The First Step into the Deep End

Day Three in Spain. One expat, one elderly cat, and a rental car contract I definitely didn’t read.

Most of us have rented a car in a foreign country, right?
You walk in, sign your name a few times, grab the keys, and hope the GPS doesn’t yell at you in three languages.

In the Costa del Sol, Spain, what should’ve been a simple errand for me, turned into a full slapstick saga. Ancient taxis. Paperwork straight out of the 1970s. A car rental booth that looked like it hadn’t been updated since the Franco era.

Sometimes you just have to embrace what’s thrown at you, lace up your boots, steady yourself for impact, and hope for the best. Or, if you’re me, leap first and figure things out later.

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Walking in Circles

It was my third morning in Spain. I left the safe confines of my beautiful top-floor apartment, where my cat Laptop and I had just managed to land without losing passports, sanity, or fur.

Mission of the day: rent a car.

I had no idea where I was going, but I figured if I walked far enough away from the beach toward something that looked vaguely like a city, I’d eventually stumble across a rental agency like some kind of gifted wanderer.

“My” neighborhood was like the Beverly Hills of Benalmádena. Pristine hedges, imported Italian marble driveways, tall iron gates, and zero taxis or rental car places in sight.

Mansion tours? Easy.
Transportation? Not so much.

I walked. And walked.
So, Reader, if you’ve ever moved abroad without a real plan, you know this feeling: walking in circles while pretending it’s part of the adventure. At least one foot was in front of the other.

After what felt like years, I finally stumbled onto a major road. It was Málaga’s answer to Seattle’s Aurora Avenue, but with fewer neon “vacancy” signs, less suspicious hourly rates, and no young women loitering in parking lots pretending they’re “just waiting for a friend.”

What are those girls doing there anyway?
That’s for another day.