The Curious Case of Driving in Spain

Why everyone seems desperate to be pulled over by the Policia

There are many things I love about living in Spain. The weather. The food. The cava. However, Driving is definitely not one of them. Take yesterday’s trip to El Palo for example. First, I had to brave the roundabouts. Pretty straightforward, right? Going left, use the left hand lane. Going right, use the right hand land. Indicators, at the ready. But these rules seem a complete mystery to most Spanish drivers I encounter. There I am, in the left hand lane, when the perfectly coiffed young female driver, ahead to my right, suddenly swerves left, straight into my path. No mirrors. No indicators. Nothing. Cue screeching brakes and an expletive laden tirade from yours truly, whilst the stunning señorita simply drove on, oblivious, not a care in the world.

Next, the joys of the A7 motorway, or as I like to call it, The Highway of Death. As usual, having to dodge the tailgating old, balding, loco Spanish speed merchants – talking and texting on their mobiles for all to see. But thankfully, it was only a few junctions until my exit; but as I came off, what do I see but two cars parked up illegally on the exit roundabout. On the actual roundabout! Two forty-something women, both looking a million dollars, leaning seductively on said cars, repeatedly checking their watches, as if they were part of some Hollywood film road heist. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I spy a couple of Police cars approaching. Glancing at my clock, I realised it was shift change time. And as is the norm in Spain, both Police cars were filled with ridiculously good looking officers. Two females. Four male. Tanned. Fit. Gorgeous. Sexy. Think a patrol of Penelope Cruz and Gerard Pique look-a-likes.

And suddenly, it all made sense. That’s why I keep seeing glammed up female Spanish drivers performing idiotic manoeuvres on roundabouts. That’s why I keep being tailgated on motorways by old Spanish men wildly texting. That’s why I keep seeing cars parked in ridiculous places. It’s not that Spaniards are terrible drivers. Nope. They simply want to get pulled over by the Police. And pondering that for a second, I thought to myself … well … if that’s how you get one-on-one time with these Spanish gods, why not?

So, screeching to a halt, I parked up behind the glamour pusses. Clearly a major driving infraction. Punishment: hopefully involving handcuffs. Only problem, as soon as Officer Ruiz stepped out of the car, slipped on his Ray-Bans, adjusted his gun belt and swaggered towards me in his figure hugging Police uniform, I completely lost the ability to speak. Instead, I babbled incoherently in some kind of giggly, terrible Spanglish whilst simultaneously trying, and failing dismally, to seductively twirl my hair. And rather than handcuffs, all I received was a pitying pat on my shoulder and instructed to be on my way; and as I drove off, humiliated, I glanced back, just in time to see the triumphant smiles on the more experienced Spanish lady drivers’ faces, as they excitedly looked forward to their interrogation. Well played, señoras. Well played.

Right, must dash. My Spanish friends, Mariel and Lidia, have agreed to give me lessons. Today: the perfect, big hair, Spanish blow dry, followed by a tour of the best spots to be pulled over…