I have recently acquired a fear of blind curves. More specifically: blind curves in Spain.

In the US, such road hazards are preceded by one or more signs: an image of a curvy road, the words “blind curve ahead,” or an encouragement to beep one’s horn to alert oncoming traffic of your impending arrival.

Unfortunately, my husband doesn’t believe in the honk-your-horn approach.

And neither does Spain.

It doesn’t help that, in my opinion, I am much better at paying attention to the GPS than Michael is. Thus, I see us approaching such curves before he does, giving me a few extra milliseconds of fear because 1) Michael hasn’t yet seen the curve 2) there are no signs to indicate one is coming and 3) he doesn’t believe in honking his horn.

This wouldn’t be so bad if we were on a two lane road. But it seems that the engineers in Spain said, “Honestly, how many people are ever going to drive these mountain roads? Let alone two people going in opposite directions?” So they made do with a 1.5 lane road and assumed those of us crazy enough to drive up here would figure it out.

It also doesn’t help, Michael tells me, that every time he gets close to these curves I take in a quick gasp of air and let out a small peep. (Michael also tells me I’m underselling it by calling it a “small peep.”)

And then there are the guard rails. Or, more accurately, the lack thereof in most every mountain road we’ve encountered in this country. Was it a money saving tactic? Were they short on the metal needed to make them? Or perhaps it was those same road engineers thinking, “If you’re crazy enough to drive up here, you’re on your own.”

Oh. And my dear husband Michael? He’s afraid of heights.

Which is actually a good thing for me as it means he always keeps his eyes on the road.

So I’ve recently developed a strategy to help the situation: I only look out the passenger side window. And I put my left hand up to my face like a blinder so I have zero chance of seeing the upcoming curves on either the GPS or the actual road. Thus, I don’t make a peep.

From this view, however, I’m able to see just how close we are getting to the edge of the road, which is only slightly less terrifying than looking straight ahead. Though as I see it, at least when the head-on collision comes, the last thing I’ll see before I close my eyes is a nice view . . . as opposed to the open-mouthed face of the driver slamming into us.

So why do we do this?

Well, we don’t do it intentionally.

I blame Google.

For all the good technology has done for us, one thing Google maps has not yet mastered is road width. When you zoom in, the roads look wide. When you zoom out, they look narrow. The roads that make up the neighborhoods of Madrid and the roads that climb up a mountain can appear to be the exact same width.

I miss the days of the Rand McNally Road Atlas where thick blue lines indicated highways, dotted red lines signified unpaved roads, and an accompanying dotted green line meant you were on a scenic route–e.g. one with mountain views, which one could deduce meant steep or curvy roads.

So no, I had no idea our accommodation was up the side of a mountain. Though, if I were smarter, the website pictures of the stunning views should have given me a clue.

Other clues? When the GPS says you’re only 3 miles from your destination but it will take you fifteen minutes to get there.

I thought of all of this as Michael and I drove up yet another mountain to the Arándanos restaurant. I recalled the breakfast hostess who, when we told her where we were going for lunch, said, “The food is amazing. . . though the ride up can be a little tricky.”

I now know that by “tricky” she meant “terrifying.”

“Who builds a restaurant all the way up here, anyway?” Michael asked.

“And then believes that people will actually come to it,” I added.

Yet there we were.

And, according to Google reviews, at least 561 other people had decided this was a good idea.

When we finally arrived, Michael stepped out of the car and said, “I almost pulled over to call and cancel our reservation.”

Though I don’t recall seeing any place where he could have pulled over without hitting a rock face or sending us tumbling down the mountain.

The approach to the restaurant had us walk through a Japanese Zen looking entry gate, on a quiet dirt path, past ponds dotted with lily pads, and over a small bridge. All of this was probably intentionally placed to calm us down.

After a delicious meal that was, thankfully, worth the drive, we started to make our way down the mountain.

As I dutifully stared out the passenger side window, I thought, “Maybe we should see if Rand McNally makes a Road Atlas for Spain. . .”