Field Trip to Antequera, aka Middle of NOWHERE

29 January, 14

There ain't nothing here but a hole in the ground.

DISCLAIMER:

Before I get myself into a world of hurt, I must say that I actually enjoy our little junkets to places unknown. Susan works pretty hard to uncover these little gems, so my descriptions are in no way a poor reflection on her, even if she thinks they are. (I hope this works.)

After driving three hours west from our home, we finally made it to our appointed destination. We have taken in much of what Spain has to offer in terms of tourist attractions. Madrid, Barcelona and Northern Spain are on the docket for this summer. Now we are at that awkward middle ground, where we are not sure which way to turn next.

Awhile back, Katherine's history book showed some pictures of an ancient burial cave that was located in Spain, dating sometime around 3000BC, just before Madonna hit it big with her first single, Holiday. You just dated yourself.

Antequera was the town closest to the cave, so we put a few more liters in the Micra and took off for another puente, or long weekend, since the kids did not have school on Monday.

If you remember my recent blog post about another field trip, you realize that the journey is more important than the destination, an aphorism for which we are eternally grateful, lest we spend endless hours in empty pursuit.

We were pleasantly surprised to find Antequera to be a pretty little town, with ivy-covered rails running along cobblestone streets. They even had a tourist information center. It was located in the parking garage. The tourist packet was free, but you could only get information if you actually parked in the garage.

We wandered aimlessly about town for about an hour, then struck off toward the cathedral at the top of the hill. The monks of antiquity must have been shrewd land developers. They always picked the best spots for a cathedral. You never find one in the bad section of town, even after 500 years. This particular cathedral overlooked the city below, like a great stone watchtower. You could see for miles in every direction.

Our next stop was the dolmens de Menga y del Romeral, or ancient megalithic burial tombs. The largest one, Dolmen de Menga, contained several hundred persons. One of the stones weighs more than 180 tons. It is incredible to even consider how people conceived of such a structure, much less built it. They date to 3000 BC, around the same time as the pyramids of Egypt. Evidently this was a busy time for construction.

Even though the actual construction demonstrated a mastery of engineering, it still was just a big hole in the ground, at least for my kids. They were underwhelmed. The fact that three of them lined up with a mountain that looked like a sleeping woman's face and also ran along an axis that lines up with the solstice and equinox didn't phase them much either. You can't blame them for not appreciating such abstract concepts. They can't even imagine life before cell phones and microwaves, much less electricity and the wheel.
Even though the sites were not all that exciting, we still had great fun. Our girls are great travelers, and we have enjoyed each other's company over the miles. That makes it all worthwhile.

After we left the burial mounds, we still had a pretty a lot of time in our day, so we headed back to Granada for a little impromptu trip into the city. You can read about that adventure on another post.

 

I can really embarrass my kids

27 January, 13

After an amazing adventure to the middle of nowhere, we decided to salvage our day by making an unplanned excursion into downtown Granada, home to the vicious Ticket Witches. Any trip to Granada is worthwhile, parking tickets notwithstanding.

By far the coolest thing for me was watching a huge truck crane dismantle a tower crane that hung over the Granada Cathedral of the Incarnation, or Catedral de la Anunciación, which was built in the 1500's. I don't have any idea what a crane operator makes per hour, but it is likely not enough to cover the cost of dropping a huge load on top of a 500 year old church. 

After about an hour of aimlessly walking around, which in Granada is actually pretty cool, we found a bar with wifi, which accomplished two things: (1) we could all catch up on our internet addictions, and (2) we could make reservations for a flamenco show. In a previous blog, I recounted our first experience with flamenco. This show promised to be another wild affair. Susan found a supposedly famous place that several US Presidents have visited. This guaranteed the show would be full of non-Spanish tourists.

We were not disappointed. Two busloads of Asians, and our little family, filled the Lilliputian cave, including the small wooden chair proudly emblazoned with "Michelle Obama". I hold no grudge against Asians, or any group for that matter. I am simply making the point that nobody in the room hailed from Spain. The emcee welcomed all of us to the show in four different languages. Any minute, I expected some greasy lounge lizard to start belting out a Sinatra tune. A free beverage was included in the ticket price. This was tourist city. The only thing missing was a big Barnum & Bailey sign saying, "See the egress!" to eschew the hangers-on.

