his travel bag each time I had to unload and reload him, but otherwise, he was generally quiet and calm.  I doubt he enjoyed the relocation experience, however.  He spent all day Sunday in a state of high anxiety.  He witnessed the packing of suitcases into the rental car, the disappearance of many of this own personal items, a full cleaning of the house, removal of trash and all sorts of last minute purging.  There was a fair amount of angst on his part.  He told me so in detail between midnight and 3 am Monday morning.  Then, he was forced to stay in his little red collapsable travel bag most of the 8-hour drive from Tucson to Las Vegas on Monday.  I imagine that did not set a good precedence for our international flight.  In fact, getting him into said bag was somewhat more challenging on Tuesday, even though he was drugged.  “Resistance is futile”, I heard myself telling him.  Allita did not approve of my ensuing evil laugh.  Oh well, it was an inside joke designed for my generation.  

Also, I did not wear the travel-vest, as planned.  We had a trial run at lunch with Corie in Phoenix when we passed through on Monday.  Toby was a champ until about 1/2 way through the meal.  At that juncture, he decided he was done with living in the pouch and he violently projected himself backwards out of the pocket so that he was literally half-way in and half-way out – tail swishing violently in the air.  Mom and I worked surreptitiously under the table of our corner booth to extract him from my clothes and put him into his travel bag.  There was great relief on both our parts, and the nearby customer who had stared at me during the first half of the meal appeared somewhat relieved to discover the alien in my pocket was instead a cat. In retrospect, I wish I had seen a video of the experience as I am certain it was hilarious.  

Let me take a brief moment to explain the functional fashionwear I call my “travel-vest”.  My friend, Barb, posted a video on my FB page last year showing an Asian man wearing a hoodie.  Eventually, a cat poked his head out of a tiny pocket in the front of the sweatshirt.  It all appeared to be very convenient and lovey for both man and feline.  My mother, who is an amazing seamstress, repurposed a man’s sport vest into something very similar.  Thus, I was wearing a sleeveless, silver man’s sport vest with an angry, hot cat riding joey-style in the front pocket for a portion of our goodbye meal.    Needlesstosay, I have new-found respect for doe kangaroos.  Also, I want to give a note of thanks to Corey who originally suggested the idea of a trial run.   Another genius recommendation – thank you!

The rental car we reserved was the largest vehicle I have ever driven in Europe.  Any person who has ever driven in Europe will tell you that a large SUV is not the way to go.  I counted at least 10 times that I nearly took off the side of the car due to confined driving spaces.  We had some challenge finding the apartment, but we were successful.  We have a lovely terrace and plenty of space.  Living one mile from the beach in a quaint vacation rental for the next two or so weeks (hopefully).   Of course, parking was non-existent so I paid for one night access to a microscopic spot on the bottom floor of a covert subterranean garage. Of course, there was a pole next to the driver’s door so I had to crawl out the passenger side. Thankfully, at the exit there is a well-stocked mercat with a friendly merchant who sells alcoholic beverages. His name is Juan.

We all stayed up until after 9pm so that we could immediately get on a regular sleep routine.  No jet lag for this group of troopers!  This morning was lovely.  Humid and warm but hey, we’re in Spain!  Following a lazy breakfast, we drove cautiously to the Carrefour for some groceries and apartment-living staples.  Afterwards, I double-parked like a local (i.e. without a care in the world) in front of the apartment which doesn’t even allow on-street parking (and the sidewalk is under construction!), and we unloaded our purchases.  Then I took the car back to the airport and road the train home to Castelldefels.  

Here is a funny story:  I managed to figure out the train system pretty quickly.  It’s very nice of the Spanish to present the routes in a gigantic map painted across a massive wall outside the only entrance to the airport train station.  The map is color-coded and well-maintained – thus simple and straight-forward for the average level of reading comprehension.  After I determined my route and acquired my ticket, I waited patiently at the correct platform.  This was also the ONLY platform since the airport train station is the terminus for a single train route.  In a few moments, I heard a heavily accented voice ask “Excuse me, ma’am.  Can you please tell me if this train goes to Sants?”.  I turned to look as the voice was so close.  Who would be asking me such a question?  Do I appear to be a local already?!?  Yes.  Indeed, I apparently do.  As tempted as I was to ask “What other train options do you have?”, I decided to pay-it-forward and I walked the little family over to the massive, wall-mounted metro map to explain the little colored lines and station names printed neatly in black ink.  They appeared attentive and very appreciative.  Hopefully they got off the train in the right place. 

