After arriving in Australia, a week-long search of the used car lots produced a twenty-year-old Ford Falcon. I was inordinately pleased with the metal mule, an ecstasy dampened only by the terrifying realities of actually driving the damned thing. I was ignorant of Australia’s traffic rules and the right-hand drive was nerve wracking. A Danish Kingdom sticker slapped on the rear window by the previous owner advertised my foreign status, so other drivers refrained from honking too often.  

Creeping into the nearest filling station, I noticed a chain padlocked to the pump and wandered inside for assistance.

"Sorry, we haven't any gas," the attendant replied.

"You've run out?"  I asked, thinking he should put up a sign.

"No, we don't sell that here."

"You don't sell gas here?"  

A small light flickered behind the attendant's eyes. "You'll be wanting auto gas, yes?"

"Yes," I breathed, relieved that the language barrier had crumbled, "I want gas for the auto."

"We don't sell that here," he said and turned back to his magazine. A numbness crept across my skull. A filling station open for business but with nothing to sell?  

"This is a gas station?"  I asked, feeling unbelievably stupid.

"Ooo," he exclaimed, eyes afire, "you'll be wanting petrol for your auto."

And so the adventure began.