Slightly bloodied, we sat in the heat (again), wide-eyed and full of adrenaline from the shock of it all, waiting for the emergency response team to show up.
My ankle was badly twisted and swelling.
My passport was in my suitcase. My suitcase was in the trunk, and the crushed trunk of the upside-down car was not opening anytime soon—plus the car might've caught on fire, so we kept our distance.
Oh, and, as a finishing touch, my phone was destroyed by water damage when the firefighting team came by and drenched the car. Better than the car exploding, I guess.
We were whisked to the ER after that, juggled to a second hospital, and discharged into the warm Catalonia nighttime in the middle of nowhere with only some of our belongings and very little money, several hours away from our hotel in Barcelona.
After a while, we managed to get a taxi.
We got to the hotel in Barcelona around 3 am. I washed off my injuries and slept for a few haunted hours before leaving in the morning to get a replacement passport before my flight.
I couldn't walk, had no phone, ID, or credit cards, and just had 200 euros on me that someone had lent. My ankle was the size of a tennis ball. And I didn't speak the language, which as far as I could tell was either Spanish with a strong accent or Catalan.
Of course I missed my flight. The passport office was the busiest they've seen all year. I went back to the hospital to recoup until the next flight out.
(Guess what! The car trunk was pried open with a crowbar and my suitcase was brought to the hospital. I got my original passport back a few hours after getting my replacement.)
After another day of waiting around, finally, I was heading home, and for real this time. I got the wheelchair experience at the airport, where they zip you through security. It's amazing how cranky being unable to walk makes a person.
It took me months to walk normally, and I've refused to go back to Spain since.
"How is Nowhere Burn?" I've been asked.
You know? It's good, as a festival. But I wouldn't go back.