By the way, they were not the last people to ask me about directions.  After I changed direction (had to go north in order to go south) and made my way to another track at a different station, another nice family stopped to ask me if they were on the appropriate track for the train to Villanova.  I took them to a similar transit mural and explained that multiple trains come through this small station and yes, one track is for northbound and one for southbound.  So, each track will have multiple different trains but they will all be going either north or south.  They were on the southbound track with me so they were ok.  I am more confident they arrived at their location as it is the end of the line for the train I put them on.  Mental note:  teach Allita how to read metro maps.  It is apparently a life skill. 

A fascinating and friendly Spaniard named Gusto observed my dealings with the Villanova-bound family and struck up a conversation with me on the ride home. He has lived in Castelldefels for most of his married life and his grandchildren love going to the beach here. We chatted in broken Spanish/English for what felt like only a minute but was likely a little more. Long story short, I ended up with a free cheese pizza and some coupons to his nearby cafe.

And so, we have arrived.  

The wikipedia page for Administration refers to Management of Organizations.  The page further defines “management” as “the act of directing people towards accomplishing a goal”.  After 30 years of managing others in a variety of professional roles and eight months of “managing” this relocation, I find that definition to be technically accurate yet emotionally and psychologically imprecise.  A more appropriate definition might be “a collection of attempts involving considerable effort (physical and mental), time and skill made with a variety of resources (human, technological, capital, entrepreneurial and sometime pious) in order to orchestrate a desired outcome”.

Sometime around Thanksgiving 2018, while camping near Death Valley, CA, the three of us decided to make a change.  We ruminated over the details of the change for a week or so until we finally ironed out a goal.  We would move to Europe for a period of not less than one year and not more than three years.   Perhaps Germany – the Hamburg area has mild(ish) weather and we have never lived so far north.   The city is large and populated with diversity.  At least two of us speak German.  Perhaps not fluently, but certainly better than we speak any other non-English language.  Perhaps Switzerland – we visited the Bodensee in 2017 and had a lovely time with family friends who live nearby.  We can understand Swiss although it is neither German nor French.  Perhaps Spain.  Ah yes.  Spain.  Barcelona?  Yes.  Perfect.  For so many reasons: some related to nostalgic memories from my own youthful adventures in Barcelona, some related to my mother’s memories of touring Spain with my father over the years, and, finally, some related to the practicality of living in Spain and the desire to experience Barcelona sensationally.

Each of us has a role in the realization of our goal.  My mother’s role is to pack.  She is the queen of down-sizing.  She has honed this skill for decades.  Her expertise in this area is renown to the point that I am amazed she has yet to offer a Ted Talk on the topic.  Since we have three households that require downsizing and packing, hers is not a minor role.  She throws herself into this position with the single-minded dedication I have come to expect from my mother.  When she becomes focused on something, she is cat-like in her determination to achieve success.  Yes.  It can, at times, be scary.  Indeed terrifying.  Once, she packed enough clothes and toiletries for my daughter and I to spend the Thanksgiving holiday and weekend in San Fransisco into a tiny backpack.  Every business trip my father ever took in his 42-year career with IBM was carefully assembled and packed by my mother.  This is why she is the perfect person for this role.  Ideal really.

My daughter’s role is to procrastinate.  As a pre-teen, she excels in this position with nearly the same aplomb as my mother does her own.  Her excuses are artistically creative.  She can defer, temporize and vacillate better than most junior congressmen.  She abhors downsizing.  She havers about storing minutia and personal detritus in order to engage my mother and I in verbal sparring designed only to facilitate further delay.   It is a circular ballet that, I am certain, would be entertaining were it part of a reality tv show instead of my own reality.  She excels in her capacity to the point that we have recently entitled her “The Hoarder”.  She is, at all times, challenging and we humor her far more than we should.  Primarily because we are weary from the dance and unable to battle further.  Thus, we have an entire storage unit full of items that will surely be outgrown by the time we return to unpack it.

My role, as you can imagine, is to manage.  I now refer you back to the beginning of this post.  I am managing the paperwork and administration associated with our three households, visas, passports, identification cards, property managers, repair and maintenance personnel, financial managers, lawyers (YES!), downsizing (because my mother has subcontracted the bureaucracy of her responsibilities – such as organizing donation pick-up or drop-off, online sales on Facebook Marketplace, etc. to me), taxes, rentals (cars, hotels, apartments), travel, Consulates, storage (see “The Hoarder”), overseas shippers, customs and the cat.  These items are not listed in the order of significance or complexity.  This is only a sample of the various resources involved in this process.  A short list of the tasks to be accomplished in order to achieve the goal.  In fact, I have lists of lists.  However, I am tenacious.  I will succeed.  We will relocate.  Just you watch!