This is going to be a longer read than usual. I know it’s risky since humanity competes with goldfish for attention span, but trust me - this is well worth the few minutes of your time. It doesn’t matter on which side of the fence you are - whether you see combustion-powered cars as dinosaurs or think the EVs are abominations - the fact is, the world is changing. The transition to electric driving is happening, and the day when all cars on the road are electric is much closer than it was yesterday.

Going electric is not an easy feat. The internet is full of stories of people buying an EV and not being able to charge it or the damn thing throwing a tantrum like a ’90s desktop. Repair costs? You’ll need a mortgage. Range? Around the block, twice a sling as the wind comes from behind. Utter madness, right?

Look, half of the stories are made up; a huge fraction comes from buyers simply not understanding what they are buying. The rest comes from manufacturers rushing out a product that is not really finished. Plenty of cars should come with a “work in progress” warning. Still, that’s just a part of the story. Charging infrastructure is a big part of the equation - and yet, that’s not what I wanna talk about today.

It doesn’t matter whether your house is ready for an EV, whether you have a parking spot with a charger, whether there are plenty of public chargers in your area, and if your boss is happy to fix a charger to the side of the office so you can happily go and brag about saving the planet. None of it matters if you can’t buy the damn thing.

While some countries are at the forefront of the EV revolution, others are desperately holding on to the glorious gasoline-powered past. I am extremely lucky and have spent a lot of time in sunny Spain; I consider this southerly paradise my second home. I love everything about it - the people, the food, the weather. The paperwork? Not so much. But it’s a price I’m happy to pay. So - without further ado, here comes the real-life experience of buying an electric car in Spain.

My wife and I really liked the new Citroen e-C3. To the point that we decided it would have been a perfect car for our Spanish hideaway. We don’t need a huge range; we don’t go for cross-country escapades - all we need is a compact runaround that fits our kids, the dog, and some shopping. The e-C3 fits the bill, ticks every box on our wish list, and with local and national incentives, comes in at about €14,000 - which in Spain is cheaper than a 10-year-old Fiat 500. So it was a no-brainer decision - let’s get a Citroen e-C3.

Armed with buckets of positive attitude, off we went to the nearest Citroen showroom. On arrival, we were greeted by a very busy setup - tens of cars parked up outside, cars going in and out of service bays - all good signs of a prosperous dealership. We crossed the parking lot, I opened the door for my wife, and… yeah. And…

You know those moments when you’re busy thinking about a million things while trying to go shopping, you enter the store and realize you ended up in an art gallery or laundromat? It was just like that. I opened the door, and inside was a sizable collection of cars on the showroom floor. There was an old Mercedes, an even older Audi in the corner, a couple of old Opels, some Citroens here and there, and a convertible Mustang sitting in the middle with its hood proudly up in the air, exposing the whizzy V6 EcoBoost.

The floor was covered in dust that must have seen the end of the last century - you could see the footprints going from the door to the reception. There were no footprints around the cars. The cars were under what looked like a finger-deep blanket of dust; few looked like someone did try cleaning them about 10-15 years ago but gave up on the job halfway through. I froze, put my arm in front of the Mrs, and looked out to double-check we were in the right place. According to a giant red sign on the building, we were at a major Citroen dealership. Google didn’t trick us; this was it.

As far as first impressions go, the baby was out the window with the bath. But I thought, “Never mind.” many things might have happened - they had some work done, some kind of refurbishment, or left the doors and windows open during the last sandstorm. A real thing here in the South. Undeterred, I put the Cheshire Cat-style grin on my face and confidently walked toward the reception. There, I was greeted by the 80s cliche, an icon of the “Little England” style. Remember the “computer don’t know?”

Look, I’m the last person to judge anyone’s style - I wear Hawaiian shirts, each of my shoes is different, and my hat looks like I stole it from the Godfather movie set. I’m a cliche; only the cigar is missing. The lady at the reception was furiously typing away with the longest nails I’ve ever seen in my life. Painted in Ferrari red, the things were a blur; that’s how fast she was. She didn’t notice my psychedelic shirt; she just kept at it - she wasn’t clicking; she was machine-gunning the poor keyboard.

I nervously looked down at my watch - not to signal I’m impatient, oh no. I just realized we might have come too late. You see, siesta is a very real thing in Spain; most businesses close at 2 pm, and if you turn up after 1pm, you are basically either a tourist or just plain rude. But no, we were early, and not too early either; we were in that perfect small window after breakfast but before the siesta.

After a couple of minutes, without stopping the typing, the lady looked up, with her late 80’s glistening perm staying frozen in space. She looked at my hat, then my shirt, and spent a few seconds looking at my mismatched shoes. She shook her head in the clearest disapproval ever and went back to typing away like the future of the world depended on it. Without lifting her head, she asked. “Si?”

Rude much? Sure, but I was ecstatic. We’ve established contact! I proudly exclaimed, “I’d love to buy a car!” At this moment, the world froze. She stopped. The guy next to her went silent. Guys in the workshop stopped - the whole place just went church-silent. I quickly glanced at my wife and ran what I said in my head again, just to make sure I didn’t say something silly, but no. After what felt like a minute, everything went back to normal - the red fingernails turned into an angry mist, the guy on the phone started shouting at someone, and the technicians in the shop went back to playing with the car lift.

