You can tell that the summer season is over in Castelldefels because the road system is now in chaos.
A seaside town relies on the summer trade to ensure its survival through the winter. Castelldefels is not just a seaside resort; it does have the ‘other half’ of the town on the other side of the motorway which is a normal, busy, thriving centre. The tourist, however, is King and must be treated as the moneybags that he is.
During the summer it is all important that the flow of cash in the form of human visitors is kept as sweet and generous as possible so that the extraction of euros is as painless as possible. During the autumn and winter months however, the story is not the same.
At the moment our access to the motorway changes from day to day because the municipality is (as far as I can tell) changing the sewerage system. There are long black pipes lying by the side of the road all over the place. To accommodate these behemoths little yellow signs are sprouting up denying access to important roads, or suddenly changing the left to a right turn, or making a dead end of a road that usually goes somewhere.
This means that using the in-car navigation device has become even more problematical as you have to ignore the instructions of the schoolmarmly voice and turn in the opposite direction. She is spending more time saying, “Recalculating!” than actually telling me where to go.
This is just getting to the motorway. Once beyond Gava and you enter a new road system which is going to be part of the service motorway for the new terminal for the extension of the airport. As far as the schoolmarm is concerned you and the car are in the middle of the countryside. She doesn’t panic however and merely urges you in a general direction where there might have been a tractor track some time ago. And so you plough (literally as far as the voice is concerned) your way onwards until, with an almost audible sigh of electronic relief you get to the point where the new road joins onto the existing motorway system and you can begin to believe what she is telling you.
I went to Gava today in a futile attempt to re-establish my existence for the social services. Futile, because I arrived in the afternoon and the office was only open until 1.30 pm. My fault I should have known. But I used the voice to get me to the street.
When I say get me to the street, I mean it tried and failed. I always feel a little self-conscious when you are urged by the voice to go down an empty street, the entrance to which is flanked by signs which are round and red, and which is paved in a pedestrian sort of way. However, as no one was around, I did so and followed her instructions until she urged me to disobey a no left turn sign. I had to go the other way and she resolutely brought me back to the same impasse by another route.
I eventually parked the car and asked. And I was near enough to make the extra walk interesting without being devastating when I found the office closed.
Returning to Castelldefels I relied on my instinct and got onto the right road immediately.
I am intending, however, to rely entirely on the machine to get me to Judith’s hotel when she arrived in Barcelona at the beginning of next month.
I have touching faith sometimes.
A seaside town relies on the summer trade to ensure its survival through the winter. Castelldefels is not just a seaside resort; it does have the ‘other half’ of the town on the other side of the motorway which is a normal, busy, thriving centre. The tourist, however, is King and must be treated as the moneybags that he is.
During the summer it is all important that the flow of cash in the form of human visitors is kept as sweet and generous as possible so that the extraction of euros is as painless as possible. During the autumn and winter months however, the story is not the same.
At the moment our access to the motorway changes from day to day because the municipality is (as far as I can tell) changing the sewerage system. There are long black pipes lying by the side of the road all over the place. To accommodate these behemoths little yellow signs are sprouting up denying access to important roads, or suddenly changing the left to a right turn, or making a dead end of a road that usually goes somewhere.
This means that using the in-car navigation device has become even more problematical as you have to ignore the instructions of the schoolmarmly voice and turn in the opposite direction. She is spending more time saying, “Recalculating!” than actually telling me where to go.
This is just getting to the motorway. Once beyond Gava and you enter a new road system which is going to be part of the service motorway for the new terminal for the extension of the airport. As far as the schoolmarm is concerned you and the car are in the middle of the countryside. She doesn’t panic however and merely urges you in a general direction where there might have been a tractor track some time ago. And so you plough (literally as far as the voice is concerned) your way onwards until, with an almost audible sigh of electronic relief you get to the point where the new road joins onto the existing motorway system and you can begin to believe what she is telling you.
I went to Gava today in a futile attempt to re-establish my existence for the social services. Futile, because I arrived in the afternoon and the office was only open until 1.30 pm. My fault I should have known. But I used the voice to get me to the street.
When I say get me to the street, I mean it tried and failed. I always feel a little self-conscious when you are urged by the voice to go down an empty street, the entrance to which is flanked by signs which are round and red, and which is paved in a pedestrian sort of way. However, as no one was around, I did so and followed her instructions until she urged me to disobey a no left turn sign. I had to go the other way and she resolutely brought me back to the same impasse by another route.
I eventually parked the car and asked. And I was near enough to make the extra walk interesting without being devastating when I found the office closed.
Returning to Castelldefels I relied on my instinct and got onto the right road immediately.
I am intending, however, to rely entirely on the machine to get me to Judith’s hotel when she arrived in Barcelona at the beginning of next month.
I have touching faith sometimes.
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