Not only but also. Another morning up with the lark. This could be habit forming.
Alas, the reason was a faulty fear of missing a Spanish lesson so I found myself with more time for a leisurely cup of tea before the repairing of the tyres of the car.
Spanish roads have their little peculiarities. In a sea side resort like Castelldefels debased zebra crossings are scattered around like used Hershey bar wrappers and they are treated as safe, sacred ways with high protective walls by pedestrians and as a sort of moving shooting gallery by motorists.
Here in Castelldefels the absurd number of crossings on the main road would ensure a complete lack of road parking in the UK as each ‘real’ zebra crossing has markings on either side to ensure that there is no parking near the crossing so that pedestrians are clearly seen by motorists.
Not here.
Cars are parked right up to the actual markings of the crossing and often on the crossing itself. Pedestrians stride out from between parked cars with the absolute security of inviolability because they have walked the first few hidden steps on the crossing and therefore have divine protection for the rest of the open space to the other side of the road. Half (at least) of pedestrians do not look to left or right before they make their crossing and less than half (much less) actually shows any gratitude.
What mystifies me is that these suicidal pedestrians are probably drivers as well.
One only has to drive on Spanish roads for minutes to realize that the suicidal tendencies of pedestrians are matched by the homicidal tendencies of those behind the wheel.
Is the schizoid character of the Spanish so complete that they do not realize that the road user is a complete human being and the two sides comprising driver and walker inhabit the same body?
Spanish roads are also enlivened by all sorts of street furniture together with bollards and narrowings and twists and turns and blind corners and sharp impossible bends and . . . well, what I am trying to say is that it wasn’t my fault.
The street down to the main road from the motorway is relatively uneventful apart from a thoroughly dangerous feeder road to the right and a worrying turning to the left. Oh yes and a left turning blocked off with bollards with a high kerb on the right.
A momentary lapse of concentration and the high kerb did for me and took out one tyre and damaged another. With perspiration and a certain amount of high language I changed a wheel and then started hunting for a place to replace the tyre.
Unlike Cardiff I do not know where to go for the little occasional things which make life just that little bit more complex and expensive. I eventually ended up in the dealer’s garage, but only the very rich and the very lazy have mundane jobs on their cars done by the dealership.
From the dealership I was directed to Gavá and a half remembered visual memory guided me to one of the ‘while you wait’ garages.
My waiting was made a positive pleasure not only by my fairly ostentatious use of my new Sony e-book reader, but also because the cost was substantially lower than I expected. All things work together for good is this best of all possible worlds.
As I have now threatened The School That Sacked Me with the arrival of the police to ascertain exactly what has happened to money collected for charity months ago, I am trying to find a companion to translate for me in an official capacity.
Spain is a delightfully bureaucratic country with official forms to accuse and denounce. I am sure that there is something which can be photocopied and stamped and acted on – I just have to find out which one I have to fill in.
My pen is ready and sharpened!
Alas, the reason was a faulty fear of missing a Spanish lesson so I found myself with more time for a leisurely cup of tea before the repairing of the tyres of the car.
Spanish roads have their little peculiarities. In a sea side resort like Castelldefels debased zebra crossings are scattered around like used Hershey bar wrappers and they are treated as safe, sacred ways with high protective walls by pedestrians and as a sort of moving shooting gallery by motorists.
Here in Castelldefels the absurd number of crossings on the main road would ensure a complete lack of road parking in the UK as each ‘real’ zebra crossing has markings on either side to ensure that there is no parking near the crossing so that pedestrians are clearly seen by motorists.
Not here.
Cars are parked right up to the actual markings of the crossing and often on the crossing itself. Pedestrians stride out from between parked cars with the absolute security of inviolability because they have walked the first few hidden steps on the crossing and therefore have divine protection for the rest of the open space to the other side of the road. Half (at least) of pedestrians do not look to left or right before they make their crossing and less than half (much less) actually shows any gratitude.
What mystifies me is that these suicidal pedestrians are probably drivers as well.
One only has to drive on Spanish roads for minutes to realize that the suicidal tendencies of pedestrians are matched by the homicidal tendencies of those behind the wheel.
Is the schizoid character of the Spanish so complete that they do not realize that the road user is a complete human being and the two sides comprising driver and walker inhabit the same body?
Spanish roads are also enlivened by all sorts of street furniture together with bollards and narrowings and twists and turns and blind corners and sharp impossible bends and . . . well, what I am trying to say is that it wasn’t my fault.
The street down to the main road from the motorway is relatively uneventful apart from a thoroughly dangerous feeder road to the right and a worrying turning to the left. Oh yes and a left turning blocked off with bollards with a high kerb on the right.
A momentary lapse of concentration and the high kerb did for me and took out one tyre and damaged another. With perspiration and a certain amount of high language I changed a wheel and then started hunting for a place to replace the tyre.
Unlike Cardiff I do not know where to go for the little occasional things which make life just that little bit more complex and expensive. I eventually ended up in the dealer’s garage, but only the very rich and the very lazy have mundane jobs on their cars done by the dealership.
From the dealership I was directed to Gavá and a half remembered visual memory guided me to one of the ‘while you wait’ garages.
My waiting was made a positive pleasure not only by my fairly ostentatious use of my new Sony e-book reader, but also because the cost was substantially lower than I expected. All things work together for good is this best of all possible worlds.
As I have now threatened The School That Sacked Me with the arrival of the police to ascertain exactly what has happened to money collected for charity months ago, I am trying to find a companion to translate for me in an official capacity.
Spain is a delightfully bureaucratic country with official forms to accuse and denounce. I am sure that there is something which can be photocopied and stamped and acted on – I just have to find out which one I have to fill in.
My pen is ready and sharpened!
No comments:
Post a Comment