Baby, you can drive my car

It is with a heavy heart that I write that the streets of Madrid are no longer safe.

Especially when I have to admit it’s my fault that the streets of Madrid are no longer safe.

You see, I have joined the ranks of drivers. I know, I know, after my last paint-scraping escapade I vowed never to darken the driver’s door again but needs must when a regular journey takes one and a half hours in the bus and only thirty minutes by car.

And so, one 5.45am start too many, I scoured the pages looking for a bargain. Except that I forgot bargains only happen twice a year in Spain and I’d obviously missed the car season. Old vehicles are hot property - with hot prices to match - but eventually I found a Ford Fiesta that sounded good. I drove it, managed not to hit anyone, and told Santiago the owner I’d take it, proffering the money at the same time.

“Ah! No. You cannot pay me yet - first you have to pay a tax.”

“Pay a tax for buying a car?”

“Si.”

“And then I get the car.”

“No.”

Doh, of course not. How could I have been so stupid? After all, this is Spain and if bureaucracy is worth doing at all, it’s worth doing in triplicate. Turns out, after going to the tax office to pay a transfer tax, I then had to go to the jefatura de trafico (the central car agency) with Santiago to pay another tax, of course, to transfer the ownership, as well as pay for all the forms that we needed to use. What did I say about a bargain?

After leaving me, Santiago had pointed at some strange handle, muttered something about “frio” (cold) and I had nodded like the dumb guiri I am. Five minutes later, after sitting in a car that wasn’t doing anything, I realised it was the choke. Yup, my car is so old it has a manual choke.

The next day I decided to take my maiden voyage on the motorway. Route planner in hand (or rather on the passenger seat), I turned the ignition key. Nothing. I tried again, and a faint chug-chug-splutter came from the engine. Pulling the choke out turned the chug-chug-splutter into a healthier sound and I pulled out gingerly.

Five minutes later and Ferdie was moving beautifully. We’d never left the slow lane and I had no plans of ever doing so . . . until a bus pulled to a halt in front of me and, with that wonderful way they have of doing so, just stopped.

I checked my mirror and indicated. And checked again. And one more time. It doesn’t do to rush these things. When even the dog in the distance had safely left my field of vision, I pulled out to the central lane and glided to a halt at the traffic lights.

And I had done all this with the choke left on.

The lights changed to green. My engine changed to stop. There was nothing. No matter how many times I tried, the engine refused to give anything and the only noise I could hear was the “beep beep” from the drivers behind me.

Close to tears, I tried to move the damn car myself, when suddenly I was rescued by a knight in shining armour (or rather, a white van). He quickly realised I was a female guiri in distress, commandeered another driver to help, and pushed Ferdie to a turning spot so the rest of the traffic could move on.

“This,” he said, pointing to the bonnet, “Kaput?” I nodded. “Please, open it.”

What? Open the bonnet? How? Where? With what?

I began scrabbling about the normal points for the bonnet release key but it was all in vain. There was nothing there. Wiping the tears away, I tried the key one more time.

Success. Ferdie sprung to life and my knight sprung into his van, smiling broadly as I blew kisses of thanks, using both hands to show my intense gratitude.

His big, wide, happy smile as he left kept me glowing all the way to my destination.

At my office, I stepped into the ladies’ for a quick touch up of my make-up. Hmmm, my hands were dirty too - must have been from scrabbling on the floor looking for the bonnet. The same hands that I had buried my face into. The same hands from which energetic kisses of thanks had been blown.

The same hands that had, the mirror now showed me, covered my face in large smudges of tearstained black dirt. So that explained the white van driver’s smile.

Since then, my confidence has grown, and now I toot horns, switch lanes, forget about indicating - all like a true Spanish driver.

And who knows, perhaps someday I can do it when there are other cars on the road.