SPRING BREAK, EURO-STYLE

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Everyone (not a hyperbole) in our Spanish world speaks multiple languages. The underachievers are only fluent in two; most speak between three and five. So when the "Which languages do you speak?" topic arises — as it regularly does — I pretend I'm not that uncultured American who just emerged from my English-speaking cave: "Well no Spanish...yet!...but I took 6 years of French. Guess I picked the wrong language! Oops! [awkward laugh]" As though my deficiency in one is clearly explained by my masterful command of the other. Right.

But it only took 24 hours in France to disabuse me of the notion that I can in any way, ever again, truthfully claim to speak French.

We drove to Provence for Semana Santa — the week before Easter, when Spanish schools and businesses alike get a spring break — and spent 4 nights in Saint-Remy-de-Provence with our expat friends and their kids. Upon sitting through a meal attended by a grumpy French waitress, and then stumbling through a 90-second grocery store checkout, my imposter-francophone self was exposed: my French pronunciation had a decidedly Spanish flare, my limited French vocabulary had merged with my also-limited Spanish vocabulary, and I could not, for the life of me, stop saying "si." It was Spanlishench at its worst. 

Regardless of the language issues (a familiar theme of our last 9 months), Provence was...Provence. Exactly what you'd expect: charming, quaint, delicious, and made even better by a glass of rosé at sunset. We explored several of the surrounding villages and cities — Les Baux-de-Provence, Avignon, Gordes, Fontaine-de-Vaucluse — and spent time enjoying the backyard of a truly delightful AirBnB. 

And thanks to an extended visit by a generous mother-in-law, Aaron and I got to tack an extra two nights onto the vacation; after we dropped off the kids and "Nammy" back in Barcelona, we flew to San Sebastián for brief but oh-so-appreciated kid-less getaway. 

NOT TO BRAG, BUT FOR TODAY'S TOPIC: WEATHER

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It would be an understatement to say that we've appreciated Barcelona's weather. With Boston ice still thawing in our blood, we've been truly madly deeply in love with the bright blue Mediterranean sky and the Catalan version of "winter." It's been amusing to see a people-totally-unaccustomed-to-actual-harsh-weather's version of harsh weather; as soon as the temperature dips below 60, everyone busts out their mega-puffer jackets and schools stop having outdoor recess. (Boston: delay the puffer as long as possible or you'll have nothing left in your winter artillery bank, and you're only skipping outdoor recess if there's a windchill warning and your fingertips are on the line.) It's not to say it's not cold here — there was a stretch of jackets-required 50-degree days — but it was short-lived and manageable in a way that we're totally not used to.

Since weather is all relative, we've exploited the fact that many Spaniards are still hibernating and taken the opportunity to play on still-deserted beaches in Barcelona and beyond. Our recent favorite was Begur in Costa Brava — the beautiful rocky, hilly, beachy area north of Barcelona — where we spent a weekend with our friends from the US, Noah and Kate and their world-traveling 8-month-old; it's less than a 2-hour drive from Barcelona and a little piece of heaven on earth.

TOURISTING IN BARCELONA

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In deciding to move 4,000 miles away, we hatched a corresponding secret plan to import as many friends and family, for as many cumulative days a year, as we possibly could. The details of the plan were based on two primary assumptions: (1) jet-lagged visitors aren't dying to be fully immersed in the day-to-day insanity of your new Spanish life (ergo, rent an apartment with an extra bedroom and bathroom in its own [more] quiet corner), and (2) friends don't make friends fly 8+ hours to see them in a city that sucks (ergo, choose a city that will lure people in on its own). 

For the moment, our plan seems to be working delightfully; the two-pronged strategy successfully in place, we're looking forward to importing several loved ones over the coming months. We just had our first of the year—my parents, a visit highly-anticipated by two small grandchildren who (rightly) counted on 8 days of spoiling. They were the second set of houseguests we've had so far (Aaron's parents were able to come twice last year), but the first guests that included a Barcelona first-timer; it was my dad's first visit to Spain.

