Father Son Spanish Holiday

Well, it was inevitable I guess. Rory and I are back in Milwaukee and it's 3:15 am. Which is about the time I'd be sipping a late morning coffee at a sidewalk bakery in Spain. The sunny skies, crisp mornings and warm afternoons have given way to the grey chilly dampness of early spring in the Upper Midwest. The mellow sound of morning doves outside our hillside high-rise window and the cacophony of parakeets in the cathedral's palm trees on the corner have switched to the cheerful chirping of robins and chickadees along our flat Milwaukee street. I'm grateful for those guys' cheerful song, as it's definitely an adjustment returning to the States.

Milwaukee is in many ways a rough and tumble city. Crime is high, drivers can be reckless, litter seems to be everywhere, and especially in winter - which is looooong here - citizens retreat from the outdoors and burrow into bars and homes. If you look at a U.S. map of excessive drinking, Wisconsin's alcohol consumption borders on mind-boggling. The whole state is a sea of deep purple in a speckled nation.

What I saw in two large Spanish cities... A culture that embraces a life lived outdoors; a shared sense of commitment to a warm blend of tranquility, safety, opportunity, art, and celebration; and urban landscapes that thoughtfully pack in designs that maximize a human's desire to reside in and soak up that space.

Madrid and Barcelona, both cities with populations well over 1 million, felt so darn safe. Violent crime rates are low, and you feel that on the streets. Residents are busy and often move at an efficient clip  - it's the big city after all - and they are also clearly aware of the fellow humans in their space. Drivers are mellow and observant. Crosswalks, bike lanes, and traffic lights are abundant and it seems like everyone - drivers, pedalers, and walkers - pays attention to the reds and the greens as well as the movements of their fellow humans. We only heard honking a handful of times, in cities of 3.5 and 1.7 million. We made mistakes, of course - the bike lanes are often a brilliant and twisting system of their own - but no one displayed resentment toward us for that. They simply tapped the brakes to make way, knowing someone will likely do the same for them at some later point in their day.

I commented to Melissa on how comfortable I felt walking and pedalling the streets of Spain. She remarked, "that's the social contract you're feeling. It's there and everyone buys in." Across a city-scape of faces that clearly reflect the 21st century migration of various cultures from around the world, I felt it a lot. A son's dropped phone on a metro train car quickly scooped up and returned, young people giving up their seats for the elderly, busy bakery counter workers taking a second to share a warm "Buenas" before taking your order. Clean city streets with lots of waste and recycling bins and very very little litter.

As a family with parents who chose education as their careers, we don't stay in fancy hotels or resorts. We also prefer to immerse ourselves among the locals' landscape. In Barcelona, we found a studio apartment rental, about ten blocks up the hill from the city's center, where tourism gives way to native flavor.  

From there, Rory and I walked. And walked and walked and walked, averaging over seven miles a day. We sometimes carried two footballs in a backpack - both the American and more common variety - stopping at various parks to get in a few throws and kicks. At one, the attendant at a nearby snack stand left his post for three minutes to coach Rory on the proper way to grip, throw, and catch a U.S. football, giving him both a cheerful lesson in Spanish and valuable pointers on an American game some Spaniards clearly know well. 

We bought a four-day Metro pass for the subway and buses, downloaded an app for one of Barcelona's many bike share rentals, and another app to keep an eye on sailing charters in the marina. We meandered, via foot, train, bus, pedal, and boat, across most of a city-scape that stretches from mountain foothills to the Mediteranean Sea.

What we found - in both Madrid and Barcelona - is a culture that embraces a life lived outdoors. Even when its cold. Despite lows in the 30s and highs in the low 50s during our first weekend in Madrid, citizens packed thousands of sidewalk cafe tables for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, bundled in coats and good-natured conversation. Parks are abundant and either filled with stately fountains, benches, and long green boulevards or filled with exercise equipment, ping pong tables, basketball hoops, soccer pitches, and spectator benches.

Throughout both Madrid and Barcelona there was a blending of old history with modern city-scape. One minute you're walking the narrow cobblestones of a thousand year old street, hip businesses nestled within old Roman brickwork, the next your walking by modern high rise apartments with public escalators that ferry you up the hillside. Throughout all of it, Barcelonans have thoughtfully carved out spaces for nature, very aware that human growth requires a balance for the long haul. An exhibit on the first floor of the city's hallmark glass skyscraper displays in realtime the audio waves from microphones set up around the city, identifying the type of motor that just revved, the species of bird that just chirped, the sound of kids playing on a nearby beach. 

