Two weeks ago, I was sound asleep possibly dreaming (possibly dreaming that I was a member of Dr. House’s team participating in a diagnosis of a patient that strongly resembled Elliot Stabler), when I was abruptly awakened by someone gently shaking my shoulder. “Honey, wake up,” the voice said. I turned to look at my husband who was grinning at me in a way that no one grins at anyone at seven thirty in the morning. He shoved his iPhone in my face saying, “read this.” I rub my eyes and squint at the screen, “We are pleased to offer you the tenure-track position as Assistant Professor at the Universitat de Barcelona. Out of consideration for the other applicants, please send us your formal answer by March 24th.” I look up into his smiling face and smile myself. Then I hand him back his phone, roll over, close my eyes and try to resume my former comfort telling him, “That’s fantastic amor. But it’s seven thirty. I’ll be happy for you in an hour.” But alas, I was not able to resume my dream. Suddenly House is speaking with a Spanish accent and putting “th” sounds where “z’s” should be. Suddenly my dreams are interrupted by visions of myself strolling through peaceful cobbled streets, riding a scooter in a chaotic mess of rush hour traffic, cooking paella using ingredients enumerated in the metric system, wearing black turtlenecks, en fin, visualizing my idea of life as an American abroad.
This project began as a way to document the adventures of a couple moving themselves, their lives and their reluctant cat halfway across the world to Barcelona, Spain. Come with!