My family are the rule-breaking, lockdown-flouting entitled Americans you've heard about during the coronavirus pandemic

We disregarded the rules, well... because we wanted to

In August 2019, my kids and I moved to Madrid. Our plan was to spend a year in Spain; learn Spanish; see the world; learn to live less like spoiled Americans.

My wife, Vicky, went back and forth for work — a week in Madrid, four weeks in Miami. Her last commute to Miami was March 3rd. Then the world got sick. Schools closed and Spain went on lockdown, one of the strictest in the world. We could only leave our homes for essentials — food or medication. No kids allowed outside. No exercise. Vicky got shut out and we got shut in.

Spaniards followed the rules so I did too. I went out once a week for groceries. Very few people were on the street. Three others were in the supermarket, which was fully stocked with plenty of milk and toilet paper.

A few weeks after lockdown began, on a food run, I spotted an American man I knew from my Spanish class. He carried a canvas grocery bag over his shoulder, but showed me it was empty. He told me he went out twice a day. “Sometimes I just walk,” he said. “I just want to.”

I stood back six feet. I wanted to ask, “What makes you think you’re so special?” But I knew. This man typified American entitlement. I was angry. I was also jealous.

My kids and I stayed inside our 1,000-square foot apartment for 46 days. When the Spanish government announced schools would not re-open, we got one of the few flights out, first to London, then Miami. We hadn’t seen Vicky in eight weeks.

Vicky picked us up from the airport and the four of us put masks on and drove to my mom’s beach house in Key Largo, an hour south of our house in Miami. We knew Key Largo wasn’t letting tourists in. We weren’t tourists, exactly. We had a note from my mom, plus two utility bills, and passed through the checkpoint, no problem. The kids and I would quarantine for 14 days. To stay safe, Vicky drove back to Miami.

Four days later, Vicky headed from Miami to Key Largo because the kids and I had coronavirus tests scheduled and we only had one car. Maybe we could have taken an Uber to get the test. The truth was, we wanted to be together.

Then Vicky called, crying. She’d been stopped at the checkpoint. I had only heard her cry like that one other time during our 12-year marriage — when her mom died. She said, “The police are not letting me through.”

An hour later Vicky called again, still crying. “I told them I left the kids alone in the house. They’re escorting me home. You have to hide.”

My son, Sebastian, who’s 11, and I ran around the house looking for a hiding place. The bathroom? The utility closet?

Sebastian kept a lookout from the window. He yelled, “I see the police car,” and I slid under the bed. It was tight. The slats were an inch from my face. One was splitting. One heavy man and I’d be crushed. Under the bed might not have been the smartest idea, but I could see into the hallway. I could see if the cop came into the room. Would they see me?

I was surprisingly calm, maybe because I’d biked an hour and a half that morning — the first real exercise I’d gotten in 48 days. I was impressed Vicky could think that quickly. Then I got nervous thinking about how easily she was able to lie.

It got hot under the bed. Claustrophobic. I couldn’t move my neck.

I heard the front door open. The kids ran out. I hoped they’d do what I told them: “Do not let anyone in the house, not even a cop. Do not tell them I’m here. Just say hi to Mami Vicky.”

I heard voices. I heard footsteps. Minutes later, Vicky and the kids came upstairs. The cop was gone. The coast was clear.

It took Vicky hours to relax. She told me the story. She told my mom, her brother, her sister. She had her story down.

She said, “They held me for an hour. It was police brutality. The cop at the checkpoint looked at my paperwork and told me to make a U-turn. I said I came through four days ago with my kids. He said, ‘You should not have been let through; turn around.’ I pulled over. I wasn’t going to leave. I said I needed to speak to a deputy. I said I left my kids alone. The deputy told me to shut up. That’s when I started crying. I said I went out to run errands. I tried to show him the plastic drawers I just bought at Walmart. But he was not interested in evidence. He said, ‘Listen, lady, I’ve been here 13 hours listening to bulls**t stories like yours.’”

Vicky told me this is when she got hysterical. She was impersonating a single mom, separated from her children. She believed her story so completely; she felt justified.

She didn’t leave and finally they relented. A cop escorted her to make sure her story was true.

The deputy was a bully. He was that guy who got a taste of power and then imagined himself king of the world. But he was also doing a worthy job, which was to keep coronavirus out of the Florida Keys.

What would have happened if Vicky told the truth? Listen guys, my wife is with our kids. They were holed up in a tiny apartment in Madrid, where they couldn’t even go outside. Even our 11-year-old got depressed. Now they have space to skateboard and a view of the ocean. They’re not in Miami because our house was full of mold. I got it remediated, but still, we’re afraid. When we were home in December, our son had an asthma attack so bad, we had to take him to the children’s hospital. This is no time to take a chance with our boy’s lungs. I’m bringing them the car so they can get to their coronavirus test, which they’re entitled to because they were in a high-risk country. And really, I just don’t want to be separated from my family against my will.

The truth is, we were the exact people the cops wanted to keep out. We had been in one of the most infected cities in one of the most infected countries in the world. We rode two airplanes; walked through three airports. Two of us were children, currently considered vectors. But we disregarded the rules because… well, because we wanted to.

We’ve been together a week now. Our tests came back negative, and still a county health official calls every day to make sure we haven’t developed symptoms. They are doing an excellent job keeping the community safe. My official told me they only have 89 cases in a population of 75,000. She also told me the checkpoints are overwhelmed with people trying to sneak in with fake IDs and fantastic stories.

I didn’t tell her that was us.