Somewhere between panic and paradise

Chapter One: Night One in San Sebastián

The sat nav kept pointing me in different directions. I couldn’t work out why I wasn’t actually

getting to where I wanted to be. The streets were really narrow, I was driving a strange car, the sat nav wouldn’t work—or should I say it wasn’t easy like my Tesla, so I fucking hated it. My data on my phone wasn’t working, no WiFi. I had no means of getting directions. This is exactly my problem.

It was a nice BMW automatic, easy enough to drive, but it wasn’t what I was used to and it took me a while to get comfortable. I should have stopped. Gone for a coffee, even a cheeky glass of wine.

But I didn’t. My overwhelming need to get to my destination before I can relax overrode my common sense. It’s nuts. I totally get it now. But when you’re in it, it’s like a mind melt.

My brain had started to go—wait a minute. There’s a problem here. Shit. Obviously! It doesn’t take much to set me off, and that was me. Stress, anger at myself, at the poor car, at my phone…absolute panic mode. Even though nothing was really happening. No danger. No fear. I could stop and sit there all day if I wanted, it wouldn’t matter. I’m on my own. But my brain doesn’t let it go. It flips.

I thought I was in San Sebastián. I hadn’t been here for 35 years, back when I was in the band, and to be honest I wasn’t paying much attention when I was 20. So this looked about right. Narrow streets, Spanish signs, a few people walking about. I just kept driving, convinced I was nearly there.

The roads got narrower, drivers were getting pissed at my ineptitude, so I thought I’d better stop and ask someone.

I asked a young woman. She was sharp, very pretty. I thought, oh, this place looks wicked! I asked in if she knew Hotel Arbaso. She checked her phone and said, “Yes, that’s in San Sebastián.”

I’m like—fuck.

Where the fuck am I then?

She says some place called Hernani.

What the hell is Hernani?

Back in the car, sat nav now working. It’s twelve minutes away. Ok, we’re close.

Two hundred miles covered and I’m nearly there. So I head off following the directions and

BANG.

Fuck!

My whole heart sank. It was the right-hand side of the left-hand drive car. I don’t think I realised the space properly, or maybe my perception was just wrong. Somehow, I don’t know, I just misjudged it. I scraped it right down the side and I thought, God, I’ve done so much damage. I couldn’t even look. I don’t even think the other car was a car , like… I think it was a van or something, I don’t know what it was. But there was nothing wrong with that. I was terrified about my car.

I pretended it didn’t happen. I didn’t even look at the side of the car. People were looking at me. I could sense it without actually seeing them. Their faces were turning—what was that sound? But I

drove on.I cannot believe I’ve done this. This is it. Thousands. Gone. Shit.

Then—wait. Insurance.

My God. When that girl that I spoke to at the car desk convinced me I needed to take the extra insurance, I was thinking, my God, she’s trying to fleece me here. But something tugged at mymind. I thought, just do it. Just do it, okay? It’s only £200.

And thank fuck I did.

Covered. Breathe. Kind of.

And at that point it dawned on me—the first time I ever drove in Spain, the exact same thing happened. I was here for Bryan’s stag do. That’s another story—wild. I’ll tell it another time.

After that couple of days I met my girlfriend, Amanda. I picked her up from the airport and we stayed in a couple of nice hotels as we travelled. Málaga, Valencia, Seville, Barcelona, the Alhambra—we did the full tour. A bit of travelling, a bit of sightseeing, a lot of eating.

I remember in Barcelona we went to one of the tapas bars, Lolita, it was called. We sat right at the bar, drinking Priorat red wine. The flavours—unbelievable. I think it was the whole setting, the hustle, the bustle. People cooking fish on coal right in front of you, handing it straight over on a plate. So fresh, so fast, so alive. You sit there and wonder, why doesn’t this happen in our country?

Then you remember—TAXES. IMPORTANT DUTY, VAT

Too expensive.

One of the hotels we came to was in a ridiculously tight spot. The streets were so narrow, and driving on the other side of the road just made it worse. I remember feeling completely disoriented, like nothing lined up, but I just kept going. It was scary, yes, but not paralysing. Back then I didn’t question it, didn’t think, “this is my autism or ADHD.” I didn’t even know. I just thought, this is what it’s like to be driving in Spain.

We stopped for directions, got back in the car, and as I pulled away—whack. Straight over one of those security bollards. Too low to notice, no warning, no beep, nothing. The car dropped and the suspension was gone, completely trashed.