Attending a tourist oriented spectacle has some advantages, however. Perhaps the the most overlooked reason to follow the herd is the fact that many people before you actually liked the show. You don't get US Presidents, and Michelle Obama, to attend a shoddy performance, unless of course, it is a fundraising event. This particular family has been performing flamenco in this particular location for 65 years. That's a lot of foot stomping. Trust me when I tell you that guests were not paying for decor.

Another reason to follow the well-trodden path is that you get to look at all the other suckers and snicker at them for being bamboozled into showing up at such an obvious tourist trap. Of course we knew it was a tourist trap going in. We just didn't want to travel the extra 100 feet to attend the "authentic" show. Flamenco wasn't even on our agenda for the day. These poor folks had no choice. They just stepped right off a big bus and filed in like lemmings, looking for a cliff, all giddy with excitement at getting to see a real live flamenco show.

The best reason of all, though, is the opportunity to be an authentic tourist and turn my sweet little twelve year old inside out. The dancers, who were actually very talented, literally squeezed between the chairs as they whirled and stomped, snapped and clapped. I merrily cheered and shouted out all the Spanish phrases that seemed appropriate. The dance troupe's matriarch gave me a nice smile, when I yelled out to her, "Guapa!", which is basically like saying, "Hot mama!" Of course, "Olé!" is good for just about any occasion, including several times during a flamenco performance. Every time I shouted out a phrase, Katherine would cringe a little bit lower in her seat. She began hissing at me to shut up, which only encouraged me to sound off even louder. I began to get the timing down, so that my voice would ring out during a lull in the music.

Finally, Katherine hit on a grand inspiration. She needed to use the bathroom. Remember that this was in a cave, with only one entrance/exit, which was used by the performers. We were trapped inside, much to her chagrin. One of those tourists let her off the hook, though, by breaching all decorum and getting up between two acts. I had no choice but to release my prisoner.

She did come back, however, which afforded one more opportunity for torture. At the end of the show, all the dancers picked people out of the crowd to get up and dance with them. When one of the dancers came our way, I was sure she wanted me to get up and I humbly offered my hand. Obviously this was a new dancer, because she left me hanging and reached for Katherine's hand instead. I could not have planned this any better. Although piqued at the rebuff, watching Katherine squirm on stage was enough to assuage my pain.

The ride home was 75% chatter and 25% deadly quiet. Susan, Elizabeth and I were all aglow, regaling the night's events. In the deepest recesses of the Nissan Micra, however, lurked a vicious black panther, poised to strike. We left her in solitude, preferring silence to thrashing. Upon reaching our flat, she quickly climbed into her tree for the night, licking the wounds of public display.

After about 15 minutes, I walked up to the room and asked to speak to her. She allowed me about 10 seconds, during which I told her to spend less time worrying about what a bunch of tourists, that will never see her again, think and more time enjoying the moment. Then I told her I loved her and left her alone.

The next morning, she was able to smile a little about the episode. We even got a few jokes in. After a couple of hours, even Katherine thought it was funny. Of all the people in the room, she and Susan are the two that would be mortified by a public display, and both of them were flanked by the two people who would give an eyetooth to get up and shake their tail feathers in front of total strangers. What a beautiful irony. Priceless.

Two busloads of Asians filled the cave's , including the chair bearing Michelle Obama's name. I have nothing against Asians. It was just obvious that none of us were Spanish. The announcer welcomed us to the show in three or four languages. Yet another sign. The show included a free drink. At this point, I began looking for a greasy lounge lizard to start singing Sina

Basketball is an American Sport

21 January, 14

I used to play basketball everyday of my life, whether it was in the backyard by myself, or with friends down at Prestwood, or over at Noog Crowley's house. That's exactly what every other kid in America did, too. We all played basketball, even if you were short, uncoordinated and wore Coke-bottle glasses with rebar frames. I was so good that I could dribble with my left hand, three or four times, before it bounced away off my knee or foot.

As I got into high school and started to fill out a little bit, my game was actually competitive enough to not be picked last anymore. Second to last is still not last, so don't go raining on my parade. Prestwood Country Club unwittingly played host to games that made the NBA and NCAA Finals look like tiddlywinks tournaments. This was war.

I played like Kurt Rambis or Dennis Rodman;

solid defender, fearless rebounder and odd-looking athlete, something akin to the duck-billed platypus of the basketball court.

