I was 12 years old when my mother decided to pack up all our earthly possessions and move us across Europe, from Denmark to the south of Spain, so that we could go live with the man I eventually came to think of as my stepdad.
At that point, my parents had been doing their separate things for about three years, and she had no particular love of Denmark.
I didn't really have much to say about it, because my "normal" had already been that we moved constantly and had been doing so ever since I was a tiny kid. My ambivalence, of course, was not informed by the small detail that this move to Spain was permanent, unlike our previous moves, where we would spend 4-9 months abroad and then return back to Denmark.
I had pretty much also given zero thought to the reality that people where we were going would likely speak neither English nor Danish. It was an oversight that ultimately didn't turn out to be as serious as it could have been. After all, we were moving to an enclave of predominantly English speaking expats, not the actual Spain.
Spain of 1972 was the Spain of totalitarian dictator Francisco Franco, who was allowing in a limited number of foreigners on the understanding that they were bringing money and investing in the local economy in the form of buying expensive houses. I think the ultimate idea was to turn it into an attractive tourist venue... which, of course, it did become.
At the time, there were just two schools serving the expat population's kids, each with about 150 students, with everyone from kindergarten through high school all being together under the same roof. Many classes were taught in English; some were taught in Spanish.
The most surreal part of the whole scenario was the fact that 95% of aforementioned expats were retirees, so while there were lots of non Spanish-speaking people around, there were virtually none who were of my own age; pretty much everyone in the neighborhood was 60+. The person from school who lived nearest to me was about 5 miles away, and the school bus drove about 50 miles daily, each way, picking up kids all along the coast.
Were it not for the fact that I was already used to having to entertain myself without other people around, I would probably have gone crazy. But instead I sank into the world of books, and it was also the time at which I earnestly developed my love of writing and keeping a journal. After all, there was nothing else to do!
Our backyard opened directly onto a golf course, so it was only natural that I started learning golf as another way to pass the time. Ironically, I ended up learning more Spanish as a result of playing golf with Miguel and Juan — the local greenskeeper's sons — than I did from school!
What's the newness of another strange place at worn off, it started to sink in that I was in a place where I would not have a normal teenagehood. My Coming of Age Story mostly consisted of playing golf and sipping tea with people in their 60s, so I became very well versed in the finer nuances of oil exploration in the Middle East while having little clue as to what teenagers actually like to do.
As a state of constant pseudo depression started to take hold, it was also the time when I started developing an interest in Psychology and the way the human mind worked. Again, it was something to do.
In many ways, my curiosity was triggered by the seeming dichotomy between our parents insisting that we were "living a privileged life with everything anybody could ever want," and the opposite reality that so many of my peers were suicidal, and often alcoholic and into getting baked on all manners of drugs. If our lives were so great, why were we so miserable?
The experience was — if nothing else — very interesting, even if it left me spectacularly unprepared for the reality of the greater world. Even that statement is a dichotomy, because I knew more about "being an adult" than many people twice my age, yet had zero experience with things like going on dates, parties, entertainment and the like.
Looking back on that time, there's little doubt that my choice to go all the way to Texas for University was an attempt to distance myself as much as possible from "that life."
Did I enjoy my strange teenage life? In some ways, I suppose... but overall I'd have to say "not really." When I was 16, I was shipped off to boarding school in the UK... and that was actually worse, in part because it was a type of school system with which I had zero familiarity.
I couldn't wait to get out of there a couple of years later, bringing with me a fine education, and a general loathing of people! Returning to Spain almost felt like a holiday!
I stayed for another two years, made a little easier by leaving home and having a place of my own... but rather "interrupted" by the death of my father and all the legal hooplah that went with me being "of age" (18) and his closest living relative.
And then... it was off to Texas!
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Created at 2026.03.02 00:44 PST
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