Space Case Backpacker

Arriving in Madrid in the early afternoon, our sole intention was to catch an immediate high speed train our next destination: our friend’s village on the western coast (a small town called Regadas), where a large fiesta was taking place that night. The only problem was, all the trains were full.

My friend Colleen and I moped around for a bit, brainstorming alternate options, none of which were plausible: the buses were too slow, the planes weren’t timed right and were too expensive, and walking would take several weeks. Until suddenly, the idea hit: we could rent a car.

This had not immediately occurred to us, for the laws we are used to in the United States entail that none under the age of twenty-five are able to rent a car. But no such rules apply in Spain. After a short line, a series of paperwork and payments and deposits, and an extra 30€ “young person” fee, we were handed our own set of keys.

We eagerly found our parking spot, loaded our bags into the trunk, and hopped into the large car. The air in the car was stuffy and hot and I desperately jammed the key toward the slot, jerking it around in desperation for the familiar growl of the engine and a dream-filled puff of cool air. However, nothing happened. Confused, we looked around for some lever or button that would make this unfamiliar car start. That was when our eyes fell on one fateful detail: a stick shift.

With casual airs and a forced spring in my step, I returned to the rental counter, leaned casually on both elbows, and asked the woman, “Not to say that I don’t know how to drive a manual car, but if I didn’t, would you happen to have any automatics at the moment?”

“No.”

“No problem!” I smiled through the pain of the multiple hundreds we had already spent on this car, “All good.”

Returning to the sweltering and distinctly stagnant car, Colleen and I sat in silence for a moment and weighed our options. We decided that we would drive the car.

On shoddy roaming service, we pulled up a three-minute Youtube video titled: How to Drive a Stick Shift (check it out, I highly recommend it). I took a few turns around the parking lot, jerking to a stop every few seconds and entirely missing the purpose of the clutch. After not nearly enough training, we set off on our six hour drive. Maneuvering through Madrid was difficult, especially stopping and starting on hills (in fact a kind Spanish man pulled over and helped us when we were stopped at a light for ten minutes as it slowly changed from red to green and back again), but after that the wide open highway in fifth gear was simple.

We were zipping along, feeling very pleased with ourselves.

When our gas ran low, we stopped in a small town to refill, and continued on our way. Soon after, however, things began to go wrong. The Hand Brake Method that had worked so well to get up hills before was suddenly ineffective. Loud and persistent clicks and a vague humming sound told us the engine was unhappy, and the car’s stalls were increasing with alarming frequency.

After spending what must have been a half hour on one hill, edging a foot or two forward and then sliding three back, breaking, and starting again, the car decided to shut down entirely.

At this point, it was 2:00 am, and I had given up all traces of hope. I resigned myself to a miserable night on the side of a winding country road in the middle of the Spanish country side, and had already pulled out my sleeping bag and reclined my chair.

Colleen had a bit more faith, however, and after nearly an hour on hold eventually got a tow truck sent from the company and a taxi to take us the next two hours to the village. We arrived at what must have been 5:00 am, tired, cranky, and not nearly as pleased with ourselves as we had been speeding along the highway with our music blaring and the stick shift sliding easily between gears.

It turned out that we misunderstood the Spanish labels and put Diesel fuel in our car.

Needless to say, we missed the fiesta.

During this past summer, I was backpacking around Europe with various friends at various times. Our first stop was the Netherlands, and upon arriving in Amsterdam our small group signed up for the elusive Heineken brewery tour.

The tour shifted quickly from a simple beer tasting to a series of increasingly bizarre hallways and rooms, none of which seemed remotely related to brewing beer. One moment we were amongst a selection of ping pong tables and virtual soccer games, and the next we were surrounded by flashing mirrors in what could only be described as a miniature night club.

As we were nearing the end of the self-guided tour — though at the time we had no notion of our position in the maze — we passed a seemingly innocuous hole at the base of a wall. The people in the hall around our group streamed past, but we stopped to examine it.

It was a small sort of hatch, with metal handles that, in my eyes, would be the perfect aide to propel oneself through. I bent to peer through the hole and saw nothing but dark shadows.

At this point, it was clear that this was not a part of the tour, but I was already too committed to the mystery of what lay behind the wall. So, with great enthusiasm, I crouched down and slid into the gap.

Anticlimactically, there was nothing behind the wall. It seemed to be a tiny sort of storage area with a few boxes and a close section of drywall that left little room to maneuver. I crawled back out, shrugged, and began to walk away with my group. But in seeing me climb out of the wall, a line began to form outside of the hole. One tourist after another filed into the tiny storage area, thinking that I had been exploring something vastly important to the Heineken experience.

For the rest of the day, it is likely that each person who saw someone exit the hole joined the queue, and was subsequently extremely disappointed.