Pióro

There’s nothing like driving from Granada to Barcelona in a Citroen C5. You feel like a rock-star with the Hives blaring on the CD player. To keep up with traffic you hold an effortless 150 km/h. The highway is much nicer than the town. It’s much better than getting lost in the Albayzin, Granada’s old Arab quarter, going down the wrong way on a one-way street, reversing downhill to try and correct your mistake, blocking off an intersection as you try to do a 31-point turn under the direction of two Castilian-speaking construction workers as the locals shake their heads in disbelief. With no scratches and a smoking clutch later, you get to the hostel swearing that you’d never rent such a big car in Europe ever again. And this is the beginning. There’s still nine hours until Barcelona. The rock-star feeling goes away after Marcia. Martha comes down with a bout of food poisoning. There are little bags of gastro-intestinal goodness that you leave in gas-stations along the way. You share the car with a Texan who lives in New York and a Belgian anarchist would has to be in his home country in two days to stay on the dole. The ride is so fun. The Texan gets off the toll roads and sneaks into Barcelona. He parks the car for the night. The next day your “that car” as you blare Miss Kittin and the Hacker going around and around a Barcelona traffic-circle. You miss your turn-off five times. Somehow you weave through the chaos and the car is returned. You’ll worry about the bill later.