But I’d taken the full insurance, so it didn’t matter. They gave me a replacement car, and we carried on the trip like nothing had happened. Just another story to laugh about. But not in my brain. I was completely wiped out, embarrassed that my girlfriend saw it. I wanted to be the great provider, but no. I’d fucked up again.

She was really cool. So calm. I don’t think we ever had a fight in two years. And that’s it! That’s what I needed. Someone who made me feel at ease and didn’t rise to it when I was an arse.

It was a shame. We couldn’t be together. She always said, I can’t be with you. She was an activist.

She was a vegan. An animal lover. And as much as she loved me, and I loved her, she couldn’t settle with somebody who didn’t share her political ideology.

Bummer!!

Finally. Back to San Sebastián. Hotel Arbaso.

I walked in, tentative as always with a new place. What’s this going to be? Fancy enough? Not good enough? High expectations. Too high. I know it. But still—let’s see.

It was small. Not too imposing. The city was very pretty, not that I really took it in. French/Spanish city vibe—tight like Paris. Reception wasn’t a stage. Just a big desk. People with laptops. No show. No performance. You just chat to them and it’s done.

Valet parking—€35. I’m like, fucking what? Why isn’t it free? It’s a hotel. Shouldn’t it be free?Panic hits. Money. Always money. Doesn’t matter if it’s thirty or three thousand. Always panic.

Always danger.

She explained it. If I parked myself, it’s €30. So what she was offering was fair. Actually really decent. But my head didn’t hear it. My autistic panic just screamed—you’re bleeding money.

I looked to the side—the bar, the restaurant. I poked my head in. Low-key. Communal tables, wooden chairs, minimalist chic. Another section, a bit more formal. Later someone told me: Michelin star. I’m like—what? Here? So chilled, so understated. It made me rethink Michelin. Not posh. Not flashy. Just knowledgeable, cool, understated. But so tasty.

Upstairs, the room key worked. Always a win. The room itself—plain white, a couple of mirrors. Minimalist. Big bed. Big expensive bed. Bathroom with slab tiles, darker than granite, textured, solid. It should calm me. But it didn’t. Bag down. Breathe. Try again. Still shallow.

Fifteen years since I last travelled alone. First time since the diagnosis of autism. It changes everything. Now I know why. Why I’m like this. Why it feels impossible. Masking. I’m always masking. Not just to them—to me. Pretending this is normal. Pretending everyone feels like this. But they don’t.

I think that might have been part of my problem at home. Things were overwhelming, piling up.

With my wife , I didn’t mask. No, that’s not true—I dropped the mask, and that was wrong. You can’t live behind it all the time, but you can’t drop it completely either, especially if you’re being met with no understanding. Frustration. Annoyance. You end up not knowing where to turn.

Balance. It’s all about balance. You need someone to talk you down. Make you feel relaxed. Even make a joke of it. At that time, we didn’t know I was neurodivergent. I hadn’t been tested. I think she suspected, in the last couple of years. But rather than sit me down and talk about it, she used to shout it at me in arguments. And you can’t take things in when that happens.

Here I am. Pushing on. No backup. Nobody to take over. All me. Brutal.

I didn’t stop there. I could’ve gone to bed, called it a night, hidden away. Most people would. I’d been awake since 5.30am. But I wanted to push out into the streets.

San Sebastián at night—buzzing. People spilling onto the pavements, glasses of wine in hand, chatting, laughing. I got pulled into it. Chatted with people, met strangers, ended up in a couple ofthe famous pintxo bars. I queued for 30 minutes for one when I saw the line outside, thought I’d better just join. My God, it was so tasty it was worth it.

First one—mushrooms. Wild mushrooms piled up, then an egg yolk cracked on top. Utterly delicious. Croquetas too—hot, creamy, perfect. Chipironis, little baby squid. Salty, chewy, fresh.

Then another bar. Txepetxa , or something like that—I’ll give you the proper name later. Famous for anchovies. I had anchovy with foie gras. Sounds mad, but it worked. Salty, silky, smooth. With a citrusy dressing

Third place—another lovely one. Rice, more pintxos, wine. By then I was tipsy. The Riojas had added up. Warm glow. Chatting more freely.

Eventually I thought—enough. Time to call it a night. Back to the hotel, a little unsteady, but proud.

I’d done it. I hadn’t hidden. I’d gone out, eaten, drunk, lived a little.

That was Night One.