Did I ever tell you how I got here?

A lot of you know this story, and if so, you can tune out…

It all started when my father was a medical resident in Houston and he contracted tuberculosis, probably from a patient.  Back in the day, contracting tuberculosis meant a lot of bed rest.  My father was instructed by an occupational therapist to choose something he could study or do from his bed.  He had an interest in art – he painted a little – and somehow, someway, he became interested in the art of Francisco Goya, Spanish painter (1746 – 1828).

When I was 14, a wealthy aunt gave my parents a gift of some money to go to Europe so my father could see the paintings of Goya he’d always wanted to see in person.  My aunt was horrified that my parents planned to take me and my brother with them, but it was a fortuitous thing that changed my life.

I loved Europe immediately, everything about it, especially the boys who seemed more openly interested in me than any back home.  Maybe I’ll do another post on our dramatic family separation when we were boarding a train in Monaco bound for Rome.

My next year in school, 9th grade, was the year when we made our “four-year plans” and chose a major.  Sounds kind of ridiculous now that a 14-year old would have any idea what to choose for a major.   At that time, I looked back over my report cards, and although I always had A’s and B’s, the class in which I consistently made A’s, no B’s, was Spanish.  Voila, the deed was done.

At some point during high school I learned that colleges offer programs abroad for junior-year students.  I knew that was for me.  I could go back to Spain!  I went through the huge index book of US colleges and looked at only those with JYA programs.  Tulane seemed to fit the bill all the way around – in a city, not too far from Houston, but definitely far enough from home, and the drinking age was 18.  What’s not to like?

The year I spent in Madrid in college was, as we often sarcastically called it, “the most God damned wonderful experience” of my life.  We called it that because, although we had a ton of fun, there were challenges all along the way in being a young American in a foreign country where you didn’t know how to do anything.  Heck, we barely knew how to do anything in the US.  But, I knew when the school year was over that all I wanted to do was go back.

I finished college and took a job as a media buyer at McCann Erickson and saved money for a year and a half.  I had some savings too.  I talked my bestie, Ellen, into going with me.  Because I was very very afraid of flying at that time (I’m not much better now) and I’d heard about freighters carrying passengers to Europe, Ellen and I set sail for Italy, a 17-day sea voyage.  My $3,000 dollars bought me a round trip freighter ticket and provided enough living money for 10 months in Spain.  We lived in Fuengirola and became fast friends with the owners, cooks, and waiters at the O Mamma Mia Pizzeria, whom we met on our first night in town.  I’m still friends with a couple of them!  We all would go dancing at the disco when the Pizzeria closed around 1:00 a.m., dance till dawn, eat breakfast, sleep, sunbathe, then do it all again.

I returned to Spain when I was getting my Master’s in Spanish from the University of Houston.  It was only a six-week course in Madrid, but it gave me a “fix.”

Then, life happened – husband, job, home, children.  I never forgot about Spain – I talked about it pretty constantly to the annoyance of some – and listened to Spanish pop music in the car all the time, also to the annoyance of some.  And I made a few “vacation” trips back over the years.

During the trip to Spain in 2013, it hit me.  Contrary to what I’d always believed, I DID want to retire.  I wanted to retire and live in Spain.

I guess I’m still a little mixed up because I can’t quite bring myself to leave the US and all my special friends behind long-term.  So far, it’s working out that I have the best of both worlds.

And all because my dad got tuberculosis.  Ain’t life crazy?