Spain, spring, 2017
You picked me up from the airport in that tiny green car, weird shape, mum car. I don’t even know why you’ve got it in Spain. We’re meant to be drivinging to site but it’s flooded. The river is falling away at 3 meters per hour and Dan has had to drag the caravan across the field by hand. The mud is so bad. The awning is destroyed, along with the hand crafted kitchen.
The motorway is chaos, we weave through cars as your ranting, through smiles about your latest plan for survival; to do airport runs for rich hippy tourists. All I can think is fuck your driving is mental.
We arrive at the beach, drink wine, lose the kids, do a shop run, talk about break ups, autism and how to avoid the school system. The kids are just about holding on when the rain starts and we run back to the house. Whose house is this anyway? Some people I don’t know, a friend of a friend who’s said we can stay there until the flooding stops and the site is safe again.
There’s a german woman parked up outside with her two kids. Her story is complicated, slightly naive and glorious at the same time. Everything always involves breaking the law or running away from something in the end doesn’t it.
She talks about Portugal in the summer, burning pubic hairs in caves and having an affair with two other mums. I think fuck I have to get a van again.