Settling in Alicante

By Fayza Hassan
Some time ago, Maadi was given a third bridge that connects Road 87 with the Corniche. Relatively unknown, it is for the time being usually rather free of traffic and therefore a definite favourite of mine. The bridge is not really new, having been in use on and off for a few years now. At first, it looked like it would never be completed, but then a sort of soft opening was applied to one of its lanes, allowing, it seemed, out-going vehicles to go through. On certain days, the bridge was completely closed; on others, only half of it was serviceable. No one I know has ever been able to work out the reasons for its erratic functioning.
We had discovered the bridge purely by chance, and decided to try it one day. Half-way down, we were brutally warned not to trust the signs adorned with the appropriate one-way arrows, as we found ourselves fender to fender with a huge truck that hurtled past us, narrowly missing our small car through no fault of the driver's. Since that day, whenever I follow the new path, I exercise extreme caution.
Driving alone last Wednesday, I began to signal that I was turning left half way down Road 87 for the benefit of the taxi driver who seemed to be hot on my trail. Turning wide (to make room for fools coming the wrong way), I heard my follower slam hard on his brakes. A second later he was shaking his fist at my window. "Didn't you see me behind you?" he hollered. "I did, that's why I signaled. Do you know what blinkers are for?" I hollered back. "And how could I know that you were actually going to go left?" he shrieked, turning red with fury. "Lots of people signal but keep going straight. How am I to know who means to turn and who doesn't?"
This was a difficult one to answer, but I was not going to be outdone. "Next time, I will stop in front of you, walk to your car, and let you know exactly what I have in mind," I articulated slowly, trying to keep my cool. "You obviously don't understand signals; do you have the same problem with words?" He looked at me murderously, spat on the ground and informed me that since it was Ramadan he would not pursue the argument. He climbed back into his taxi and attempted to shoot past me, almost slamming into a beautiful almond-green Mercedes whose chauffeur had chosen the wrong lane. Gridlock ensued, and I selected some salsa music as they indulged in the customary competition of abuse, which eventually ended with the traditionally friendly slaps on the back.
On the Corniche, the traffic was as murderous as usual, with the added danger of huge buses taking employees home for iftar starting at 11.30 in the morning.
"I will think of Alicante and the drive will be less painful," I decided. I just got back after a blissful week there, and the beauty of the small Spanish town still haunts me. I conjured up images of the blue sea, the ochre mountains, and the beautifully maintained turn-of-the century apartment buildings. I could almost smell the crisp air carrying the scent of jasmine. I mulled for a while over the pedestrian crossing near our hotel and remembered how cars stopped without the help of a single policeman. When the "walk" sign turned green, a faint whistle could be heard -- "to help blind people," I had told my daughter, "and dogs," she had replied, pointing to a German shepherd on the loose, waiting to cross in the crowd. I had watched him cross at an assured trot and climb aboard one of the boats moored in the marina.
I wished myself in Alicante, and, as I waited for my own traffic light to turn green, I began complicated computations involving my current income. "I would still have to work," I told myself, as a Peugeot loaded with country people and their luggage crossed my path, swerving from the right to the left for no obvious reason, "... but it will be a pleasure. I could open an antique shop, scour the countryside for rare pieces, beautiful ceramics..."
I waited for Iftar to begin before undertaking the voyage home -- and so did hundreds of other motorists who, like me, had hoped for a lull in the traffic flow. The Corniche was hell again, and the black cloud, or part thereof, had descended on the city. I had difficulty breathing, especially since I had positioned myself behind a microbus billowing black exhaust clouds directly into my face. It was too cold for the AC and too hot for the heater. I raised the window nevertheless, and chose to listen to country music. I made it home finally, to be confronted with a total absence of parking space. With great difficulty, I located a couple of metres along a footpath lined several rows thick with Christmas trees. On my last -- successful -- attempt to insert the car in the narrow gap, I heard the ominous sound of plastic smashing on hard matter and shattering. My brake lights, of course. Never mind, I thought: next year I'll be in Alicante.
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