Some Easy Ways to Die in Spain

by Daria Pronoza (Ukraine)

I didn't expect to find Spain

I am standing at the exit of the gas station near the road and looking at the heavy grey clouds on the west. Sasha, my boyfriend, suggest to stop hitchhiking today and set up a tent because it is getting dark and rainy. I look back at the only old gas station in the middle of the highway, a small forest behind it, and endless fields around us. There is no other choice anyway, but I say that I will stand a little longer. Within two minutes, I understand that it was the right decision when I see Sasha talking to some guy. "His name is Peter. He came up and offered to give us a ride in a city near Barcelona. Let's go?" - Sasha is asking me, but we are already going to the car. "Hmm," I look at the guy and his dreadlocks, ragged snickers, and a sloppy stubble. Usually, people do not offer help if you don't ask them. - "Okay, let's go. We will either be taken to Spain or murdered. Fifty percent is a good chance, right?" I see our transport and feel nostalgic as it reminds me of Ukrainian public transport. Old cargo Mercedes, with amateur graffiti on the back and traces of rust. Inside, everything is also old but clean and smells familiar. So, I jump into the middle seat, Sasha sits next to me and slams the door. "You didn't close it." - says the driver. - "Pull it harder." Sasha slams the door, which makes a gas station guy jump up, but the driver nods his head in satisfaction. We start a conversation to pay in the only way available for hitchhikers: "So, what can you tell about Spain?" "Oh, you're not going to Spain!" - Peter says and lights a home-made cigarette. Oh, this is why the smell seemed familiar to me - it is a weed. And where are we going? - Sasha asks with apprehension in his voice. "To Catalonia!" - proudly answers Peter. We breathe a sigh of relief, and for the next half hour, we listen to a weakly reasoned, but very emotional lecture about Catalonia. I find myself in a "movie-like" scene: the smell of weed, soothing sounds of reggae, and a knocking of rain on the old van. The pacifying picture suddenly falls apart because of the roll of thunder and the flash of horizontal lightning that literally cuts through the black sky from east to west. In seconds, gentle rain turns into a wall of water, and I see how Peter is sweating and tensing up. "Hmm, guys, where will you spend the night?" - Peter asks when another lightning cuts through the sky. "We wanted to put up a tent somewhere on the outskirts of the city and spend the night there."- I say and get no answer back because Peter is busy with a more serious problem. The wipers, which have been working at maximum speed for the last 10 minutes, are hooked with each other and stuck in the middle of the windshield. On the road with a speed limit of 120 km/h and zero visibility. Is that how we should die? Peter turns on the emergency lights and slowly turns over to the side of the road. It took him two minutes to get out of the car without being hit, another ten minutes to fix the wipers, and then five to get back on the road. All the way to the city, we were going with one working wipers, thank God from the driver's side, and almost without talking. Only when the rain stopped, Peter again lighted up his weed and said: "Guys, probably putting up a tent is not the best idea in such weather. You can spend the night in my van. Hah?" I was happy to hear such words, so I agreed. The guy just parked his car near the railway station and left it to us, two strangers. This act was only one of all cases of absolute kindness and trust that we met. Perhaps, this is the sense of traveling - to find and give kindliness where it isn't expected?