Spain is an interesting place; everything you try to do has a specific procedure, and it takes a while to get used to it. But I was absolutely sure I did not upset anyone. Sure - my shirt was loud, but it was the least loud of my entire collection. A few more minutes passed, and the reception lady gave me another look and suddenly said, “I’ll call someone.” That was it. Again - I was ecstatic. We passed the guardian at the door!

We went wandering around the showroom floor; I was curious about the 190E sitting in the corner. Dusty, both in and out, the Mercedes looked like it had never seen the outside world, and I was getting curious, but my wife quickly brought me back to reality. She knows me well. A few more minutes and there he was - a salesman walking in our direction. I was getting giddy - we were buying an electric car! I already forgot about the awkward first steps. 

Paco shook my hand, introduced himself to my Mrs, and asked the question he had memorized so well over many years of work - “How can I help?” I proudly pumped up my chest and said, “We’d like to buy the Citroen e-C3,” and smiled at him. The look on his face was priceless. He might have as well seen Franco rising from his grave. 

“Electric?” he sheepishly asked. “Yes, electric,” I replied proudly. What followed was the most uncomfortable silence of my life, that lasted a good two minutes. There he was, Paco, staring at me with his eyes glazed over, kinda like me when I’m looking at meme short videos. They just don’t compute. And he asked, “ You don’t want a diesel?”

I froze. Then he asked, “Maybe a gasoline model?” I quietly replied that I’d prefer electric, but Paco - in the nicest possible way - asked, “Are you sure?” You know, the kind of polite way we ask our kids when they put a pan on their head while preparing to slide off the roof of the house on a mattress. “No gasoline,” I said, “I’m sure - we want an electric Citroen e-C3.” 

Paco was a true master of awkward silences; he took another break, still staring at me. I looked back at my wife; she was already struggling, trying not to laugh out loud, but I kept my face straight. Then Paco asked, “You don’t want a diesel?” My wife started to giggle, and I honestly thought I just found indisputable evidence that we all live in the Matrix. The Matrix just glitched! Paco followed with, “Maybe a gasoline model?”

I calmly explained that we really wanted the electric version, that we understand the apprehension but we thought it through, and that’s what we want. At this point, my wife was in the far corner of the showroom, next to the dusty 190E, pretty much laughing her head off. I was smiling at Paco, and he smiled back, which was huge progress. He then honestly admitted he had no clue about electric cars. He took my phone number and promised someone would call me and it would all be sorted.

It was an experience, but we thought nothing of it. A couple of days passed, and I got a call from Pepe, who was from a city 100 km away, from a bigger dealership. Pepe didn’t know what I wanted to buy; Paco only gave him my number. So I went ahead and said, “I wanted to buy the Citroen e-C3.” The Matrix is real. Pepe went quiet for a while, I could hear him taking a deep breath, and then he asked “You don’t want a diesel?”

At this point, I thought it was some kind of a ritual, maybe a sales tactic to sway me away from saving the world in my electric Citroen. So I persisted. And so did Pepe. He asked if I didn’t want a gas-powered version and if I was really sure I wanted an electric car. After this ping-pong match lasted a few minutes, Pepe said he’ll call me back.

Two weeks later, he called to tell me someone else would handle my inquiry. Another week passed, and Juan Carlos called from an even bigger city, telling me my number had been passed on to him. He didn’t know I wanted to buy an electric Citroen. With a kind voice and what sounded like genuine care, he asked, “Are you sure you don’t want a diesel version? What about gasoline?” Then he said he’ll call me back.

It’s been two months now since we foolishly decided to buy an electric car. My collection of Hawaiian shirts has grown, but I haven’t heard from anyone else trying to talk me out of buying an electric Citroen. I’ve been too busy to chase this up, but while the story is funny, and I love telling it, it does not look good for the auto industry. All companies are spending billions on development of the EVs, cutting down on gas and diesel versions. Meanwhile, the salespeople are stuck in the gasoline-powered past.

I’m not surprised that EV sales are slowing down. Charging infrastructure is still a headache, insurance is expensive, and some of the cars have teething problems (it’s not like diesel or gas cars are without faults when they leave the factory). But if we can’t buy the damn thing, what’s the point of the whole revolution?

I understand why people are so ecstatic when they actually manage to buy an electric car. It must feel like an achievement, like a finish of a 3 km hurdles race. When you manage to get a charger in your house, when you find insurance that won’t bankrupt you, when you learn where all the public chargers are in your area, and when the EV finally shows up at your doorstep. If you manage all of that - you deserve a medal. Heck, buying an electric car should be in the Olympics. Can you imagine the Australian team?

I believe each new electric car should come with a certificate of achievement because it takes patience, tenacity, and buckets of strong will not to give up on this quest. That’s what it is - buying an electric car is a quest, and your biggest adversary is the group of people who are supposed to be on your side. They don’t do it deliberately (I hope); most of them simply don’t know enough. But - the saddest part is that they don’t even want to know.