Life: Idiotropic

The French are renown worldwide for delicious cheeses and pastries and breads, the Eiffel tower, and all things fashion (although we know that most of that comes from Milan). They are not; however, known for cars.

Apparently in Spain, even if the fault is 100% of the other party, their car insurance has no obligation to pay for a rental car. My insurance will cover $50/day for up to 30 days. I'm in Spain where big cars are fairly impossible to find, automatic transmissions are even rarer and the price for the combination will not amount to $50 unless the exchange rate does a quick reversal. Rats. So, I rented the least expensive thing I could find with room for 6 bottoms - a French car, a lemon. Yes, I rented a French lemon. Ha ha. The joke could easily be on me, but so far so good.

I picked the car up yesterday just after picking up Kirk from his trip to Germany. (He's shopping at Ramstein and I'm getting hit by vision impaired old drivers - the injustice of it all!)

We got it together, walked over to it, looked at it. He saw the buttons and knobs and said half-jokingly, "You may need to get out the manual for this one."

Ha. Me? I don't think so. So he goes to get his truck from long term parking and I slip into the driver's seat of my tiny little "how-in-the-world-am-I-ever-going-to-fit-my-family-into-this" Picasso.

I put on my seat belt, slip in the key, and turn it. Nothing. Ahem. Ok. Let's try again. And again. And again. Nothing. Fine. So I open the manual. (Completely written in Spanish) And start reading, skimming, searching for any indication of how to turn on this car. Oh, here it is. Insert key... No help.

Silly female can't start a car. I just love confirming the stereotype.

Got out. Looked towards the National booth - empty. Must have looked as totally confused as I felt because a guy who I think was a National employee got out of another car and asked if I needed help. Yes! Please!

I think I slept through the chapter of my Spanish book when we learned about car parts. For some odd reason I remember "parabrisas" - windshield wipers - but I don't remember a lot else. So I sit down in the car and am looking forlornly at this guy who is telling me over and over again to push in on the brake and yeah, my foot was on it all the time, but I wasn't pushing hard enough. Freno? Freno? Ok. Ok. So I think I've got it, but I obviously don't know what a "freno" is. After a few equally frustrating (yet amiable) minutes, this silly female figures out what "freno" is and soon my car is actually running! Hooray! A few more instructions that I actually understand and away I am with "mil gracias" to the kind man who endured this Spanish-impaired "woman driver."

So, in my gadget filled Citroen, my little French sardine can of lemonhood, I have no parking brake per say. It goes on automatically when I put the car into neutral. There is no "park" option. I start it in neutral with my foot pushing in on the break. I stop it in neutral and the break automatically comes on. The break goes off when I shift into R or A and step on the gas. And, there is a little handle to pull up in the top center if I need to manually put it on. It's an odd little car. But the mirrors automatically fold in and I like that. Convenient for Europe. And you can adjust your temperature digitally in each part of the car. So I like it at 20 C and others might like it at 21.5 and that's ok.

Day 1 really didn't like this little lemon, but I think by the end of this 30 days I may learn to love it. If I could only fit a suitcase in here...

Oh, and the title of this post... unrelated except that Arianna had her first birthday party today at the school, a party for her friend Carla. Standard Caxton party. Games for the kids upstairs, then cake, presents, and a pinata (not Spanish, but they like them too). Parents crowd around the "parents table" munching on sweets and talking. They warm up as soon as they learn that though my speaking is sometimes slow, I can understand and follow their conversations. This is the party when the mother knows of my favorite bakery and brings a couple trays of goodies that are obviously from C. Aixa. It was fun to recognize and comment. I think it surprised them.

At the end of the party, as I was gathering Arianna's things, all the children started running up and down the stairs and weaving in and out of tables raising their arms and shouting in their loudest voices, "Injusticia Manifistacion!" Over and over and over again. The parents laughed.

The only translation I can figure is the manifestation of injustice. But I have no clue as to why 20+ 8 year old children would be chanting this at a birthday party. Activists in training? Who knows. Just another day in Spain.

"Injusticia Manifistacion!"

Oh, the photo? Just another sunrise taken from my balcony. Why even on the roughest days, I can take a deep breath and be thankful.