If she tells me she’s “recalculating” just one more time..…it’s to the moon Alice!

I was pretty hammered last night. It was more the “road rash” than the ribaldry.

 

Oh, I just wish I could say it was from too many tintos (glasses of red wine) in the local tapas bars of San Sebastian, Spain, but alas, it was not.

 

                

 

And, for accuracy sake, I should mention that the tapas are actually called pintxos in the Basque region of northern Spain, which are pronounced “peen-chohs. Not crucial to my tale of tribulation, but there it is.

 

No, my less-than-lucid mental state of mind was mostly the almost 20 hours of airport/airline time, which has of a zombie-creating affect on most people, I do believe.  Then, add to that, renting a car at the Madrid airport and attempting to make San Sebastian before dark.

 

Given the maze of curving and undulating roads leaving that airport, I am pretty sure it was designed by the same guy who drew up the plans for the Guggenheim museum in Bilbao: all curves with no clear directions.

 

Most of the drive was in the open countryside and on good, fast roads, which had very light traffic. Fast, as in these people REALLY like to drive fast. (What is Spanish for Autobahn?)

 

But, a five hour drive after the long haul to get here creates an über zombie.

 

That takes us into San Sebastian. Rick Steves did not warn us sufficiently that trying to navigate these very narrow—as in you might have to fold in your outside mirrors—and extremely busy streets is a challenge on a good day.

 

As a zombie…well, all I can say is that I was lucky that I did not kill Alice.

 

Before you accuse me of threatening wife abuse, I should mention that Alice is not wife. She is not my girlfriend, my mistress, or my sister.

 

She is not even real.

 

No, this was not someone I was hallucinating about given my zombie-ness. She was my virtual road guide.

 

If I tell you her full name is Alice Garmin, well, you probably can figure it who she is.

 

The problem was that in our—now I am talking about my wife and I—reduced mental capacity, our ability to react to the actual street and traffic conditions, while viewing a screen smaller than an iPod, let’s just say I got to hear Alice lecture me in a very stern, un-approving voice on more than one occasion,

“…recalculating…”

It may have just been my lessening brain function, but I swear after about the sixth time I heard an snide smirk in her voice: almost a giggle. At least Alice was amused. My wife was somewhere between suicidal and murderous—of me.

 

I just wanted an effing drink.

 

And to make matters worse, I think the locals even got into the ridicule business.

 

After making the same loop around the same wrong streets, I am pretty sure I noticed some of the same people set up on sidewalk chairs, drinking the wine that I was lusting after, and pointing to us while smiling and whispering into the ear of the next person doing the same thing.  Ha ha…funny to you…you(expletive deleted).

 

I was pretty sure after a half hour of this, they were wishing the entertainment would last until the rush-hour traffic subsided so they could go home and tell their spouses of the amusing American fool driving around in circles.

 

All-the-while, Alice would say over and over and over,

“…recalculating…RE-recalculating…RECALCULATING, you idiot…

 

Sometime later that evening, our road hero somehow stumbles upon a parking garage—SOMEONE COULD HAVE TOLD ME THEY ARE ALL UNDERGROUND—and after finding just one spot available, it was time to park and navigate to our pension (pronounced “pen-see—own,” a boarding house).

 

I was on my own by that point. My wife thought, why should the locals have all the fun at her expense, so earlier she hoped out at a red light and took up residence at one of the sidewalk wine bars, and joined in by pointing at me every time I drove up and laughing a little louder each time.

 

It is no wonder that Ralph Kramden kept offering to send Alice to the moon.

 

I just wanted to send my wife to bring me back a Bota bag of tinto.

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