The boy who couldn’t find his classroom
On the first morning, a small boy stood frozen in a corridor that seemed to go on for ever. Doors, all identical. Voices behind each one, none of them his. He had his bag on his back and a number on a slip of paper, and no idea which of the twenty doors that number belonged to. He was one wrong turn away from simply sitting on the floor and giving up on the whole day.
A caretaker who had worked the building for thirty years crouched down, read the slip, and said, «Ah — 2°B, that’s the one with the blue fish on the door, down the far end.» She didn’t carry him and she didn’t do it for him. She just walked him to the right door, knocked, and waited until a teacher looked up and a chair was pulled out. Then she left. By lunchtime he couldn’t remember having been lost at all.
The building was never the problem. The problem was twenty identical doors and no way, from the outside, to know which one was his. Someone who knew the place turned a wall of doors into a single, obvious one.
Spanish school admissions are that corridor: público, concertado, catchment lines, points, windows, apostilles — twenty identical doors when you’re new. Our job isn’t to sit the exam for your child. It’s to know the building, read the slip, and walk you to the right door before term starts — so the first day is just a first day.

