Renouncing the USA ¡Olé!: Escaping to Spain for Good

This story starts in the US Army. My first stop after basic training was at the base psyquiatrist's office at Ft. Campbell, Kentucky. I was greeted cordially by what seemed a proper psychiatric social worker. “What can I do for you, Mike?” he asked in a most unmilitary manner. “You’ve got to get me out of here,” I pleaded. “I can’t stand it.” His answer could have been engraved on a tombstone: “Do you think I can stand it, Mike?” I was looking at 23 months of military life during the Vietnam heat of 1966, but I was not "levied" to Vietnam. Instead, I was assigned to work on the base newspaper.When I was discharged from the Army I was a confused kid setting out in a haphazard manner to find a place in the world, a place more in accordance with my own aspirations than those of the country where I was born. What were those aspirations? I was going to have to invent them. When I landed in Brussels from the States, I hardly knew where Spain was. Then, one snowy November morning outside Grenoble, I caught a ride in one of those old grey Peugeot sedans--the ones that look like coffins--driven by a young Swiss lad headed south. He dropped me off in a Spanish coastal village a week later. That was the jumping-off point for the rest of my life. Shortly after arriving here, I was committed to two loves that have never failed me: a wonderful English girl and a hot, dry country called "Spain." I was soon convinced that Spain was the best place I knew for living a proper life: the best people, the best climate, the best food and drink… I never went back to the US to live.My inglesa and I decided to move somewhere off the coast and less touristy. We found it in a village a short drive outside Granada in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada. A trout stream runs through the village square. This was rural Spain. It was humbler, kinder, more like a family. We loved the rustic lifestyle, and still cling to it. That means largely adopting the local diet and home heating with fireplaces and wood stoves, everything whitewashed or tiled. Our kids attended local schools; one of them just became a full professor at the University of Granada.Fifty-some years have passed since our arrival, and the village is no longer as primitive as it used to be. When we arrived, we were impressed by how rustic the villagers were. Nowadays, when neighbors come to our house and see the whitewashed walls, the hard-working fireplace lit, and a big stockpot bubbling on the wood-burning kitchen range, they lapse into gentle nostalgia. “This reminds me of my grandmother’s house…” That gives us the feeling that, perhaps, we have done something right. We’re still here, though there is only one team of mules left in our village, which has been embellished a lot. In the old days, it was a humbler place to live and raise kids and dogs. We were received like family. We did try to contribute something to the pueblo in return. My wife, Maureen, gave painting lessons to the children, and I created a photo website for the village (subtitled: Pinos Genil's Family Album) which was wildly successful because it included pictures from the late 1960s, years in which very few people had a camera, and many of the folks in the pictures were no longer with us. When the antique black-and- white photos ran out, I kept it current, shooting village fiestas and cultural events, until age caught up with me, and I started dropping things.I also discuss the incredible deteriorating country I left behind.I once interviewed a Polish grandmother whose family had been exiled to Siberia during Stalin’s time. When I asked her, “What was it like being exiled to Siberia?” she threw her arms gleefully in the air and replied, “It was wonderful! Anyplace is wonderful when you’re 15 years old.” I understood her perfectly. My Siberia was Michigan. Read more