In the September of 2012, Jon and I drove the Les Seilhols black cab from the South of France to the South of Spain. Among many things we enjoyed cramped back seat sleeping/sleepless nights in remote car-parks, a mechanic’s home made wild boar chorizo for supper beneath swooping eagles, plenty of ‘say when’ gin and tonics, a flat tyre in the middle of nowhere and a force feeding bar owner with an husband fixated on swindling us out of the taxi.
More…let’s say, ‘elegant’ times, included a few a days in Seville for my 29th birthday (as soon as I wrote the word ‘elegant’ I had flashes of me stumbling back to the hotel at 4 in the morning, wearing denim hot pants and a basket I found in a tip, placed, yes ‘elegantly’, upon my head).
The highest point was possibly la Feria del Jueves… where I found an unimpressed 8 year old boy selling old magazines outside his family’s antique shop. I gathered together an armful of withered, yellow papers and was swiftly granted a nod and a throwaway “Dos Euro” from said sullen boy. I rapidly scarpered before he had a chance to decide that he probably liked his parents and should return to accurately pricing their valuable goods.
It was a moment of unbridled glee mixed with a faint touch of ‘I’m a good person and feeling slightly bad proves that I am’ guilt.
Sorry! (not really)
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