It was a crisp morning – sunny, yet it was still early in the morning, therefore, it was reasonably cold, at around nine degrees, if I remember correctly – it was my birthday, and we were just about to start the second day of our continental adventure, which wasn't much of one because we knew the route off by heart, but whatever. On my birthday, we would be going from a hotel in the middle of nowhere (junction 13 off of the N10 to be exact), to Cacers, a town in the middle of nowhere – well, sort of; it's in the middle of Plains of Spain, kinda halfway between Salamanca and Sevilla, where the weather can vary from a mind-numbling cold state – we've seen snow before – to t-shirts and shorts weather.
With the quick geography lesson over, I'll get onto a meaty bit of this post instead of pretending I know my geography, which I don't. Anyway, when we were driving along the A8 near San Sebastian, so just after the border then, our Sat-Nav decided what it really wanted to do was turn into a pen, a gearbox and a fridge. In other words, our Sat-Nav wasn't working, which was a little perplexing considering it had worked without fault for the past three months. What our Sat-Nav decided to show instead of our route, was a car going through a field. Which was jolly helpful indeed, because that bit of Spain seems to throw up elvently hundred and twelve junctions within 100 meters so knowing which way to go is quite useful. And yes, I am aware that I just wrote that I know the route off by heart, but that bit of Spain is dammed confusing.
Anyway, after five or so minutes of driving through a field disguised as the A8, I began thinking: “Spain apparently hates Sat-Navs” I reasoned “And we are in the Basque area, so I bet some jumped up loony from ETA [a terrorist group based around San Sebastian] has hacked into our Sat-Nav, knowing it would cause confusion, nick all of our details from the brain of the thing and send us down a backstreet, kill us and nobody would be any the wiser.” Well, as I'm sat here back home writing this, the last bit didn't happen, but you can bet your bottom dollar that a Spaniard with a desire to kill all TomTom users – or at least confuse them anyway – now knows where I live. That is quite a chilling prospect, correct?
Of course, it may not have been ETA that decided to stop Mr Thomas Tom from calculating the fastest route out of the Basque area, but take into account that every year – including this one – there are quite a few checkpoints in the area. Saying that there are a few big burly blokes with guns – I counted eight searching one coach – is like saying that Gaddafi 'is a bit shouty'. Needless to say, I was not best pleased with the situation, as I'm not the biggest flag-waver for San Sebastian and the surrounding area, chiefly because of volience and the presence of many guns, in the same way that I'm not a big fan of North London, Libya or Iran. I'm rambling on here, so I what I will say is that – fortunately – the very helpful woman with a foxy voice did come back to life, only we had gotton out of the wrath of San Sebastian. Coincidence? I think so. Sheer luck? My foot. We've all heard of phone-hacking, but Sat-Nav hacking? Maybe the News of the World have moved on from celebrities to gingers – with the help of Basques, obviously.
That wasn't the only incident that day, though. Spain seemingly wanted me to have a memorable sixteenth – and no, I don't mean in that way – we stopped at a service area between Burgos and Valladoid – so out of the reach of the sat-nav hating, train-bombing madmen from further up – and I had just come out of the public convenience – nothing strange there, I hear you scream at the electronic fish tank – but the next few minutes were. I had appeared to walk straight into the wrath of the ambassador for Visit Spain or so I thought. In short, she tried to sell me a map of region – great, but what possible use was that to me? - then tried to convince me that the gap in my life was the absence of some firewood and that I was 'lucky, lucky'. After me saying no to some firewood – I wasn't planning on joining ETA – she remained undeterred and on a toolbox. By this point I was getting annoyed; I had come in for a pee, not to be buy useless things from a pushy saleswoman who seemed to think I was lucky. (seriously, why do I find all of the weirdos?). After not a lot of thought, I would call her a name. In my (very limited) Spanish, I called her a batty chicken sandwich – see, told you I don't speak much of the lingo – her reaction to the worst insult even was strange one; while saying things I didn't understand, she went behind the counter and produced a chicken sandwich. With a toy bat on it. I'm not joking either. After that, I did what I should have done earlier and left, wrote up some notes in the car and made a mental note to blog about it. Which, I just did.
Strangely enough, that wasn't my only encounter with an eager salesperson; in Portugal, a few days later, I was offered the chance to buy a hoover, more firewood and some apples. Much the same thing happened as above, really,aside from not calling anyone anything and just walking off.
The above weren't the only strange encounters that I had while on holiday though. Next time you can read about the joys of being chatted up by a Portuguese girl, being chased by a dog and getting lost and ending up walking through a Golf Course. Not at the same time fortunately.
In the meantime, a happy Easter to you, and keep away from pesky Basques and foreign ambassadors.
-Dan
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