Flying Cars? We Haven’t Mastered Indicators.

Flying cars are apparently the future, but Michel Euesden isn't convinced we're ready. From Costa del Sol roundabouts and missing indicators to Christmas kindness and remembering a much-loved friend, she asks whether we should focus a little more on the people around us.

Well, apparently, we’re getting flying cars. The world has gone completely giddy at the prospect. Wings! Freedom! No traffic! Meanwhile, my first thought was: who on earth is doing the insurance?

Because I’ve spent enough time on hold trying to explain something relatively straightforward without having to announce that my wing mirror has clipped a Ryanair flight.

“Was the other vehicle stationary, señora?”

“No. It was going to Dublin.”

Imagine the Monday morning excuses. “Sorry I’m late. Minor collision with a Boeing. We’re exchanging details, but the other driver’s in Terminal Three.”

And where exactly do you put the warning triangle? On a cloud?

Honestly. Before we start giving the Costa del Sol an upstairs, could we finish teaching everyone how to use the downstairs? We already have people who cannot negotiate the entrance to Mercadona without creating an international incident. I’m not convinced we should encourage them to approach it from above.

Spanish Roundabouts: An Adventure in Themselves

When I arrived in Spain thirty years ago, I barely remember encountering a roundabout. Then somebody discovered them, thought, “¡Qué maravilla!” and apparently ordered enough to cover the entire peninsula.

They sprouted everywhere. Little ones. Enormous ones. Ones with fountains. Ones with statues. Ones with sculptures you could drive past for fifteen years without establishing whether you were looking at modern art or something the builders hadn’t collected.

We embraced the landscaping. The actual driving remains open to interpretation.

There’s the motorist who enters in the outside lane and stays there until retirement. The one who treats all three lanes as a personal driveway. And the one who suddenly spots their exit and launches across your bonnet with the confidence of somebody whose grandmother has personally arranged their protection with the Virgin Mary.

“¡Voy, voy, voy!”

Yes, cariño. We can see you’re going. Some indication of where would be lovely.

Which brings me to indicators. Those little wands beside the steering wheel. Remember them? They came with the car. You’ve paid for them. Treat yourself.

A quick flick and the rest of us get a fascinating insight into your intentions. Left. Right. Lovely. Civilisation.

Instead, we’re expected to read minds through tinted glass. Is he turning? Is she parking? Has he stopped to let somebody out, answer his telephone or discuss his cousin’s hip replacement with a man carrying a baguette?

Nobody knows. We wait. We interpret a small movement of the shoulder. We consult the ancestors.

And now these people might be airborne.

Madre mía.

And Then It Rains

Then it rains.

Not necessarily a storm. Sometimes just enough to make the pavement change colour, and suddenly the roads acquire the atmosphere of an evacuation.

The drains give up almost immediately. Water gushes across junctions. Visibility disappears. Yet somewhere in the middle of it all, there is always somebody who decides the best response is to drive faster.

I can only imagine the internal conversation.

“¡Sácame de aquí! Cuanto antes llegue a casa, antes me como las lentejas con pan.”

Get me out of here. The sooner I’m home, the sooner I can eat my lentils and bread.

And yes, a lovely bowl of lentils, some crusty bread and a soothing glass of Rioja once safely parked sounds marvellous. I fully support lunch. I have built entire afternoons around it.

I would simply prefer not to become an ingredient in somebody else’s journey towards it.

Despacio, hombre. The lentils aren’t going anywhere.

So a flying car is some way down my Christmas list. Somewhere below world peace, a reliable parking space and a driver who indicates before I’ve already guessed incorrectly.

Christmas on the Costa del Sol

And Christmas, according to the shops, is practically tomorrow.

We are still negotiating with the air conditioning, but somebody has already put a reindeer beside the till. You go in for washing-up liquid and come out wondering whether you’ve left it too late to organise Christmas.

The turrón has landed. The glitter is advancing. Somewhere, a chocolate Santa is quietly softening in the afternoon heat.

Soon we’ll be discussing menus, booking parties and buying things for people who have already told us they don’t need anything. Usually while ignoring someone nearby who could really do with something we already have.

Because beneath all the sparkle, this season can bring a particular kind of loneliness. The sort that gets louder when everyone around you appears to be making plans.

And on this coast, plenty of people will be facing it.

Families live in other countries. Flights cost money. Friends go away. Relationships end. Loved ones die. Sometimes a life that once felt full becomes very quiet, and the person living it is still working out how that happened.

Sometimes they’re the person making everybody else laugh.

Please remember that. The funny one doesn’t necessarily go home to a full house. The beautifully dressed one may have spent half an hour persuading herself to go out. The person saying, “Oh, I haven’t decided what I’m doing yet,” might be hoping somebody will make the next sentence easier.

So make it easier.

“Come to us.”

Three little words. No grand speech required.

One Egg, Five Chips and the Kindness of Friends

I’ve learned something about the value of being fed and included. There was a time when friends brought me soup and homemade cake, when Sunday lunches arrived at my desk among papers I could barely make sense of. Then there was one egg and five homemade chips.

Five.

The next time, six. Eventually, ten. You would have thought we were celebrating a Michelin star.

But those chips mattered. They meant somebody had noticed. Somebody had thought about what I might manage. Somebody cared enough to keep turning up until eating became easier and laughter found its way back to the table.

That little meal has become my special meal. A celebration of carrying on.

So when I talk about an extra place, I know how much can sit behind a plate.

If you’ve had a successful year in business and you’re planning a Christmas party, book one extra seat. Invite someone who would enjoy being part of the evening. A neighbour. An old colleague. Someone who has spent the year caring for another person and could do with being cared for themselves.

You’ve managed the venue, the wine and the annual debate about whether everyone really needs three courses. You can manage another chair.

At home, the same applies. Your table doesn’t have to look like a magazine. Nobody needing company is coming round to inspect your napkin strategy.

Add a potato. Find a chair. Use the mismatched plate. Donde comen dos, comen tres — where two can eat, three can eat.

And do it now.

Give someone weeks of knowing they’re included. Let them put something happy in the diary. Let them answer the question about Christmas with, “Actually, I’ve been invited.”

There is dignity in being thought of early. There is comfort in knowing somebody made room for you while they were still making the plans.

Remembering Eve Traylor Wilkinson

This coast, for all its sunshine and sociability, is a place of constant arrivals and departures. People come for a fortnight and stay twenty years. Others arrive with a five-year plan and leave before their first summer electricity bill.

Some visit regularly and become part of the rhythm of our lives. You don’t need to see them every week. You just expect, happily, that you’ll see them again.

And then comes the news that you won’t.

No More Mañana

And perhaps we can honour that by making a little more of the time we have with one another.

Make the call you keep meaning to make. Arrange the lunch. Say the loving thing without waiting for a birthday card to give you permission. Stop assuming there will always be another visit, another party, another opportunity.

I know. We’re in Spain. Mañana has practically achieved constitutional status.

But some things deserve ahora.

Your friend. Your neighbour. The person who says they’re fine. The invitation that could change someone’s whole Christmas.