Michel Does Spain: One Englishwoman, a dark Málaga road and a very confused Guardia Civil officer.

Driving home from Málaga should have taken Michel 37 minutes. Instead, she became trapped in a hospital car park, followed the Guardia Civil and discovered that venga, vamos did not mean what she thought it did.

Driving in Spain at night should have been a simple 37-minute journey home. Instead, Michel battled a Spanish hospital car park, a homicidal satnav and a Guardia Civil officer who accidentally became her personal escort through Málaga. Do you ever sit and wonder whether you are actually equipped to do life? Not the grand, philosophical version involving destiny, purpose and whether there is something beyond the pearly gates. I mean ordinary life: parking, technology, following directions and getting home without accidentally being arrested by the Guardia Civil. On Wednesday, following the trauma of Mr E undergoing extensive back surgery, I had to drive home from Málaga in the dark to attend to the precious Poms. They needed walking, cuddling and, most importantly, their daily fix of custard creams. Praise the Lord—and every purchasing manager involved—for Tesco at the bottom of the road, which keeps my furry fiends in plentiful supply. Anyone who knows me knows that driving in Spain at night is not my forte. Indeed, my latest bullet point for life—which becomes more accurate by the day—is this: Men, machinery and technology are definitely not my thing. Trapped in a Spanish hospital car park There I was: tired, emotional and trapped in a strange underground hospital car park in Málaga, with Google Maps assuring me that I was “approximately 37 minutes from home.” Google Maps lies. The first challenge was escaping what must surely be the smallest car park known to woman. I approached the exit only to discover that the barrier refused to open. Naturally, several cars immediately appeared behind me. The drivers began sounding their horns and shaking their heads at the dumb blonde in front of them. Tooting your horn is a very Spanish response to almost any situation. It can mean move, hello, goodbye, you idiot, Spain has scored or simply I own a horn and intend to use it. Eventually, a kind woman—obviously it had to be a woman—recognised the unmistakable expression of someone moments away from abandoning her vehicle and walking home. She explained that the barrier would only open if I manoeuvred my car into the blue box painted on the floor. The blue box? Honestly, my car is made of metal. It is not a contortionist. After several hundred attempts—and I am not a woman prone to exaggeration—I finally squeezed my chariot into the box. Nothing happened. The barrier remained firmly shut. By this stage, the hospital appeared to have emptied directly into the car park behind me. The snake of trapped vehicles grew longer by the second, while the decibel level rose accordingly—and all without Spain having won the World Cup. Then another nice lady came over and explained that we had to wait because there was only one ramp serving as both the entrance and the exit. A car was apparently travelling down what must be the longest subterranean ramp ever constructed in Spain. And she was right. After an interminable wait, headlights appeared in the distance. A car finally emerged, the barrier rose and I began inching my way around every bend with the precision of a bomb-disposal expert deciding which wire to cut. Then, suddenly, there it was. Daylight—or rather, darkness—but freedom nonetheless. Almost an hour after entering the car park, I emerged feeling like a prisoner released after serving a life sentence. “Yippee! I’m free!” My celebration lasted approximately four seconds. When Google Maps sends you into a Spanish nightmare I looked at the satnav. The route resembled a map to Antarctica drawn by someone whose pen had run out of ink halfway through. This was the precise moment when I lost the plot. I have never known my right from my left, and I am completely incapable of judging distance. Telling me to turn in 300 metres means absolutely nothing. Tell me it is the equivalent of three walks with the dogs and I might have a fighting chance. I was completely flummoxed. There were lights everywhere, horns blaring, motorbikes whizzing past and, looming over the entire disaster, the authoritative male voice of Google Maps issuing orders without the slightest understanding of my stress and trepidation. Note to self: change it to a woman’s voice. A woman might at least detect panic and say, “Don’t worry, love. Pull over, have a custard cream and we’ll try again.” Instead, the nasty man ordered me to perform a U-turn. Now, I spent years driving around Hyde Park and negotiating the back streets of Kensington, so I do possess a basic understanding of dual carriageways. But the satnav sounded so confident that I obediently positioned myself to follow his instruction. That was when my nightmare became a full-blown horror story. Lights flashed at me from every direction. Horns blared. Motorbikes swerved. And then came the sound nobody wants to hear. A siren. Blue lights appeared behind me. The Guardia Civil. Never to be taken lightly. An unexpected Guardia Civil encounter At this point, unable to continue in the same direction and with panic taking complete control, I did what any terrified woman might do. I waited for the smallest lull in the traffic, hit the accelerator and offered several fervent prayers to Him above. Miraculously, I survived. Unfortunately, the Guardia Civil survived too—and was now beside me, ordering me to stop. Yes, stop. On a dual carriageway. So I stopped. Now neither I, the officer nor any of the enormous queue behind us could move. He shouted something at me in Spanish while I repeatedly cried: “¡Los sientos! ¡Los sientos!” What I meant was lo siento—I’m sorry. What I was actually saying was something closer to “the seats.” Tears were pouring down my face. Finally realising that he had a complete basket case on his hands, the officer’s expression changed from fury to disbelief and then, unmistakably, pity. “¡Venga! ¡Vamos! ¡Venga! ¡Vamos!” he said, waving his arms. He climbed back into his car and drove away with his blue lights still swirling. Obviously, I followed him. Left. Left again. Then right. The satnav went into complete meltdown. “Recalculating.” “Turn around.” “Recalculating.” For once, the horrible little man inside the phone was being ignored. I had something far better: my own personal Guardia Civil escort through Málaga. After what felt like another lifetime, the police car indicated and pulled over. Naturally, I followed suit. No questions asked. The officer got out and approached my car. By now, he had miraculously become fully conversant in English. “Señora,” he said, “what are you doing?” “Following you,” I replied in the most adolescent voice imaginable. “But I am going back to the station, Señora. I told you ten minutes ago to go!” It transpired that venga, vamos did not mean, “Follow me, distressed Englishwoman, and I shall escort you safely home.” It meant, “Go. Please, just go before I lose the will to live.” With that, he threw back his head and howled with laughter before returning to his car—leaving me alone once more with the homicidal man on the satnav. What driving in Spain taught me The moral of the story? Do not panic. Spanish roads operate like roads everywhere else. If something feels dangerous, it probably is—so don’t do it merely because a disembodied man inside your telephone tells you to. And learn your Spanish. Especially under pressure. Eventually, I reached home and have never been so relieved to see my gates. I rushed inside, cuddled my furry fiends and administered the long-overdue custard creams. Thank you, Mr Guardia Civil, for being a kind human being. I hope you enjoyed telling everyone back at the station about the mad Englishwoman who followed you through Málaga beneath a full moon, believing she had been given a personal police escort home. As for whether I am genuinely equipped to do life, the jury remains out. But that is Spain for you. You leave a hospital believing you are 37 minutes from home and, several nervous breakdowns later, you have shouted “the seats” at the Guardia Civil, accidentally stalked a police officer and discovered that even Google Maps cannot compete with Spanish road signs, a determined woman and two Pomeranians waiting for biscuits. The Poms got their custard creams. I got home in one piece. And somewhere in a Guardia Civil station, I suspect my story improved considerably with every retelling. So, as they say in Spain: ¡Venga, vamos! Pa’lante siempre—because in Spain, even when you have absolutely no idea where you are going, you keep moving forward. And if all else fails? Smile, say “lo siento,” follow the blue lights—and pray they are heading in roughly the right direction. ¡Hasta la próxima aventura!