Tractor Queen

We began our day by setting off with one of the workers (the only non-gypo) to the shops for a grocery top-up, and on the way back I ended up in the driver's seat. In good ol' red. But M had tinkered with it so it didn't stall every time I stopped or slowed down, so that was a positive outcome for the freeway situation.

Having been in Europe two months now, driving on the right hand side is no trouble, but the crazy overtakers in Romania are. I didn't try to overtake myself, just idled along in the lane, and let the others risk their lives. I noticed that M, in the passenger seat, was putting his foot down on an imaginary brake every time he thought I should slow down. Bless him, he was trying to pretend he wasn't freaking just a little bit.

When we returned, the gypsies realised I could drive and promptly appointed me the new driver of the tractor when they started bailing hay later in the day.

So, when the time came, I pulled myself up into the driver's seat, got some half-assed Romanian instructions from the gypsies and launched into first gear, or some kind of gear. The machine rumbled away around me and as I negotiated the poorly graded road, I glanced occasionally at the poor souls bumping away behind me in the trailer.

Eventually, I was getting pretty pro at the whole operation, except I just didn't have the muscle to shift gears. So the boys had to climb in and carefully and modestly try to help switch the gear stick from one direction to the other, in between my legs. It would've been quite a sight to any of the locals to see a young, fair girl grinding away at the gear stick in her short, leopard print skirt, braless singlet top (why didn't I wear one on such a bumpy ride?? why?) and cowboy hat. I do try to fit in.

So there you have it. I'm now officially a tractor driver. I can add that to my CV. I'm sure my new bosses, whoever they are, will be well impressed.