Kurt Rambis, my hero

Greg was the star. He shot the "J" from downtown, he drove the lane like a boss, he tossed no-look passes with surgical precision. Greg was the only white player on our high school basketball team. Hartsville High stunk so bad, that we would grade the other teams' dunks. We would chant from the stands, "Put in Token! Put in Token!", which would guarantee that Greg never played. He was so good, however, that he got a scholarship to play at a Division-II college, which was the only scholarship offered for the entire team. No scholarship was forthcoming for me, however. My only hope for basketball stardom was to be a walk-on at Clemson, which didn't seem very likely. Big time ACC universities, and Clemson, just don't appreciate the scrappy platypus kind of player.

This scene could be played over and over all across America. South Carolina shares a basketball heritage with the rest of the country. Baseball is "America's Pastime"; Football is "America's Spectator Sport"; but Basketball is the "Universal Game". Okay, "Universal" is a little bit of an American overreach, but work with me. I freely admit the possibility of sports on other planets.

Baloncesto, or basketball, in Spain is a big deal, too, but not even close to futbol. While I have grown to appreciate and even enjoy futbol, it has not grabbed my heart like basketball.

Before Christmas, one of our new friends, Amanda, told us that her boyfriend, Unai, had connections with the local professional basketball team, UCAM Murcia. She said she could get us free tickets to a game. Butter my butt and call me a biscuit. As a professional mooch, I am always ready, willing and able to accept invitations to free stuff.

We finally made it to a game last Sunday, where UCAM played worse than Hartsville High School would have played against the Lakers. It was a desastre, disaster. The other team won by 40 points, and UCAM's coach was fired on Monday. I still had a great time, however. After the game, we waited for the players to come out. Unai is a good friend of several of the players, so we had plans to eat dinner with the team afterwards. As it turns out, one of the Americans on the team, Scott Wood, is a friend of a friend. Scott attended NC State, and one of his friends cheered with one of my friends. We saw him outside the locker room and struck up a conversation.

Scott has been in Spain, alone, since September. He was starved for some American contact, so we had a great time at lunch talking about our mutual experiences. The girls peppered him with questions, and we all traded stories about the strange foods and unusual customs in Spain. Scott is only 23, so we are old enough, just barely, to be his parents. Susan and I felt like adopting him.

The rest of the team gathered at the other end of the table, as there is a culture and language divide, but I plan to bridge that gap on subsequent visits. We have an open invitation and free tickets to the games, so this promises to be fun.

With a little practice and the right shoes, I might even be able to make the team...

Looking for a Fiesta

18 January, 14

Susan got a wild hair up her butt and wanted to find a local fiesta. After a little Internet scouting, she found two that were in roughly the same area, near Caravaca de la Cruz, which literally means "cow face on the cross". You can't make this stuff up.

We juiced up the Micra and headed out for an adventure. After about an hour, we got out into the boonies. I mean out there, like they could have filmed the moon landings and NOBODY would know. We finally got to the first town, and started looking for the big party. And looking. And looking. Nothing but old NASA trailers.

Susan swears she saw at least five or six people around one corner, but we could not independently verify this information. After driving all the way through town, which took at least 15 seconds, the family reached a consensus that turning around and going back could invite some guy to start playing a banjo. I was in no mood to start squealing like a pig.

We got out of that fiesta-less armpit of Murcia and struck out in search of the second town on Susan's list. Along the way we saw a field full of sticks. They looked almost ready to harvest. I am not joking. They were all in rows, standing up like so many brooms-to-be. We were in the Sticks.

Who knew? We also found an old rusted out swing set that carried the child/victim out over the road, and a rope swing for dummies. With so much entertainment in one place, I started to understand why nobody ever leaves. How could your life ever get better? What would they do, if they knew about electricity and running water? The Internet would be pure magic, for which I am sure they would happily sacrifice a bundle of those fine sticks that were out growing in the field, to use as kindling at the witch burning. Nothing creates a festive atmosphere more than a good fire.

We did finally come across another town that was obviously in fiesta mode. They had a bouncy house and a six foot folding table full of knick knacks. The entire town showed up. Of course we did not even attempt to count, but a conservative estimate put the crowd well over 10 people, and one lady appeared to have all of her teeth. Again I didn't count, but she was holding them in both hands.

