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I remember boarding a military plane, back in 1961, and traveling many hours to Spain. My father, an Air Force officer, had orders to Torrejon Air Force Base (AFB) in Madrid. I didn't realize, at the tender age of 9, the adventure awaiting us. Life in Spain stirred our imaginations, sharpened our insights, and shaped a life-long love and respect for cultures different from our own.

From the daytime sky, Spain's landscape looked like a welcoming patchwork quilt. As the plane descended, a runway became clear. Our plane landed at Torrejon AFB on a sunny day in May.

Within days, we moved into our living quarters at Royal Oaks, Torrejon's military housing community. We loved our new home. Yellow rolling shutters covered the bedroom windows. A red-tile porch stretched the length of the house. A striped canopy shaded a welcoming swing. Madrid's skyline sparkled from our living room window.

We experienced normal American life while at Royal Oaks. We walked to a school staffed by American teachers. We had Little League teams coached by dads, a community swimming pool, and a movie theater with American movies. We shopped at the base exchange and bought many American products.We also enjoyed Spanish influences.

Spain's police officers, called the Guardia Civil, maintained an office in Royal Oaks. They wore distinguished green uniforms with wide belts, polished boots, and characteristic flat-top hats. They carried machine guns, yet handed out candy to babies. They made sure we were always safe.

A small Spanish-owned store, called "The Fruteria", supplied freshly-baked bread, a few fresh vegetables, yummy chocolate bars, and a soft drink called "Gaseosa." We bought hot bread from them for a few pesetas a day.

Sheep herders led their sheep right through the neighborhood. Peddlers often arrived via a donkey to try and sell their wares. Spanish women taught Flamingo dance classes and taught us to play castanets. Spanish seamstresses came to our home and constructed beautiful garments from a magazine picture. They never used a bought pattern.

Most American families could afford household help. Our housekeeper, Josephina, became like a member of the family. I talked to her in the afternoons while she ironed. She told me stories about the Spanish Civil war and about Francisco Franco, Spain's fascist dictator.

We didn't watch much TV. Spanish TV came in fuzzy. We watched a show called "Reyna Por El Dia" (Queen for a Day) on Sundays. One night a week, we listened to

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