So I've been loving driving around in my new (to me) car, LOVING playing my tapes. I've been loving it so much, I completely forgot or failed to realise that there was a six-CD changer. But seeing as I think the bulk of my homemade CDs are in Trinidad or lost forever (the two might be the same thing though), and even though I still buy CDs, I very rarely listen to them all the way through. I'm all about the playlist and the mix.
Well you see, once upon a time, when I was a lot more fun than I am now, I was on my way back to Soria from spending the weekend in England, seeing friends, going out, dancing. I was sat at the coach station in Madrid, listening to my walkman, waiting on my coach up to Soria when this black girl comes up to me and she's like "Inglesa?" So say "Yeah." Turns out she's from the Bahamas and she's in Spain, obviously to learn Spanish. We ended up chatting for a bit, and I thought she was really nice. She gave me her number and said that she was going down to the Costa Blanca for the puente with some friends, and I should come with them. FYI, puente means bridge and it's the term given to a long weekend, when the holiday falls on a Thursday or Tuesday. When that happens, the Friday or Monday is also given as a holiday, just to avoid having to go out to work just before or after we weekend, only to be off again. It is the best invention in the history of man and I loved it. We get our love of holidays from our Spanish ancestors, obviously. During the six-month period I was in Spain, there were two puentes and Soria's fiesta de santos, which is a week of celebrations devoted to the patron saint of whatever town or city you're in. The French have the pont, which you guessed it, means bridge.
But I digress. She gave me her number and I promised to ring her to sort out the details. And I did. We arranged to meet up on the Wednesday night (my boss was mad excited for me and insisted I leave work early to get the coach to Madrid) at Madrid coach station, and get the overnight coach down to Malaga. We'd stay at the flat of a friend of theirs, go out, then hire a car and drive along the coast and just play it by ear. I'm not one for 'playing it by ear', since those things always end in disaster, but I thought "Hey, I'm 21, I'm in Spain and hot Spanish dude is still with his girlfriend. So why not, eh?" Turns out I should ALWAYS trust my instincts.
The coach ride down to Malaga was alright. It took seven hours. But they showed some films and I was able to get some sleep and had a nice chat with one of the black girl's mates. For the life of me, I cannot remember anyone's name! I do remember that she was Irish and had a crazy lazy eye. Like seriously. It had a life of its own! And they all spoke very basic Spanish. So I ended up being interpreter-in-chief. AND it also transpired that none of the fuckers knew how to drive. SO I ENDED UP BEING THE CHAUFFEUR. Now, I love driving and I'm more than happy to do it. But that goodwill evaporates when driving duties are just dumped on me with the expectation that I'll be happy to do it. That pisses me off.
Anyway, got to Malaga, got a cab to her friend's place. We had a good sleep in an actual bed, then woke up and went to get some food. Ended up in this raging club, drinking and dancing and generally having a good time. Shakira's Servicio Lavanderia had just come out, and Suerte was a huge hit. So they played that a few times, along with some Enrique Iglesias, Rosario and whoever else was popular at the time. Out with us that night, was a dude named Lucas who was great fun and a tiny bit cute. We all ended up back at their friend's place and hung out some more with everyone, playing The Score, by The Fugees, chatting drinking and having a fairly decent time. We slept, woke up then got a cab to the car rental place. This is when I discovered that none of the little shits had a licence or knew how to drive. Big, fat steups. At that point, I hadn't driven a manual car since I did my test in 1997, and I wasn't about to start back, in a country where they drive on the wrong side of the road and speak a foreign language. So we had to get an automatic, and that cost more, which pissed off the other girls. They were spared a tongue lashing from me, by me speaking to the guy behind the counter, who realised that I was on the verge of letting loose a barrage of curse words. So in the end he only charged us 1500ptas extra.
We got a green Renault Scenic, which we then had to fill up with petrol. I decided that since I had had driving duties foisted upon me, I wasn't fucking paying for any petrol and basically said that. Surprisingly, they accepted that but I still had to go in and physically hand over the money, since I was the only one who didn't sound like a complete tosser when they spoke Spanish.
So we hit the autocarrera and headed for Torremelinos and beyond. We drove for about four hours. Well, when I say we, I mean I drove for about four hours. We ended up in Gibraltar, which I didn't mind so much, because I'd always heard about it and was very curious to actually see it for myself. I mean, it's a British territory on Spanish soil. That made me very excited because I knew I'd see all my British shops there. And so said, so done- Topshop, Safeway, Miss Selfridge and the like. I was able to go and buy some Jordan's Country Crisp, have a nosey around M&S and speak a bit of English with some strangers. We also took some photos in front of the Rock of Gibraltar. It was altogether a not unpleasant sojourn. However, as easy as it was getting IN, it was a nightmare getting out. You see, Gibraltar is on the coast of Spain. And so lots of immigrants arrive there by boat, from Africa, then either get smuggled out or stow away in car boots to get into Spain. So every single car has to be searched, to make sure you're not carrying any extra passengers. It took us about ten minutes to get into Gibraltar, and well over an hour to get out. Bah.
