The car suddenly started making a weird noise. I didn’t take much notice at first, but after a while I started to worry about it.
“What could have happened to it? If he were here, Dad would know what was wrong right away,” I told myself. I stopped at the roadside for a short time, and I went down to take a look at the wheels to see if there were any flat tires. I didn’t see anything unusual and I got back into the car and continued along the road. The noise continued and I was getting nervous. I opened the window a little more to see what it was, and listened carefully. The noise had stopped, surely not, what could it have been?
I closed the window again, and still the sound was gone. Suddenly I realized, the window had been open just a tiny bit. I opened it just a fraction and the noise started again. What a relief! I’d finally located where that wretched and annoying sound had come from, it was the glass window vibrating when it wasn’t fully closed, so I calmed down and continued on the way to my destination, it was still a long way away.
When I was passing through Pontevedra, already having decided that I was going to continue on to Fatima, I still knew that I had a lot of open road ahead of me, but for me, getting as far as I had was already a joy in itself. I felt that I would be able to make it, I was already feeling more confident. I even started to go a little more swiftly, stepping on the gas a little more because before it felt like I was in competition with a turtle. Some of the trees by the side of the road had passed so slowly that I’m almost certain I wouldn’t have passed them any faster if I’d been walking.
“Manu, you’ll never arrive at this rate, it’s one thing to drive with caution and another to go so slowly that it’s going to be night time by the time you reach customs and you’ll find it closed,” I thought at one point.
My legs hurt, I couldn’t go any further, but I wanted to reach the point that my father had indicated. He had calculated the route and divided it into stages, so that I could rest every so often and he had warned me, saying:
“Every time you stop, look at the little fuel needle. You should never neglect it, if you don’t give the car a drink, it’ll leave you stranded and you won’t be able to continue.”
I made it an obsession. I looked and looked at the little needle, and since I didn’t see it change, I wondered, “What if it’s broken and it leaves me high and dry in the middle of nowhere? Even though I have some names here, I don’t know how far I am from any town.”
Finally, I saw a sign that filled me with joy: “Spanish Border.” Why would it say that? Everyone passing this way on this side of the border already knows they’re on Spanish soil, it’s obvious that it’s the border of Spain. At last I had reached it, I was about to enter Portugal. I assumed that they would also announce that we were at the “Border of Portugal” on their side, and I thought, “What now? Nothing Manu, just go ahead.” When I handed my papers to the border guard, he looked at me and asked me if I was going alone.
As the question surprised me, I must have had a strange expression on my face or something, because he immediately asked me:
“Is der someting wrong frien?”
But since I didn’t understand him very well, I had to ask him to repeat himself, and I asked him:
“Where are you from? You’re not Galician are you?”
He laughed and told me he was Andalusian:
“No, not Galician.”
“From where?” I asked, out of courtesy, aware of how many hours they spend there alone.
“From a real’ small town called Roquetas del Mar in da province of Almeria,” he replied.
I tried to remember, because at that moment I couldn’t quite recall where it was, but it seemed to me that it was in the South so I said:
“You’re kind of far from home.”
“Der’s a funny side to what dey command,” he said in his peculiar accent.
“And what’s that?” I asked him.
“Well, for dat reason, sendin’ me to the other side of the country, der’s nowhere furder away, what dya tink?” he said looking annoyed.
“You’ll not be able to see your family often then,” I said, because I didn’t know what else I could talk to him about.
“What are ye sayin’ man? I’ve been here for two years witout bein’ able to go down, what dya tink ‘o’ dat?”
“What do you mean by go down?” I asked surprised. I wasn’t really getting any of what he was saying.
“Well, jus’ dat, if we’re up here, my land will be down der, come on, I tell ya!”
“I still couldn’t quite understand him with that strange accent, but looking like a prankster, he laughed, and repeated:
“Up and down, it soun’s loike a game for chilren. So, wher are ye goin’? Is it that you’re not satisfoid wit’ Spain and yer off to anoder country? Surely ye don’ know my part of Spain,” he said to me. He seemed to want to keep talking.
“No, you’re right,” I replied.
“Well before ye get goin’ somewhere else, maybe you should get to know our own place. Look, I’m not one for showin’ off, but there ain’t nothin’ like my Andalusia.”
And he kept talking and talking. Uncertain about how to get out of this, my gut was telling me, “He’s not going to tire of this and let me continue on my way.”
And he went on saying to me:
“Why dontya take the cer and make for Andalusia? You’ll see such lan’scapes and places that they don’ have der in Portugal.”
“Do you know Portugal?” I asked him.
“Not at all, mid-air!” he told me. “What for? I’m satisfoid enough wit’ Spain and I’d loike to get to know da whole ting, I was at anoder border post for five yers.”
“Where?” I asked trying to be polite.
“Well, it wer real’ different from dis, der was no way to rest der, trucks and cers were always passin’ by, and they never stop comin’ even at lunchtime.”
“But where was it?” I asked again.
“On da French boarder, Hendaye it were called, such a cute name,” he replied.
“But I’m sure it’s better here,” I said.
“Yes, true dat, I can certainly assure ye, and listen, I love it so much I’ve even married one ‘o’ ya,” the man was telling me.
“Really?” I said a little incredulous. “How did you manage that? Well, Galician girls are known far and wide, when it comes to sweetness, no one beats them, they have that reputation.”
“And dis one is, so I couldn’t let her get away,” he said to me very excitedly.
As it was clear that he wasn’t going to stop, because I think what was going on was that he was bored and had found a captive audience to listen to him, I said:
“Hey, how far is it from here to Lisbon?”
“You’re going there?” he asked me surprised. “Well a good ole long way, and why are ye going der?”
I was getting tired of people asking me that and I must have frowned at him.
He noticed and returned the documents to me, adding:
“Sorry for me lack ‘o’ tact. Bye. Be careful on da road now ye hear? And remember dat der in Portugal, dey fine ye for everyting, have a good day.”
“I’m sure they will if I do something wrong, but I don’t intend to. Thanks, I’ll be very careful,” and with that I left.
