Saturday, I called this guy about this car I wanted to buy, and he said that someone was coming over in an hour to look at it, so, since I was 100 miles away, I asked him to call me after this meeting, so I wouldn't make the trip for nothing.

Well, the other person didn't show up, so I got on a train and started heading for this little town on the English channel.

There were all kinds of horrible train delays, so about 5 hours later, I arrived in Bournemouth, played with the car, and decided to buy it. I gave him money, he gave me keys, we signed paperwork, he kissed me, and I drove off in this: http://www.geocities.com/bufkin/Images/car1.jpg

The photo doesn't do the car justice. I think it might be the cutest car I have ever seen. I'm sorry, yes, all right, so I'm supposed to care about the fact that it drives well, has a good engine in it. Whatever. It's about the size of a shoe. I can be forgiven for reacting appropriately. We're talking *shoes* here, people.

So I drove off, and he had told me I would need to stop for petrol, and I had no idea where I was, and was terrified of a) driving on the wrong side of the road in the dark, and trying to figure out street signs, and oh dear, what if I run out of fuel before I can find a gas station? I am 100 miles from anyone I know, and I am alone.

So I drove for a while, and got turned around a bit and eventually found a petrol station, which is where I realised that, like an idiot, I had been driving around with the handbrake on. One would think that the car would have driven roughly.

But now, there was a light on in the dashboard, and I was scared to death that I had destroyed the car I just bought. Destroyed. The engine was overheated. I didn't know if this is what the light meant. I only knew that I was in the middle of nowhere, alone, in a country I didn't understand.

There was antifreeze all over the ground, so I opened the hood. The radiator hose had fallen off of the radiator, and when I tried to reattached it, it started to come apart in my hands. So I went into the petrol station, bought mechanical tape and a hose clamp, fixed the hose, attached and clamped it, put in some antifreeze/water mixture, checked the oil, hoping to dear god that engines work roughly the same over here that they do in the US (yes, thank you, there is a dipstick, I mean, other than me).

I decided to pass the time waiting for the engine to cool down by talking on the phone. Because I had a mobile with me, along with my big road map and stuff.

I called a friend in Oakland, and couldn't talk without stuttering. I told him what had happened, and he assured me that if the engine was starting at all, odds were very high that I hadn't utterly destroyed my car within moments of buying it.

Eventually, the car started without the light going on. I was going to make this a little leisurely sightseeing trip, but at this point, you know, the whole terrified out of my mind thing, decided to head back for London. I was scared of driving through the city.

Drove around trying to find a motorway. Turns out it is difficult to navigate while also driving in a country you are not familiar with. Who woulda thunk?

Ended up driving down this one road which ended in this little pointy peninsula with the sea on both sides. Turned around.

Eventually found a motorway. Found my way back to London.

There was this incredibly scary overpass thing where it was like a rollercoaster track--all windy and banked weird, and the pavement cracked and looking like it was falling apart. It was barely wide enough for my tiny car, and there were only like handrail barriers on either side. I have never been on anything so scary in my life. I kept thinking I must have dreamed it, because it was that surreal and scary.

But kept driving. Got to Piccadilly--yay! Know my way home from there. Turns out that driving in London was the least scary part of the trip. All that terror, and, geez, in a city, you drive SLOWLY. So I got home safe and sound.

You know, I hate the fact that I spent time that night wishing someone with me. I want to be this strong, independent and courageous person. Who rushes off and slays dragons and is always completely and joyously self-sufficient. And that night I was just thinking how much I wish someone had been sitting next to me telling me that I needed to take the next exit, or even...just being there to make trying to find a petrol station somewhere in this England place seem like a big adventure we were doing together, not this thing where I was alone in the dark and not understanding road signs.

Anyway.

I know this is too long to read.

Sunday, since I didn't have a parking permit to park near my house yet, I drove the car to The Boys' House. The Boys are these four guys that are in the tech department here, who kind of view me as the Girl Mascot or something. They live together, and had said that I could park my car there. They treated me like a girl. You know, got very excited over the new car, took turns driving it around the block and kicking tires and waxing poetic about Dual Carbs. Poking at things and telling me they would try to fix the stereo while it was parked there. They love the car. Everybody loves the car. Passersby love the car.

I love the car.

Went home.

Ordered a pizza because I was too tired to cook.

The end.