That night, we ended up in Algeciras which is an industrial port town. From there, the girls had planned to get a ferry to Mellia and Ceuta, (quite possibly they only planning they did for this sodding trip) two Spanish territories on the Moroccan mainland. I had no desire to end up there with them, so I told them I'd happily pick them up from the port, but I wasn't going to be joining them. What was even more ridiculous, was that they'd planned to sleep in the car in the port car park overnight, then jump on the ferry in the morning. I put the kibosh on that one time, and went and found myself a hotel room for the night. I told them I wasn't leaving the car at the port, because at the end of the day, it was my name on the rental documents. So they could sleep in the hotel car park or shell out for their own room. They chose the car park. This is when I fully realised what I'd got myself in to. I mean, what the fuck? Sleeping in cars in a strange town? Mental or what??? In the mean time, in my lovely hotel room, I ordered a pizza from Telepizza (one of the BEST pizzas I have ever had. When I first got to Soria, and was living out of a suitcase, I LIVED on their pizza barbacoa), watched telly and had a soak in the tub. The next morning when I went down, they were already on their ferry and I had the whole day to myself. ACES!
I ended up just driving all around, playing -of course- a tape I'd made for the occasion. I'd actually made it in November, and it contained all sorts of songs- some soca, some dancehall, a lot of Michael Jackson, Aaliyah and a few others here and there. It was blissful. I went to the Carrefour, where I bought Shakira's and the new All Saint's album, browsed, bought a top and just had a great time. I drove some more, and ended up in Estepona. Estepona is mad posh, as posh as Marbella (which is where a lot of people like gangsters and footballers have lavish villas). I parked up somewhere and just walked along the boardwalk for a bit. Then I found a little cafe and ordered some chopitos and gaz con limon. They didn't have chopitos like they do in Soria, but it was deelishis nonetheless. By the way, chopitos is squid (sort of) and gaz con limon is fizzy lemonade like 7Up or Sprite. I sat there with my magazine, read, had a little chat with the owner/cook/waiter about Trinidad, life in Soria and life in England, what I was doing down on the coast. When I was done, I walked around some more, then headed back to Algeciras to pick up the douchebags.
They'd had a great time in Ceuta and were saying that they felt sorry for me that I didn't come. I just laughed and said I'd had an amazing day anyway. But to be fair, Ceuta would be an interesting place to visit. Just not with them. It was starting to get dark, but they wanted to go to Sevilla. Seville. BLOODY SEVILLE! Seville was like five hours' drive from Algeciras, so I shot that down straight away. Plus it was away from the coast so I wasn't too confident about getting there safely. So we settled on going to Cadiz.
We get to Cadiz, only to get stuck in the most horrific traffic jam, because there's some sort of Carnival going on. I'm telling you, the Spanish influence on Trinidad is just so blatant, it's amazing. Freaking great. People are dancing outside of bars, honking horns, one guy had parked up his car and was playing music out of it. It was like being in St James. Finally, we find somewhere to park, around midnight and decide to walk back into town. They were going to join in the festivities (and of course sleep in the car afterwards), I was going to find a hotel room and have some room service and get some proper sleep. They thought I was being a diva, but I had to point out to them that driving a car four three and a half hours non-stop is brutal on your neck and back, and since the drive back to Malaga the next day would be pushing six hours, I'd need a bit more than a thirty-minute kip in the backseat. So I went in search of a room, they trundled off to get wasted. I ended up in a bar for about half-an hour, chatting with some people and getting the scoop on hotels. Found this gorgeous hotel, with lovely red velvet curtains in the lobby. That was enough for me. Didn't have room service in the end, but the bed was fabulous and the tub was amazing!
The next morning, I went back to the car at the agreed time, to find them sleeping in it. I just jumped in and got going. It was just starting to get light, so the roads were clear and I was able to get back onto the motorway easily. Luckily the douchebags were still sleeping, so in the tape went again and my smile came back. Eventually they woke up and we chatted for a bit. They dozed off again and I carried on singing along. Then it really went to hell.
Lazy-eye girl was in the front seat, and she was telling to drive slowly. Not asking. Telling. Bearing in mind I'm on a Spanish highway, people whizzing past me at a hundred miles per hour and the little Scenic could only manage about ninety. So I'm like "Look, we need to get back to hand in the car, because I'm not paying for another day's rental on it. Plus this is not fast. PLUS I actually do know how to drive. So just take it easy." She sits there in silence for a while, and the lazy eye is probably whizzing around in her head, like that dude from Harry Potter. Then she says "Will you fucking slow down!" And I tell her to shut the fuck up, unless she is legally able to take over driving responsibilities from me. Then the bitch does the unthinkable. She ejects my tape from the player and pulls out the strip. And I go fucking beserk. I pull over to the side of the road, jump out the car, and I'm like "Get the fuck out of my car! I'm not fucking driving anywhere with this fucking whore in my car! GET HER OUT!!!" The black girl is trying to calm me down, lazy-eye girl is looking at me (or behind me. Who can tell?) and I'm trying hard not to cuff her down. Black girl is like "She's sorry. She's really sorry. Look, she'll sit in the back and I'll come in the front. Let's just get back to Malaga, yeah?" So I turn around and walk back to the car and start it up. I don't even wait for them. They run and jump in, and I floor it all the way back to Malaga, with a Spanish talk-radio station on full blast.