Of course, we arrived at the festivities too late to partake in any of the fiesta food, which undoubtedly consisted of some goat blood concoction over rice. Madre mia! We found the only bar in town. What do you get when you have two Spaniards in town? A bar and futbol club. They recruit the players from other countries. We ate some pretty decent lomo de la plancha, which is grilled pork tenderloin on little toasted bread.

After a gratifying round of fiestas, we took the road less traveled and ended up in the middle of a field. Turn around, you say? HECK NO! We're in this for the adventure. Soldier on. After about ten minutes of driving through the lunar landscape, we got back on the hard track, heading to points unknown.

This "road" is called "Old House Street". See if you can figure out why.

We finally got to a decent sized town, called Cehegin, which evidently means,  "Empty". Either we just missed the zombie invasion or Jesus came back, and we were not on His "A" List. We drove through block after block. Shuttered storefronts, closed homes and empty streets painted a pretty bleak scene, so we drove on to yet another town, called Bullas. Now this town is pretty important, but not for any particular Spanish thing. The "u" is always long in Spanish, like "oo". When you see the "ll" in Spanish, it is pronounced as "yuh".  We entered the town and saw some semblance of life, including more than 10 people. We were so excited at once again arriving safely in some vestige of humanity, that we all said in unrehearsed unison, "BOO-YAH!" You just never know where these words begin.

Modern transportation for the handicapped.

While we didn't find anything approximating a fiesta, we did discover that we had a lot to celebrate as a family. A fancy smart-box with a plethora of apps is not required for us to have fun. Sometimes all we need to do is get lost, in order to find ourselves. Score one for Susan and Spanish fiestas. Ole!

Bert the Immigrant

30 September, 13

Susan's family teems with immigrants: 50% Swedish, 25% German and 25% Polish. I am 100% Mutt. Her dad, Bert, immigrated to the USA when he was a boy, way back in the 19-Teens. He was old as dirt. In fact, he was older than my mother-in-law's mother. Weird.

Bert was in his 80's when I first met him. He was not as spry as he had been in his old days, but he was still sharp. I remember studying before making a visit to his Palm Beach, Florida home, in preparation for the onslaught of questions. I could not even get in the house before he was grilling me about interest rates and depreciation schedules on our rental properties. 1,001 questions.

“What's the vacancy rate on your mini-storage?”

“When are you going to refinance?”

“What’s the product mix on your storage units?”

“How long will it take to build another one?”

It was like drinking from a fire hose, and I loved it.

Bert was an incredible encourager for me. He always pushed me to take risks, while at the same time, coaching me on potential pitfalls. When I stepped on the inevitable financial land mine, he was always ready with an anecdote from his past about one of his failures. Bert was like a second daddy to me.

He was Swedish, and about Elizabeth's age, when he came to the USA. This was back when we welcomed immigrants with open arms:

The New Colossus

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,

With conquering limbs astride from land to land;

Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand

A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame

Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name

Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand

Glows worldwide welcome; her mild eyes command

The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she

with silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,

I lift my lamp beside the golden door!” 

(Emma Lazarus, 1883)

His family came with nothing more than Swedish farmers from Varmland could be expected to bring. Bert finished high school and never attended college. One day he told me that was the best thing that ever happened to him, because if he had attended college, he would have ended up in a Corporate America cubicle.

Instead, he struck out on his own, going door to door, to sell new roofs, in the 1920's. One day he hit it big and came into a lady's tea party. He sold five jobs on the spot. Bert went on to build a big construction business in New York City and Long Island. He retired at 55 and moved to Palm Beach to raise his family. 

Bert recognized something vital. People are more important than things. He had plenty of things, nice things, but they were merely trinkets. His great joy was his wife and kids, to which he devoted all his time and energy.

Bert died 12 years ago, but I still have conversations with him in my head. He pushes me forward and provides guardrails as I go. Without Bert, there would be no Spain. 

Te quiero mi amigo!

Looking for Work

12 January, 14

 I was twelve years old with a vision for the rest of my life. I have total respect for people who work for others. There is dignity in every vocation, except maybe politicians. I just cannot work for other people, at least not for very long. Three years is my record.

Living in Spain has been an incredible adventure for me and my family. All of us have taken some bumps and bruises along the way, but it is definitely worth it. After four months, however, I am now ready to start work.

