We were not in the dark and cool confines of a sherry cellar, sipping on flights of sherry and pondering the meaning of life. That had been the plan anyway, for our second last day in Spain. Instead, we found ourselves standing under the intense glare of the afternoon Spanish sun, gesticulating wildly and futilely to the six policemen surrounding us.
It was late in the afternoon when we pulled into Jerez, intent on doing some serious sherry tasting. As we turned into a narrow one way street (is there any other kind in Spain?), out of nowhere, we saw to our horror a car come hurtling towards us. Chuck, who was at the wheel, slammed onto the brakes, but it was too late. The car jolted to a halt with a bang and a sickening crunch.
We sat there in shock for a few seconds, absorbing the impact of what just happened, until the incensed screaming of a lady passerby jarred us to our senses. She was waving her fists angrily at the other driver, and yelled at us to take down his license plate numbers. “That idiot drove down the wrong side of the street!”
We drove our cars into a corner of the plaza just off the street and got out to survey the damage.
-to be continued-