Wanting to ensure that he saw all the highlights, we spent most of the week being tourists, roaming to all corners of Barcelona and beyond. We hit up many of our so-far Barcelona tourist favorites — things which, if you come to visit, I'll probably suggest you do, too: 

SEMANA BLANCA

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Many of Spain's schools grant two spring breaks: one is (pretty obviously) Semana Santa, the Holy Week for Easter holidays, the other is (less obviously) Semana Blanca, the Holy Week for ski holidays.

As its name seems to impel, Semana Blanca ("white week") sees the mass exodus of families to the surrounding mountains; almost everyone leaves the city, and almost everyone heads snow-ward. We were no exception. But armed with crazy cheap airline tickets (thanks, EasyJet), we bypassed the Pyrenees and braved the Alps. 

Backing it up a bit, we actually did our first Euro-ski weekend (read: a test-run to see if Eliza would tolerate snow sports) at the end of January. We drove four hours to Baqueria-Beret, a Pyrenees mountain on the border of France and Spain, where we discovered that not only did the kids tolerate skiing, they may actually make Aaron's Dad Dreams of having a ski-addicted family come true. (Side note: we've been driving around with a ski rack atop our car since August.)

Having established that we could collectively handle something a bit more exotic, we chose Saas-Fee in the Swiss Alps. We took a quick flight from Barcelona to Geneva (in Spanish, Ginebra; good to know beforehand if you want any prayer of finding your gate), a 2.5 hour train from the Geneva Airport to Visp, and a 50-minute bus from Visp to Saas-Fee. It was a hike but well worth it. Saas-Fee is a cozy, fun car-less town where everyone skis (and après-skis). The kids took 3 hours of lessons a day (translated: 3 hours of guilt-free adult-only ski time a day) and we all spent the afternoons together soaking in the vistas.

AN AMERICAN'S IMMIGRATION

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A personal reflection on an American's immigration process:

Choose. Pick your country, any country! You, dear American, have unrivaled access to the world! Take your time and consider your wealth of options. There's no hurry. It's not as though you're trying escape ruinous economic conditions or the threat of war or a doomed future for your children; you're just looking for adventure! Want a place with a great climate and laid-back way of life, close to the beach and the mountains, where you can work in a world-class institution and your kids can get a top-notch private school education? Consider it done.

Move your stuff. Fretting over which of your way-too-many things to bring? Don't worry, it's not like you have to carry it yourself. Your employer — from that respectable job you locked down months in advance — will help subsidize the moving expense. And shipping containers can totally handle American overconsumption levels, especially when you get a full one to yourself. Bring it all!

Move yourself. No walls to climb or rafts to board; just hop on your one-way flight with some good reading material and a few suitcases stocked with oodles of extra American toiletries — you know, in case you get homesick and miss all of your essentials. Rest comfortably on your overnight flight, after your glass of wine and hot mid-air meal, knowing that even if the airline lost everything you brought, you've still got that little blue book in your pocket with the five magic words on the front: "PASSPORT United States of America." No inconveniences for you! Sweet dreams.

Arrive. Meet your relocation agent who's dedicated to helping you make a "soft landing." She'll be a huge help when it comes to things like opening a bank account or signing a rental agreement or connecting your utilities — because after all, you just moved to a country where you don't speak a lick of the language. But you speak English! Don't most self-respecting people these days? Any reasonable website or form will surely have a translation available. You'll learn eventually, but no one can expect immediate perfection!

Integrate. Look for other people like yourself. Maybe you can Google some meet-up groups. But don't use the wrong search term — you're not an immigrant, silly! You're an expat, with its cachet of cool and cosmopolitan. You're now entitled to networking events and cocktail hours, where you can mingle with other foreigners and chit chat about all the bemusing aspects of local culture. Welcome to the club!

It's sure to be a great few years, and when you're done sampling life abroad, your cushy American life back home awaits you. Enjoy!

While I like to think that our own move abroad was not nearly so cavalier, the facts are the facts: The disconnect between an American's immigration process and the American immigration process is reprehensible and embarrassing. As we live as expats/immigrants/outsiders in someone else's country, it has become impossible to defend the actions of our own. 

Be better than this, America.