conducir 1 v. to drive: no quiero conducir aqui en espana por que es muy peligroso.
Before we left for Spain, Ruyman encouraged me to practice driving a manual car, since automatics here are in short supply. My friend Kate obliged me by letting me cruise around Draper in her Corolla. We kept on flat land as much as possible, but I always managed to kill the car anyway. Stick shifts and I are not good friends.
Still, I was willing to try and drive in Spain until I remembered what the roads here were like. The first time I was in Spain, I kept wondering why we only drove on back alleys. I figured my mother-in-law just liked taking shortcuts. I finally realized that we were actually traveling on main roads. The fact that they were one lane, one way, and as wide as a fat man’s arteries just added to the charm. Throw in the nebulous street signs, the roundabouts, the spontaneous change of direction on one-way streets, and the curlycue layout of the roads, and you have a real-life version of Toad’s Wild Ride.
Even lifelong residents get lost here in the labyrinth of streets. To help us navigate, Ruyman and I considered bringing a GPS with us to Spain. I’m glad we chose not to, because I think it would have sounded like this:
“In 5 meters, turn right. In 1 meter, turn left. In 10 meters, turn left. Turn right. Turn left. Turn left. Turn right. Recalculating... Go straight for 2.5 kilometers. Perform legal U-turn in 3 meters. Recalculating... Perform legal U-turn in 5 meters. Recalculating... Go straight. Turn right. Go straight. Turn right. Go straight. Turn right. Go to hell. Recalculating... Recalculating... Recalculating...”
At that point, I imagine the canned, yet serene voice breaking into a chorus after chorus of “La Cucaracha” until the battery wears out.
You’d think navigating roads that defy satellite technology would be the worst of your problems, but it’s not. Every hardship pales in comparison to finding parking. Half the gas in your tank goes toward circling and re-circling your destination, trying to find a space bigger than a phone booth to park in.
Your fellow drivers are very helpful, telling you when they’re leaving, backing you out, or letting you know when your parking skills suck. However, it’s more a matter of luck and creativity to land a space. I’ve seen cars parked in intersections, in crosswalks, and on sidewalks, sometimes three and four deep. I’ve seen parallel parking jobs that require a Hail Mary and a shoe horn to get out of. Yet I have never seen a parking ticket on a windshield or a tow truck removing a vehicle.
There is only one law here regarding parking, and that is “Vado Permanente.” Like the lamb’s blood of old, when painted on a garage door, the words are a charm that enacts a type of parking Passover. Carmen once parked in front of her neighbors’ sign and they blew her car up. “Vado permanente” is serious business.
There’s one final piece that makes driving here so perilous: the other drivers. As I said, they tend to be a cheerful, friendly set, but a lot of them are also drunk. Spain has more bars per capita than any other country in the world and a habit of drinking with meals, so it’s a safe bet that most people behind the wheel have at least a little liquor under their seatbelt.
Do I still cherish hopes of driving here someday? Not a chance. As for me and my house, we take the bus.
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