Southbound

The Autovia del Sur heads out of Madrid through January fog and June's ochre-ing heat towards Andalucia: it's the route to the three dowager cities of the South; Sevilla, Cordoba and Jaen. Their younger, upstart sibling, Malaga, sprawls all steel and concrete a little further south still, on the Costa del Sol. Busy people - important people - they take the RP-4 toll road which forms the tangent to the meandering curves of the older, toll-free road. Maybe you've driven from Bilbao, maybe from France. Maybe you're a guiri fleeing routine and responsibility in Britain. Whatever, by the time you get past the Aranjuez turn-off, it's time to pull over for food or a bed, perhaps both.

Pulling in to one of the myriad Hostals by the side of the A4 you note it's one part of the holy trinity of roadside businesses in Spain: somewhere not-quite-grand-enough to be a hotel or even a motel, a filling station and a whore-house. Sure, that's not what the neon shouts at night. No, pink, green or blue tubes flash 'Night Club' at passing cars, as if they might U-turn at the prospect of an overpriced drink and the company of the exploited.

I pull over to the Hostal. It has a 24hr cafetería on the ground floor. It's a cross between one of Hopper's diners and a transport cafe. A long rectangular room, the bar/counter runs the length of the back wall. Parallel, between the formica-topped tables and plastic chairs, is a long levee of cigarette butts, discarded sugar packets and peanut shells; carefully brushed into this long line of debris, it's waiting for a South American woman to appear with a dustpan. Two in the morning; tired transportistas are adding caffeine to the benzedrine; travelling salesmen are debating 4 hours drive - one through the mountain passes to Jaen – or a utilitarian bed in a room like a soldier's bunk; and, as in such places everywhere in Spain, there are little family groups in transit to who knows where; Ukranians, Albanians, Romanians, there's even a ragged dog roaming outside the plate glass doors, maybe it's a Pomeranian.

Over at the bar are two women in skirts too short for the stools. Most likely they're 'night club hostesses' - although no Spaniard would bother with such a euphemism. It's likely that they're some kind of -anians too. They're smoking, as everyone does in these places; dead-eyed and bored, perhaps they have a shift break, maybe the brothels are unionized.

Me, I order a coffee with a sticky, sweaty pastry and sit at a table with a notebook and pencil.