After thirty years of being with Steve, I have become less of a stick-up-the-arse, I-know-how-it-should-be control freak, and more of a roll-with-the-punches, take-it-as-it-comes kind of gal. Which is why I find myself STILL driving my crappy little Smart car up through Croatia in search of a new thermostat. When really I should have been heaped under the table of a nice, warm bar somewhere, quietly sobbing all my woes into a large glass of gin and tonic.
Croatia again
Croatia has been a beacon of hope to me all the way up through Albania. But as I drive, shivering, from one town to another, and totally fail to source a new thermostat for the iceberg on wheels I’m stuck in, that beacon dims a snidge, it must be said.
Driving ever northwards, perhaps Split will come up with the goods, or failing that, Zadar? And, if not, surely Rijeka will tick the box? Well, no, nothing, nada. And not much we can do other than keep on with our journey and keep looking.
The coast road proves far too wibbly for our RV, Georgie, who is having her own problems after taking on fuel in Albania. Ever since, she’s developed an alarming tendancy to suddenly lose all power (including to the steering and part of the braking systems) and grind to a halt. So we take a road through Slovenia, hoping that Trieste, on the other side, will be a large enough town to help cure our automotive ills.
Slovenia
This, of course, is where I, in my misted up and unheated car, drive headlong into a Beast from the East blizzard. Rolling with the punches? I am practically rotating. My first line of defence is to mainline Jaffa Cakes, which is the one single thing we’ve found in every European country so far. Jaffa Cakes – whatever they are called – are a universal language.
I kept telling myself that the cold is doing wonders for my immune system, which is probably one cocky shit by now. I measure my fortitude against the length of the icicles hanging off Georgie’s downpipes.
Also, the road signs help to take my mind off things: at one place – thanks, I suspect, to the joy that is Google Translate – I’m offered the chance to appreciate ‘a honey cheese water toilet’.
Further on there’s a sign telling us to watch out for wolves and bears. WOLVES AND BEARS! I’ve literally never been so excited. I can feel myself spontaneously heating up with the anticipation. Then my husband, Mr McKilljoy, kindly points out that it’s winter, and they’ll all be hibernating. So, yeah, thanks for that.
We stop for the night in a snow-clad town and head out to eat. We have two huge pizzas (half left for the next day), with chips, and mayo, and four glasses of wine. Pizza is as good as any we’d had in Naples, and the whole lot comes to €13. Brilliant. Helps me to forget that the only shoes I currently own are backless or made of cloth.
Sat-navs
When we were still in Greece, Deirdre the sat-nav slut had developed quite a crush on Steve. Whenever he drove down roads with long names she’d try and impress him with her pronunciation (always wrong). But when I got in the car, and we drove down the exact same road, she’d affect an icy silence. She’d also got into the habit of warning him about slow traffic conditions that would inevitably turn out to be a farmer, on a dirt road, spreading his nets to pick olives.
But despite her obvious devotion, my husband (the heart-breaker) has decided to give other sat-nav voices a go. First he tries Pritti, the Indian lady, and then he moves on to Sheila from Oz. Sheila has a way of going completely wrong, but in such a reassuring manner that you know she’s probably only detouring to the nearest pub, no worries. He tries Deirdre again, for a while, but some hearts can’t be mended, and so he is now following shonky Sheila all through Slovenia.
I was tired, alright?
As we drive on towards Trieste, I start to get hopeful that some of our problems might find solutions. The snow is starting to melt, and the roads are slowly becoming more down than up hill. But Steve is obeying the instructions of death-before-toll-roads Sheila, and I’m listening to just-leave-me-alone Deirdre. Ergo, when some kind of checkpoint turns up in the road, Dierdre takes me right to it, whilst Steve and Sheila scoot off in another direction.
Now, previously, he’d studied the map and assured me that there were no more tolls on our route. Consequently, we’ve spent all our Kuna at the last petrol station (I needed more Jaffa Cakes, ok?) So when I pull up to the booth, I whip out my bank cards.
‘How much for the toll?’ I ask. ‘No toll’, she says. Oh, my mistake. I look again, and consider the idea that it’s a really flash-looking border crossing. I give her my passport. ‘No,’ she says, politely handing it back. It is at this point that I hear sniggering from the cars behind me. Turns out it is a sort-of toll booth, but I have to pay for a weekly ticket to go on the motorway: €15!
I don’t have €15 (I’ve eaten at least that in orangey chocolate). And her machine won’t accept any of my cards. What I do have is a massive queue behind me, no way to back up or turn around, and a husband who’s gone right when I went left, and is now way out of walkie-talkie range.
But I have an emergency technique that I’ve learnt to deploy in these kind of situations: I ask the other person what they think I should do, and then I smile. A lot. I’ve found this to be very effective now that I’m edging towards little-old-lady status, far more so than it ever did when I was young and hot. Plus it has the added advantage of making everything their problem. So I smile at the girl in the booth, and wait.
In the end it is decided that I can go onto the motorway, but I’ll have to pull in at the first service station, and pay there instead. So I set off, find the service station, pull in – and then pause, because that’s how I roll. First I check the map: the next exit is really close. If – instead of forking out €15 for seven sodding minutes on the road – I take that exit, what’s the worst they can do? I still have no cash or a card that their machines will accept. I still have a smile or two up my sleeve.
So that’s what I do, and guess what – no gate, booth, or person at the other exit anyway. But I think I should add that the initial confusion of route arose because there was a diversion, so it is NOT MY FAULT.
Italy
I catch up with Steve (which is so much easier now that Georgie is constantly breaking down), and we get to Trieste in time to locate a Mercedes garage. Yes, they can get me a thermostat (hooray) but it’ll take until Friday (this is Monday. Boo!).
We look at the weather forecast for the next week. If we stay here until Friday we’ll get snowed in. Which we can’t afford to do. So that means more frigging freezing in my stupid little Tupperware of a car, with Steve breaking down every six steps, as we limp off across Italy.
My glamorous life, not.
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