I Was Never Meant to Go Traveling.

I was never meant to go traveling. I was happy. Contented. Sat in my home in rural England where 95% of the population called themselves white British. I didn’t see culture and I didn’t need it. A recent graduate, I, like everyone else my age, was struggling to find work. But that was normal. I didn’t help myself by trying to work in media of course but that was my own choice and I was sticking to it. I didn’t help myself by trying to work in the media in the South West of England of course but that was my own choice and I was sticking to that too.

With little work meant little money, but summer was coming around and something had to be done about it. I couldn’t not go on holiday. That would be like admitting I’d failed. Not gotten a job and reaped the benefits of said job. I did have a job. I was a freelancer and my tax returns proved it. What I was a freelancer in was never made 100% clear to me but I made a few pounds here and there doing media type stuff. Short films, photography, graphic design, etc, etc. That’s what I did. I sold medias. It was one drunken night that I decided to spend all my medias money in one big fat splurge and accidentally went traveling.

I had a friend. The girlfriend of a friend to be exact. The girlfriend of a friend, who was (albeit by proxy) my friend. A generous friend. A dangerous friend. Mimi. Of Sicilian decent and studying languages abroad, she welcomed visitors with open arms. She was living in Italy for a term and wanted everyone to come and see it. One night she said, “You guys should totally come and visit me.” That wasn’t the night. It wasn’t the right crowd and I had just blown my car up. Not in the mood for spending on a holiday and not in the position to either.

Mimi went back off to Italy and had a wonderful time. We all stayed behind and looked at her nice photographs. She did new things, experienced culture not seen before, and made sure to tell us all about it. It was when she came back. The end of term and returning to her home country. Being reunited with friends and family. To me, it was just another Thursday. Or Monday.

It was the few months of doing the same thing for a few months more than drove me to it. I always wanted to see other things. Foreign things. But there was always something stopping me. Always an excuse. Then out of the shadows rose a man. A bit melodramatic but I’m sure he’ll like it. A mutual friend of Mimi and I who I had met back in my teenage years. His name was Maddicks. With wide eyes and hopeful abandon, when the call to visit was once again put out, he said yes. No thinking about it or dillydallying. He just said yes. And he meant it.

With none of the cynicism that had stopped me, Maddicks was going. It seemed as if someone was going to fill my place on the trip that I now wanted to take. I obviously agreed to join him for fear of someone living my life without me. We were going to visit Mimi. She had left Italy and moved to Spain but it was still an adventure. I don’t know what it is, but I always seem to need someone to tell me if my ideas are good before I do them. Even if that person is wrong. Maddicks was that person. The person to tell me that my not so great idea, under the circumstances, was a good idea. I immediately made it worse by saying we’d drive. He said that was a good idea. He was wrong.

That’s how it all started. At a party with some friends and some beers. We had a pact amongst our circle that any plans made drunk had to be carried out when sober. Science has shown that alcohol improves creativity and confidence, allowing for more spontaneous and out there ideas. Being removed from the comfort zone to improve one’s self. Past hangover outings included going to the woods to chop up fruit with a samurai sword and doing a tour of the local water parks during the winter. The grand opening of our bar was still in the works but our zombie survival strategy was watertight. Adding “drive 4,000 miles for a holiday” wasn’t too far removed from the usual, and of course we didn’t realise it was that far at the time.

But even after all the "planning" we had done around that table, there was nothing in concrete to say we’d be going. We could back out at any time and no one would fault us, or even need to know. That was the beauty of the trip. No plans meant we could do what we want. Go when we want. And plans that don’t exist can’t go wrong. We would be where we would be and hat would be it. There was one hiccup to this plan, however. To get a car from Britain to mainland Europe, there is a little issue known as the English Channel that needs to be dealt with. A body of water that, at its widest, measures 150 miles across. We were in the west, where it is at its widest.

I replaced the car I had blown up a few months prior with a 1989 Audi Quattro. The car was needed for the work commute, replacing the aptly named Reliant Scimitar that was in no way reliable. The sleek beast was chosen for its accountable reliability and the Audi reputation that came with it. That and it was really cheap. Nobody wanted them. Because of the recent popularity of the television show Ashes to Ashes and its rally pedigree, the 1985 Quattro was a much more sought after machine; A good one could fetch £20,000. The ‘89 was the retarded younger brother. You could pick up a clean example for £1000. I paid £500.

As good as the new Quattro was, with its power steering and diff locks, a boat it was not. We would have to get someone to take us across the channel. That meant telling them when we wanted to go. That meant picking a date. That meant commitment. That meant going. I can never really remember how the date was picked. Did it revolve around someone? I know It definitely wasn’t me and my freelance work. Owing of our large amount of faffing about, Maddicks and I had to name a pretty close date or we’d miss Mimi, she’d be returning to England for the summer holidays. The departure date was in just 4 weeks. The 1st of June. A Saturday.

It was decided that rather than crossing at the widest point, we would cross at the narrowest. What would have been a 24 hour ferry ride directly into Spain (a more expensive, boring, and easier trip) became driving the length of England to cross into France via the Euro Tunnel. Driving a car, in a train, in a tunnel, under the sea, sounded quite appealing. We would continue through to Spain until we got to Granada, our destination. A vague figure of eight route was picked through the three countries for our entire journey; Hitting big and popular cities on the way. Lille, Bordeaux, Madrid, Granada where we would meet Mimi, Barcelona, Toulouse, Paris, and home. Two weeks of hard traveling road trip. All in a 25 year old car I had owned for two months and paid £500 for.

The next four weeks were a stressful time. Planning and preparing for the trip. Provisions had to be bought, insurance had to be arranged, and passports had to be renewed. Renewing the passports. A process that was said to take 3-4 weeks. 3 would be okay. 4 would be too late. If the edge of your seat or the skin of your teeth is not a place you like to be then this was a bad time. The nerve-wracking anticipation. Watching the dates go by and never knowing if this was all going to work out, whether I had wasted mine and my friends time, whether we would ever visit Mimi.

The passport finally arrived in a massive anticlimax three days later. Three and a half weeks earlier than predicted. And that was that. We didn’t really know what to do with ourselves. Everything was sorted and ready to go. I wired some big speakers into my car and Maddicks bought a jumbo pack of 30 packets of crisps. Somehow we were ready without even doing anything. We just waited for the date with nothing to spend but Euros in England.

To be continued...