So we get back to the rental place, and I'm handing in the keys. They chap's asking me how things went, how were the roads, etc. I just say "Joder!" and roll my eyes, and he laughs. I say a few more bad words in Spanish, we talk for a couple minutes about the coño and the puta and he laughs some more, tells me to go and find a boyfriend and have a drink. So I walk out of the office, right past them and walk past all these high-rise hotels. They're scurrying behind me, but I didn't give a shit. I ended up in this cafe/restaurant where I order a full English. Malaga is basically England on the Costa. You can get chips and beans, egg and chips, a Sunday roast and other such assorted food that kind of defeats the whole purpose of you being in a foreign country. Anyway, they sit a couple tables away. The breakfast was nice, but when I went to pay, the waitress (who was English) says "Oh, your bill's already been paid, luv."
Lazy-eye girl's paid for my food. "Should've fucking ordered the lobster then", I say to the waitress and we laugh.
I get up, walk past them and go and sit on a bench on the boardwalk. I am distraught because I have a walkman and no tape. How dare this pasty, unattractive bitch, with K-foot and no sense of style destroy what I had taken such care to make. To me, it was unforgivable. But she comes and sits next to me and is like "I'm sorry you know. It's just that I was in a bad accident when I was ten and I just don't like going fast on the motorway." I turn to her and say "This has been one of the worst trips I've ever taken. You have not helped. I will most likely not see any of you after this, so I don't really care what you have to say. You can't drive, yet you want to tell me how to drive. You wanted to get back to Malaga early, but you want me to go under the speed limit. You think I'm a bitch because I don't want to be some sort of vagrant and sleep in a car in a strange town. That's not how I roll. You don't know me that well, so don't you ever again in your life, touch my shit or I will box you down, eh." Then I get up and walk away.
The kicker was, our bus wasn't until midnight that night, so we ended up back at their friends' flat. But guess what? Lucas was there! And he actually seemed happy to see me. I realised it was because his English wasn't that great and all of their Spanish was pretty shit, so he was happy to be able to converse with someone in language an adult would use. So we're talking about the trip, when he says "Let's go for a walk." So we ended up walking around Malaga city centre, which wasn't so bad actually. We went to McDonald's, because I had to pee and he wanted a beer so we stayed there for a bit. I forget most things about him, but I remember he had grey eyes and a lovely smile, but he was just about the same height as me. We left McDonald's, walked around a bit more then started to head back to the flat. He said he was going to head back to his place, because it was getting near the time for us to head to the coach station anyway. I dreaded going back to the flat, and I was like "No! No me dejas!!" He just laughed and said don't worry, it'd be alright, and he wrote his number on the back of a tube map. Then we had a lovely little snog in the middle of the pavement and parted ways. I still have that tube map.
Got back to the flat and made our way to the coach station. They hugged their mates goodbye, I thanked them for having me and we got on the coach. I tried to sleep, watched bits of the films and basically prayed for it all to be over. When we got back to Madrid, I was the happiest I'd been in days (well, apart from exchanging saliva with a cute Spanish dude). I sort of told the black girl goodbye, and went to look for the platform my coach back to Soria was leaving from. I had a bit of a wait, and of course I had no music. Luckily, Madrid coach station isn't a total wasteland, so I walked around for a bit, bought a sandwich for breakfast, had a browse in a couple shops and checked my emails in the internet cafe.
In Soria, my boss met me at the coach station and took me back to my flat. She asked me how the trip was, and I told her it was una mierda. She said "Oh no!" and that was that. The black girl (I want to call her Stacey, but I really can't be sure if that's her name) called the Academia for me a couple times, but I always told Ana to tell her I was busy...which I was anyway. And I never called her back.
But what was one of the first things I did when I got back to my flat? Make a tape to replace the one Lazy-eye had destroyed. And on it, I put a couple new tracks on it. And that tape? I labelled it "Bunny, December 13 2001, Spain." And this is the tape I found in the shed and popped into my car stereo last week.
And that simple act brought back all these memories of a long-forgotten, ill-fated trip along the Costa Blanca. A little label on a piece of plastic and magnetic strip (with a red sticker of a sports car) reminded me of the weekend I nearly punched an annoying Irish girl but still had a nice time driving along tiny Spanish coastal hamlets on my own. None of my iPod playlists do that. And I don't have the same attachment to CDs. So methinks I'll keep my tape player going, thanks. CD changer? Nein danke. iPod auxiliary cable? Negatory. Tapes rock!
There are rumblings in the Bunny household about a replacement stereo, complete with DVD player and touch screen sat nav though. Such talk has made my blood run cold.
Mr Bunny must be stopped!!
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