As we meandered, Rory compared and contrasted life in the States versus life in Spain, asked a lot of questions about world history, and periodically dove into his phone to do research on some tidbit that piqued his interest. "Papa... Did you know Goudy died when he was hit by a tram?... And nobody knew who he was. They thought he was a homeless guy, because of the way he was dressed. The cops had to force a taxi driver to take him to a hospital. But by then, he was gone." I also realized that Rory loves charts and graphs. I feared I might bore him to death at Barcelona's history museum. He found where the data was displayed, dove in, asked a lot of questions, and found a lot of the answers on his own.

At one point, we walked past Barcelona's sea-side aquarium to the mega-yachts parked in the marina beyond. Taking in a boat that looked like Mercedes' version of a small cruise ship, Rory looked up from his phone and informed me, "Foreign minister of Qatar's. $300 million. His networth, $4 billion. As if on cue, a Spanish cyclist appeared behind us and chimed in. "Quite a contrast isn't it? That boat and this homeless guy..." Sure enough, thirty feet from the ship's sleek bow, sprawled on a dockside bench, lay a homeless man, a ratty red blanket insulating him from the cool shore wind. 

I nodded at the contrast and sensed that our new companion had opened the door for a little political reflection. His demeanor was both thoughtful and light. "Clearly, Spain's not perfect, but I have to say, compared to Milwaukee, I feel very safe here. There's a lot less violence, and, here, I actually enjoy crossing the street."

He nodded, "Yes... That is because in the United States it is the middle class that pays most of your taxes." I asked him, "Is Spain's model the answer then?..." His response - "Europe's economy is barely growing..." I playfully asked, "Do you have any answers?..." He laughed and responded, "I'm afraid not."

On our last day, gazing at the sea again from a hilltop castle, I downloaded an app on a whim for local sailing charters and found one with two spots left for 50 Euros apiece. Rory and I jogged to the subway and arrived just in time to hop on a forty footer with two other families from the States.

Piloted by Captain Marco from Italy (seriously, did he make that up), we spent the next two hours getting a crash course in sails and lines, while Marco handed our kids the wheel and waxed poetic about how a craft that is entirely powered by the elements gives a person passage to the fifth element - soul power. 

From Captain Marco also flowed an abundance of drinks and snacks, opening up conversations with our fellow travelers. Two were doctors and two worked in international business. While American, they had worked and lived in many countries across Europe and Asia, clearly earning a well-healed living while doing so. And they were down-to-earth and good humored, with teenagers who were warm and easy-going. While flying to Myorca for the day for some beach time isn't really something in our family's wheelhouse, Rory and I were the only ones in the group this week to have attended the Womens Champions League match between Barcelona and Madrid. And on this we all relished the realization that, "Womens Soccer is awesome. The women charge!"  

As we bid our new friends goodbye, and the two of us headed toward the subway as the other families walked toward their upscale dockside hotel, Rory reflected a bit on careers, their incomes, their meaning to self and society, and the pathways to get to each. The next morning, after we cast one last whistful glance at the spires of the Sangrada Familia, and used our Metro pass one last time to catch the airport train, Rory burrowed into college research on his phone, exploring schools, programs, admissions, scholarships, and financial aid. 

While the Newark Airport was a bit of a rough reintroduction to the U.S., we still found cheerful, good folks amongst the faster and edgier vibe that defines our homeland - amongst fellow flyers, customs, and TSA. Rory has become a seasoned pro at getting around in the world - across its cities, countries, and airports. He's super polite, and navigates the give and take of a bustling world with dilligence, good-naturedness, consideration, and humor. The adults around Rory notice that and I think his peers do too.

I'm super proud of him. And so honored and darn lucky that I got to spend nine days travelling in such a cool place with my son.

