(YES, still whining and moaning about my stolen car)
The car was finally located in Cortijo Grande on one of the back lonesome winding roads. It had journeyed a mere 1,200kms according to the mileage clock before it had been flipped and rolled into an unrecognisable pattern of steel and crushed glass.
Nothing I had known in the history of my life or education could aid in the disentanglement of the present legal morass. But as the days crept by solutions had to be generated to solve basic living problems, another car had to be obtained.
Insurance people phoned and pleaded with to inspect the damages and rush to obtain another new car.
A local friendly garage rented me an old banger good for travel locally. But, the insurance people would not even consider getting me a new car especially since the crashed and crumbled one “could easily be fixed!” “That’s impossible,” I screamed! “The chassis was bent like a pretzel and in parts the roof was lower than the floor.”
But, I was to learn another law about how things worked here, in that, those that pay call the tune. Their analysis was a certain “could easily be fixed.” And, it was their way or the highway. Sign here if you want it repaired.
Story over, I signed and rushed to the nearest bar to wash the previous evil action from my countenance. A man must retain some form of dignity, even if doing so he falls from his perch (bar stool).
I was promised the car back “pronto.” But, as near as I can recalculate it now, they must have shipped it to some far-away place that had never seen an automobile before, shown them pictures of what their repair job should look like and within a mere nine months the evil memory was brought back into my life.
It had been given that new car spray to freshen it up, but before I could drive or inspect it, I had papers to sign, stacks of them. I had been worn down and just wanted to get on with it so I signed, jumped into the car, it started and off I drove towards home taking the back roads so as to not be cheered or ridiculed by every man or beast living here at the time.
All was quiet for about two days until I mustered up enough nerve to waltz into a favourite watering hole whereupon everyone turned and applauded. “There he is ladies and gentlemen, owner of the only “coche congrejo” in all of Spain. My brain couldn’t translate the insult so I had to ask.
“Your car goes diagonally down the road when you drive it. From us, as an oncoming car we can see and count your four tyres. Your car motors at us “crab style.” News to me, but I did go through a set of new tyres every 90 days.