Work in Spain presents a bit of a ticklish problem for me. My "Non-lucrative Visa" does not allow me to earn income in Spain. Obtaining a "Work Visa" is very difficult, because priority for any job goes to a Spanish citizen first and next to a member of the EU. With 25% unemployment, the Spanish government is wisely protecting its citizens from an influx of cheap foreign labor, like me, by limiting the number of work visas. Other than working under the table, which I will not do, that leaves me only a few options.

I can make income, as long as it is paid in the USA. That means I can be a consultant or free-lance something. Many Spanish language websites need better English translations, which I can do from home. Getting published is another avenue. The other option is to get a job in America that pays me to be here, which is untenable for me.

This is an inherited trait, so I feel absolutely no shame in saying that I do not want to have a J-O-B working for somebody else. One day my daddy took me to lunch at the Rainbow Restaurant out on North 5th Street in Hartsville. Sitting at the table were 10 or 12 guys, all friends of my dad's. In a moment of clarity and inspiration, he asked me a question: "Boy, what's different about all these fellows at this table?"

I looked around, and other than the fact that they were poster children for the poorly dressed and slightly overweight, I really had no idea.

Then the Mind of Main Street said, "Everybody at this table right now owns his own business, and he's sitting here because he wants to be here. Everybody at the local mill, from the janitor to the president, is at work right now, because he has to be there."

That was a Eureka! moment for me. My dad has no recollection of it.

I am not lazy. I actually like to work. I love to see the results of blood, sweat and tears. Being highly goal-oriented makes work fun, most of the time. Since 1998 I have oriented all my energies toward creating passive income through rental real estate.

Some of that time, we have been poor. We qualified for Medicaid when Katherine was born. Other times we ate like kings. All the time, however, I knew I was doing the right thing for me and my family. All the time, Susan was by my side, walking some long hard miles with me.

Now we are in Spain. Everybody, in Spain and in the USA, asks us what we do for work. When we reply, "Nothing", an inevitable cloud of confusion and doubt creeps across the landscape of their faces. The concept of working for others is so ingrained in us, that seeing something other than looks false or unreal. That is the fruit of the Industrial Revolution. While obviously gaining from the incredible technological leaps, perhaps we have sacrificed some of our independence.

My family, on both sides, has a long heritage of entrepreneurship. A witches brew of Scots-Irish orneriness and Southern independence drives us to unloose the yoke of economic slavery. Sometimes we eat rocks, but free rocks taste better than hand-me-down steaks.

Knock, Knock, Knockin'

16 January, 14

"Opportunity is missed by most people because it is dressed in overalls and looks like work." 
Thomas Edison 

My daddy and I were having an intense discussion about something of incredible importance one day. I was about 12 or 13, so it probably revolved around sports, as I still did not have a clue about girls (I still don't). I said something along the lines, "If only Clemson (or insert some other sports team) had done _________, we would have won the game."

Daddy replied, "If only a frog had wings, he wouldn't bump his ass on a lily pad." Profound wisdom from the Hartsville Magi. 

It took me a while to appreciate what that really meant, but now it is a truism, around which, I build my life. The "If only's" will suck you down into the mire of pessimism and paralysis.

If only I was:

• richer
• taller
• smarter
• faster
• stronger
• blah, blah, blah

If we take an honest look into the mirror, we must admit that these are only excuses for inaction. The difference between success and failure lies, not in some magical set of ingredients, but more in persistence and a dogged pursuit of our goals.

About 15 years ago, I wrote down a list of goals. Last May, When we were eschewing most of our worldly possessions in preparation for coming to Spain, I found the list. One of them was to learn Spanish. Another one was to generate sufficient passive income to retire from the traditional workforce by age 40. 

"Missed it by that much." Maxwell Smart 

It is funny how your goals stick with you, especially when they are cemented in your mind by writing them down on a simple piece of paper. Perhaps there is some neurological connection between fingers, eyes and mind.

“Whatever the mind can conceive and believe, it can achieve.” 

Napoleon Hill 

My next goal is to become a published author and speaker. Significant advantages arise from this enterprise. As long as I am submitting content to publishers, I can write off some of my expenses, such as living abroad. I might even need to travel to other places for more research. Booyah!

Writers write. If only I had the discipline... Well, I am not the most disciplined person on Earth, so this is my next challenge to overcome. Saying I don't have time is a joke. 

Here are five steps to achieving a goal:

1. Write it down.
2. Change your attitude.
3. Surround yourself with people who can help you.
4. Eliminate wasteful activities. (Facebook, TV, etc.)
5. WORK!

