Baby You Can Drive My Car

Kellie is not timid behind the wheel, as evidenced by the number of times she receives the middle finger salute while driving. She will go the wrong way down a one-way street if it is quicker; for her, stop signs are merely suggestions, and to get ready for driving in places where they drive on the left, Kellie will practice by driving on the wrong side of the street at home, which explains a good number of the special hand gestures just mentioned. She can also whip around blind corners on the precarious cliff roads of Italy’s Amalfi Coast without careening to her death, but if you ask her to drive through the narrow, building lined streets of an old European City, she turns into a quivering bowl of jello. 

We had to get to our hotel, located on the edge of a cliff in Arcos de la Fontera, a small town located about 120 kilometers south of Seville.  Upon seeing the narrow alleyways they call streets, Kellie immediately wanted to park the car and walk, but there was no way that I was going to agree to hauling my luggage uphill for half-a-mile.  I gave her a choice: either she keeps driving to the hotel or I’m getting behind the wheel.  That was sufficient motivation for her to fold in the side view mirrors and press on.  It seems that the thought of my driving was more frightening than getting lodged between two buildings. We made it to the hotel, but it took a bottle of wine to settle Kellie’s nerves.