“Cariño, ¿qué pasa dentro de un club de carretera?”

Driving alongside a partner is one of the things I cherished most, especially when I was married. The two of us would tune into Radio 5 ‘Todo Noticias’, the evening would fall silent, and we would embark on our journeys. Conversations would flow, hands would clasp on the gear shift, and perhaps a shared glance would pass between us.

Laughter would fill the air. Words of love and understanding were exchanged. Together, we inhabited a peculiar bubble of intimacy that existed solely in the present moment, regardless of the destination.

I had traversed roads from the north, motorways in the south, expressways in the east, and highways in the west, always enamored by the driver and life itself. The drug oxytocin induced euphoria and unshakable trust. In those travels, no matter where we went, I would always spot glowing neon signs on some rundown building or slaughterhouse, silently announcing their presence in a distinct neon language.

The toll booth hummed, and the car seemed to devour its asphalt path at 120 kilometers per hour. Oasis, Lady's, Windsor, Paradise, Zeus, Copacabana II, La Noche, Caribeña’s, Heart, Hurricane. Every 1,750 meters, there was a club to be found. "Cariño, what do you think goes on inside there?" he whispered, and I had no idea. I simply repeated it to avoid his insistence.

I was fortunate to have found someone untainted in a country where men turned to prostitution more than women. Undoubtedly, the vehicle had never been parked elsewhere. The dark side of that car was the image they had chosen for the billboard of El Castillo, a series based on real events masterfully adapted by several women. A man drives through the interior of Spain, a woman looks at terror at her uncertain future. One must only witness her to understand that the questions would cease.