What challenge are you facing? Are you going to let it stifle you into submission or stimulate you to action? Go get that piece of paper, and write down your goals. Then get busy!

For nothing is impossible with God. God

Gettin' Learned Up

8 January, 14

My youngest daughter, Katherine, slammed her bedroom door, stomped into the living room and shouted out, “I want to go HOME! I hate this place! I hate school! Why are you making me do this?!”

Back in August 2013, my wife and I moved to a very small community close to Murcia, Spain, with our two daughters, aged 12 and 14. With two school-aged kids, education is obviously a big deal for my family. We agonized over what and how to do that. We still worry about it, frankly. Neither of my girls knew any Spanish, which made us lean toward homeschooling as a way to reduce the stress of moving. When we got closer to making our decision to move, we learned from our Spanish friend, who is an administrator in the local school here, that homeschooling is not a viable option. That left us with entering the girls into the local school, which has a very good curriculum and a partially bilingual program. We were understandably apprehensive, but after careful consultation with our friend and several of the teachers, we came to believe that this really was a good route.

My girls are 12 and 14, and in the American equivalent of 7th and 9th grades, respectively. Those are not easy years to start a new school, if you live in America. Try it in a whole new culture and language. Fortunately, our daughters have made several good friends. The locals here have treated us all so kindly. We are minor celebrities in town, because we live in a very small community. It's not the typical expat destination, by any means. The teachers, for the most part, have embraced the concept as well. They readily agreed to provide tests in English, and the school is providing Spanish lessons, in lieu of some classes. The only area that is a little lacking is in translating the math word problems. Sometimes, they come out a little wacky. We are working with the math department to straighten that out, however.

The material they are covering is at least comparable, if not better than, what we have back in the States. Seventh grader is a tablet-only class. All their books, homework and study materials are virtual. Last night I helped Katherine complete a PowerPoint presentation about a field trip to a nature preserve. This morning I received an email from Elizabeth's Physics and Chemistry teacher. He searched for and found the same book he is using in class, but in an English version, so we now have an English e-book.

The first semester's grades came back much better than expected. Our oldest passed all her classes in the "B" to "C" range. Our youngest did the same, except for French class, where she is struggling. Yep, French class. We didn't have a choice on that, but learning yet another language is not a bad thing. On a recent vacation to Paris, she was so excited to order four croissants for the family. I really believe that she is going to master French over this next semester.

After returning from Christmas break, we are now entering the second semester of school. They just started back last week. We moved from North Carolina. As a backup plan, we established ourselves as an NC homeschool. That gives us the ability to administer end-of-grade tests, which can be used for USA grading purposes, relieving the pressure from our girls. They can focus on learning here in Spain, and not so much on performance. At the same time, we will have objective measurements for the college boards, which are just around the corner.

Last Friday and Monday, I held some teacher conferences, with mixed results. The first teacher, Santiago, gave me great hope. He was very sympathetic to my kids' situation and even took it upon himself to seek out another teacher to help explain. Katherine's science curriculum is in French, which definitely adds a layer of complexity to the subject. Santiago approached the Science teacher with some possible classroom modifications, such as allowing Katherine to use earbuds and listen to English science videos. The teacher readily agreed and then told us that she had an English language textbook to use as well. While I was very happy to know that, I was also a little dismayed that the teacher did not conceive of these two solutions on her own, four months ago. Oh well. Some people just cannot operate outside of the tight parameters we call normal, without a little assistance.

My last conference was with Katherine's French teacher, who has not exactly been her favorite person this year. Katherine is very sensitive to body language. She picks up on things that nobody else does. At times she over-amplifies what she sees, turning a mild correction into a harsh rebuke. Having said that, I am siding with her on this one. I don't like this teacher either! She carries herself with a withering, holier-than-thou demeanor, which really frosts my butt. NOBODY can be holier than me. We did have a good meeting, however, after I assured her about how hard Katherine is working every night. Even she agreed to help, so there is hope for humanity after all.

After she heard about my teacher meetings and how I agreed that the French teacher needed to take a long walk off a short pier, Katherine’s postured changed, as if a millstone had fallen off her shoulder. We understood. Since then, her attitude about school, and life as an expat teenager, has changed. My girls still miss home, but maybe, just maybe, they are starting to see this more as adventure than torture.