Stinge

Travelling always brings out a person’s true colours… or exacerbates colours they already proudly wear. Cam and I are pretty good travelling buddies but there remains one point of contention; Stinge versus Extravagance.

I am Extravagance and Cam is Stinge, but as I am writing this, I have the unfair advantage of being able to explain myself. While I really do enjoy lovely wine and if given the choice, I would probably eat more grandly than I can afford, I am quite able to restrain this tendency for the greater good. The fact that I kicked around in one grubby pair of black cons for the 6 months prior to our departure is surely a testament to that. I already knew Stinge was frugal, valiantly choosing a slightly less materialistic and indulgent path than most, what I didn’t realise, was how far a Stinge on a budget could push this tendency.

Soon after we picked up our precious little Chloe, Stinge quickly noticed a function on the dash showing our instant and averaged fuel economy. A combination of technology and money saving! A Stinge’s delight! Forget driving on the other side of the road, on the wrong side of the car, with lunatic Italians trying to kill us; focus at all times was to be shared between the road and the fuel consumption. I was immediately frustrated, knowing such close monitoring could only end badly. We experimented with this little gadget, going up hills in 5^th, rolling down the terrifyingly twisted and narrow Amalfi road of death in neutral, balancing a 90km/ hour speed maintenance on the mad Euro motorway… And then Stinge found Cruise Control. What a discovery! No unnecessary breaking or accelerating, a Stinge’s dream! So I sat and watched as Stinge drove his space ship, flicking buttons, checking levels- current fuel consumption, litres of petrol left, average fuel consumption so far… switch cruise control on, recheck fuel consumption, drop speed a touch, cruise control on again, check fuel consumption again… If I wasn’t so caught up in the hilarious stinginess of it all, I would be marvelling at the dexterity. But Stinge really came into his own when a squeal of delight burst through his concentrated, calculating lips as the average fuel consumption dropped from 7.8 L/100Km to 7.7! Then eventually 7.7 to 7.6… etc. Each time I have been regaled with high five’s and a little happy dance. A work of Stinge genius!

But Stinge is a stubborn and determined beast, and his talents at further reducing the petrol consumption didn’t stop there. We’re both tough Aussie kids, and like the quietly aspiring hippies we secretly think we are, we generally dislike air conditioning. I rage against my poor parents every summer when the aircon flicks on at 9am. But, there is a point. Especially in a car. Driving through glorious Croatia, with the Adriatic glittering pure turquoise beneath us, and the blistering sun, shooting through the window like a shard of hot metal trying brand us, I felt it was time to test out the other ‘mod cons’ of Chloe, and busted out the aircon. I should have realised how this would grossly affect the fuel economy scheme. Stinge shot daggers across the car. The aircon was quickly disabled and the sweat silently continued to flow. Stinge’s poor back was drenched, my shoulder was turning a pretty shade of purple and Chloe’s interior was ready to fry an egg, but we doggedly drove on, along motorways, through dusty side streets and down blinding coastal roads; air conditioning off. I tried once or twice out of pure desperation to turn it on, sometimes it stayed that way, on one occasion for a full five minutes! But often as my hand hovered over the sweet ‘on’ button, it was quickly swatted away. I have to give it to him, Stinge was suffering too. One day in a fit of outrage and exasperation, I decided to take a stand. I took off my dress, and sat in the passenger seat stony faced in my bra and undies, I thought this may shock Stinge into action, we were on a motorway afterall, with perverted truck drivers and dirty Italian men in their black Audi’s flying past us eyes glued to Chloe’s interior. But to my dismay, Stinge was delighted! So away we sped, Stinge with one eye on the fuel consumption, the other on my cleavage.

I could continue to regale you with tales of bread and cheese for more meals than I’d dare tell a health professional (the cheapest and most palatable meal available in Europe, a Stinge victory!), and stories from slimy, scary campsite bathrooms, but to be fair, Stinge is not only saving himself money, he is saving my hard earned pennies too. And our budget is outrageously tight. Stinge is also very self-sacrificing, he allows me my gelati and sangria, often going without himself. Perhaps another Stinge technique, but a very generous one. He even let me have the aircon on for a full trip the other day (it was 35 degrees, we’d been battling with tents and blaring sun for too many days… and fuel in Spain is significantly cheaper).

Funnily enough, though Stinge is brilliantly intelligent, far more so than Extravagance, he isn’t great with numbers. So while he carefully plots to save, I am the one keeping the budget and numbers in my head all day… though tempting , it is a power that Extravagance doesn’t abuse… often. Plus I’ve found his weakness, red wine. Stinge and extravagance have finally found common ground.

To be continued.