The road to Tarifa

I don’t know how much Tony is used to others driving Smiley and/or how much he expected to drive himself on this trip, versus how much he expected me to drive. So far, the only driving I’ve done has been into Helsinki (and I got rather stressed out by the low sun, the lack of windscreen visibility and the random trams – a few obscenities snuck out of my precious little lips), and in Melilla (I stopped when we got to the top of that steep hill, suggesting I didn’t want to go down there as I didn’t think we’d get out of it!).

The stubborn feminist in me more often than not makes life difficult for me. I tend to put myself in situations that stress me out, all in the name of growth (e.g. I can put this tumble dryer up on this shelf without a man, I can change this sink flange – even if it costs me blood, sweat and tears, which it did!). The stubborn feminism, coupled with me being a very persistent little badger that will try and do something more if I find it difficult, means I’m a difficult bloody character.

So, anyway, I offer to drive us out of Gibraltar meaning Tony can take in the sights. He agrees (not sure if willingly or reluctantly!) and we make our way towards Cádiz.

This little stint of me driving, from Gibraltar to Tarifa, has helped solidify a conundrum I’ve been cogitating at length these last few weeks: do I prefer driving Smiley myself, or do I prefer Tony driving her?

Naturally, there are positives and negatives to both.

The positives:

• When Tony drives, I can blog on the move.
• When Tony drives, I can sleep in the back.
• When Tony drives, I can crossword.
• When Tony drives, he artfully signals to the vehicles behind to let them know when it’s safe for them to overtake and we don’t hold up the traffic.
• When I drive, Radio 2/Smooth Radio doesn’t feel so intolerable.
• When I drive, I feel like I’m chauffeuring Tony and giving him a break (and this feels like a nice thing to do as a way to thank him for inviting me – read “accepting I come!” - on this trip).

The negatives:

• When Tony drives, I feel like I’m being chauffeured (and the stubborn feminist in me doesn’t like this – see context from previous post!).
• When Tony drives, he seems to want me to feed him (and the stubborn feminist in me doesn’t like this – as above!).*
• When Tony drives, I need to navigate (what? I can’t just sit here and be taken all over the world without giving anything back?!).** There’s this general unspoken rule that non-drivers navigate, right? And there’s this kind of known dictum that women can’t read maps, right? The stubborn feminist in me doesn’t like this, and the weight of demonstrating that this is sexist and wrong is heavy on my shoulders.***
• When I drive, I’m not able to let vehicles pass and, as a result, gert long queues of hasty cars tend to grow out of my vehicular derriere. (I do not like this pressure.)
• When I drive, I get nervous easily.
• When I drive, I want to please Tony but feel like he is watching me and assessing my skills.
• When Tony drives, I’m forced to endure the loud, headache-inducing BUZZ of the van hitting the slumber barriers. This loud, headache-inducing BUZZ rocks through my entire body. (OK. This has nothing to do with the feminism. It’s just darn annoying!)****

All of this to say that I’ve concluded, I’d rather get the navigation wrong and sit with the sense of guilt (and the hour plus delay) when Anf obediently and coolly follows my erroneous navigational guidance, than drive.

 

The road from Gibraltar to Cádiz was a windy one. (Windy as in bendy, not windy as in huff huff.) It was also very climby. It was beautiful; it meandered through green countryside landscapes, more and more cows appearing along the sides of the road and, behind one bend, we found ourselves right in the middle of a vast windfarm, huge turbines as far as the eye could see, us milling through the world like a little ant.

Anf had told me, when I was driving before, that I needed to give Smiley more gas and rant her a bit more before changing gear. I make her work too hard, he said. So, when climbing the hills to our next destination, I made Smiles super rantalicious. She was awailing in a high-pitched tone and my hand was hovering over the gearstick but then I thought, will Tone deem this too soon to change?

I ask, “Can I change gear yet?”

“No, no.” he says, confidently. Patiently.

I wait. We climb some more. Smiley is screaming. The pedal is to the metal.

“Now?”, I insist, hopefully wishing he’ll agree.

“No, no.” he says, equally assertive as the first time.

Smiley is a soprano. Laaaaaaaaaah!!!

“Now?!”, I ask, for the last time.

“No, no.”, he stands his ground. He’s as confident as when I asked the first time.

I do Stacey. I change gear.

The high-pitch of the engine eases but, despite the racket, we’re still climbing at a snail’s pace (why is there so much weight in the van – which sodding princess brought that massive suitcase?!).

 

The climb turns into a fall and Tony politely requests that I slow down as we approach the sharp bends. He gently explains that I need to be mindful of the weight on the roof and that going too fast around the corners will result in the van tipping. What?! #nervous

 

I no wanty drive no more!

 

Darkness is falling and we pull off the meandery road into a town called Tarifa, looking for somewhere to grab a bite to eat. We find a little bar called Café del Mar, near the sea – I know this place! (Today’s theme playlist!).

The lighting is low, the playlist is funky, there are candles on the tables, and I enjoy a beer (another positive to Tony driving!) whilst we chomp down on some delicious, juicy little olives and woof (whoof? wolf?) down a (very rich!) pig cheek lasagne. Bellies filled (again), we get back on the road.

We had made very little progress (my driving?!) and agreed we needed to keep moving. Tony takes the wheel after dinner and we climb up and up and up some more. Just a few miles out of Tarifa and Anf spots a campsite.

“Ooooh. Campsite. Shall I turn around?”

“Yeah! Let’s do it!”

So we pull in, are greeted by a toothless, strong accented Spanish chap (who had a very good head of hair) and tell him we want to park up for the night. We find a pitch right opposite the loos/showers and bed down for the night.

Campsites. Who would’ve thunk… And we’ve been hotelling it up until now?! We’ve been missing a trick! No more plush luxuries for this princess; camping all the way from this point on!

 

*We started the trip with me happily feeding Tony, directly into his mouth. Mints. Crisps. Turrón. Sweets. Water. Soup. You name it; I’d feed it. But when Tony opened his mouth expectedly, just once, very briefly, the mouth feeding stopped altogether without a word from me. Damn this furious revolutionary feminist in me: when expectations are there, I do the opposite. The expectant mouth-opening toned down into a humble wanting, waiting open palm that would appear every now and again. I willingly obliged for a while, popping pringles into Anf’s begging hand. But I’ve now resorted to leaving Tony to feed himself. Hey. I don’t know when he wants another mint and he keeps saying he wants to lose some weight. I’m just helping him, right?! (Treez, he told me not to let you know that the packet of mints has lasted more than a week!)

** If I’ve been in the town before, Anf expects me to know exactly where we are at every turn.

***OK. So, Sometimes I might get the navigation wrong (what do you mean it was my fault we ended up back in Marseille, after an hour of driving out of Marseille?!) but this is because I’m human; not because I’m female… Right?!

**** I’m starting to think Tony kisses those long ol’ bumpy patches with the front right tyre just for fun now. Bizarrely, when I throw him eggy, frowny glances, it seems to happen more often. Go figure!