04/06/2026

Sagrada Familia

 

Happy Easter. As a father raised among extended family who are Presbyterian, Catholic, Unitarian, Methodist, and at this point, likely many other affiliations too, I appreciate both the example that Jesus set as a human being and the idea of rebirth, as Winter gives way - both literally and metaphorically - to Spring. This week, I got to spend the Easter holiday with my son, in the presence of what might be the world's greatest cathedral. Over a 100 years in the making, and just three months away from the dismantling of its last construction crane, the Sagrada Familia is the most immense man-made work I have ever shared space with. I know the human race has built bigger - much bigger. It's the vision of its architect - Goudy - earthly and other wordly, giant and intricate, heavy and delicate, cement and glass, atop cement and glass, atop cement and glass, assembled as if a hand from the heavens spent a century building a drip sand castle to the clouds, then capped its spires with beach trinkets, each whimsical and grand. I'd like to think the Sagrada Familia goes beyond any one religion, tapping into some energy that reveals the magnificence of the human spirit, the importance of shared experience, and maybe something bigger and beyond yet right here among us weaving it all together. Some might call that the Holy Spirit. I'm sure other religions have a name for it too. I imagine some scientists and philosophers as well. I hope that this week provided you the opportunity to also hit the pause button for a bit, and to connect with family and community

04/05/2026

Skiing - Three Generations In

Skiing has been in our family's blood for a long time. My Uncle George, a larger than life character in both body and spirit, jumped into the sport back in the 1960s, in of all places, Ohio. As a young guy, he managed a ski hill there - Snow Trails. His gregarious personality then landed him a job at Hedco, a manufacturer of snow makers known as old workhorses in that realm. In an ideal year, mother nature does that work. Throughout the 70s and early 80s, in those less than ideal years, George Nekervis would make sales and installation trips all over the world to make a white holiday possible for skiers everywhere. 

In an era when the speed limit maxed at 55mph, George rocketed across the country at 85, stacking up tickets and stories as he went - including that night he sat next to the lead singer of AC/DC at a mountain bar; the time he didn't give his install team the day off on the opening date of deer season, and suddenly gun shots were ringing along the hillside as a buck galloped across their worksite (a mistake he would not repeat again); or that early morning before a hill opened when resort personnel aimed an avalanche trigger gun just a little too high, sending a shell clear over the mountain into a (thankfully empty) house. In the early 80s, George then started SkiView USA, the first maker of billboard advertisements on ski lifts. He recogized before most that a ten minute ride atop a winter wonderland was a captive audience and a grand opportunity. 

Chasing George's spirit, I moved to Denver in the late 90s, and finally experienced skiing in its grandest form, flying down mountains that took half an hour to traverse, through forests and bowls, atop endless stretches of deep fluffy snow - in the company of fellow twenty-somethings who built a life-long tribe of friendship weaved from the shared experience of having left home states to venture into young adulthood on a new frontier.

Back then, skiing was a good deal cheaper than it is today. Mountains were often still mom and pop operations and a visit to a local "ski swap" ensured a family could buy used equipment at an affordable price. The advent of the internet ensured a new kind of access to cheap skis, but helped fuel consolidation of ski hills across the country to the point that just two giant companies - Epic and Ikon - own most of the resorts in the United States. Any student of economics can tell you an oligopoly usually guarantees a steep rise in prices, whatever the industry. And sure enough, in America's ski world, that has been the case. A few local hills, like Mount Bohemia in Michigan or Cascade Mountain in Wisconsin, chug on as family owned operations, offering affordable prices to middle class families looking to embrace winter. Their chair lifts are a bit smaller and older, their lodges a little more worn, and I love them. 

This New Years holiday, we finally decided to bite the bullet and buy Ikon season passes so our kids could experience a big Colorado mountain at Steamboat Springs. We joined the family of a dear friend from my 90s Denver Days in a mountain side condo that harkened back to that era too. As luck would have it, mother nature took her own holiday, requiring the next generation of those snow making machines to work their winter magic. The conditions were less than ideal, but our kids were troopers. At least one caught the family ski bug by week's end.

All experienced the greatest perk of a day on the mountain - settling in for an evening of relaxed conversations, board games, tv bowl games, hot tub soaks, the Stranger Things finale, and strategizing about how best to hit the slopes the next day - much of it enjoyed in a cozy living room with great company and a warm fire. The perfect way to hit the pause button on school and work to fuel up for the day-to-day of a new year. 

May your 2026 be a great one filled with friends, family, and the rich fruits of your labor

Ross Freshwater

January 4th, 2026