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Wrong-sided death machine
When I wrote this I was thinking of a Bill Bryson quote that I can't seem to track down and may in fact have completely mis-remembered. So I'm making it up instead. 'There's nothing like being behind the wheel in a country where they drive on the other side of the road to make you intensely aware you that you're in charge of a ton of metal traveling at high speed that could any instant kill you and everyone around you.'
Because it's true. Absolutely. But it's not the car being on the wrong side of the road that throws you. It's the car being on the wrong side of you. So much of driving is instinctual, and involves wearing the car like a skin. Especially when you've driven the same type of car your whole life. I don't turn the car left - I turn left and the world pirouettes with me. But that's a right-hand drive car. Sit in a left hand drive, and suddenly that innate sense of self while driving is shattered. The bulk of the car is suddenly not where you expect it to be. The instinctive road position that you are used to judging based on a thousand little subconscious visual clues suddenly has you straddling lanes, and about to bump over the curb or disappear under the wheels of the hulking SUV next to you. (Or, in the case off the Big Sur, plummet off the edge.) It's like trying to walk up a spiral staircase backwards, while drunk, tripping and suffering an inner ear infection, after a botched operation that has left your knees the wrong way round and your eyes three feet to the left. While also being stone cold sober and intently aware of just how terrifying every single panicked signal from your senses (that have twigged that something's not quite right and are screaming loudly) is.
I don't think I've ever been so intensely, unnaturally ~aware~ of the act of driving since I first started learning. But back then it was ~supposed~ to feel weird... nowadays I'm so used to that zen mist of 'Oh, am I there? Hope I didn't run anyone over on the way...' that actually thinking about the mechanics of driving is an utterly alien experience. Not exactly unpleasant, quite interesting in some ways, but incredibly unnerving.
OMG Pink hair!!!
I love having pink hair very much indeed. (In spite of the fact that I'm currently loving having red hair very much indeed instead.) And it does attract compliments (and awed stage whispers from small children to embarrassed parents), especially when freshly dyed and in bright sunlight. But San Francisco is the only place I've ever had someone chase me down the street just to tell me they love my hair. (And it's definitely the only time I've heard someone scream 'Oh em geeee!' outside of a virtual environment.) I do love that kind of wild enthusiasm that Americans have, especially when it leads to compliments. (Compliments make me smile.) And it's infectious. You find yourself actively picking out things you can pay someone a compliments about, just because. And it's a hard habit to shake when you come home again.
(At Infest, I told Sel that her hair was looking good: she twitched, backed into a corner and refused to come out until I stopped being nice.)
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When I wrote this I was thinking of a Bill Bryson quote that I can't seem to track down and may in fact have completely mis-remembered. So I'm making it up instead. 'There's nothing like being behind the wheel in a country where they drive on the other side of the road to make you intensely aware you that you're in charge of a ton of metal traveling at high speed that could any instant kill you and everyone around you.'
Because it's true. Absolutely. But it's not the car being on the wrong side of the road that throws you. It's the car being on the wrong side of you. So much of driving is instinctual, and involves wearing the car like a skin. Especially when you've driven the same type of car your whole life. I don't turn the car left - I turn left and the world pirouettes with me. But that's a right-hand drive car. Sit in a left hand drive, and suddenly that innate sense of self while driving is shattered. The bulk of the car is suddenly not where you expect it to be. The instinctive road position that you are used to judging based on a thousand little subconscious visual clues suddenly has you straddling lanes, and about to bump over the curb or disappear under the wheels of the hulking SUV next to you. (Or, in the case off the Big Sur, plummet off the edge.) It's like trying to walk up a spiral staircase backwards, while drunk, tripping and suffering an inner ear infection, after a botched operation that has left your knees the wrong way round and your eyes three feet to the left. While also being stone cold sober and intently aware of just how terrifying every single panicked signal from your senses (that have twigged that something's not quite right and are screaming loudly) is.
I don't think I've ever been so intensely, unnaturally ~aware~ of the act of driving since I first started learning. But back then it was ~supposed~ to feel weird... nowadays I'm so used to that zen mist of 'Oh, am I there? Hope I didn't run anyone over on the way...' that actually thinking about the mechanics of driving is an utterly alien experience. Not exactly unpleasant, quite interesting in some ways, but incredibly unnerving.
OMG Pink hair!!!
I love having pink hair very much indeed. (In spite of the fact that I'm currently loving having red hair very much indeed instead.) And it does attract compliments (and awed stage whispers from small children to embarrassed parents), especially when freshly dyed and in bright sunlight. But San Francisco is the only place I've ever had someone chase me down the street just to tell me they love my hair. (And it's definitely the only time I've heard someone scream 'Oh em geeee!' outside of a virtual environment.) I do love that kind of wild enthusiasm that Americans have, especially when it leads to compliments. (Compliments make me smile.) And it's infectious. You find yourself actively picking out things you can pay someone a compliments about, just because. And it's a hard habit to shake when you come home again.
(At Infest, I told Sel that her hair was looking good: she twitched, backed into a corner and refused to come out until I stopped being nice.)
[previous] [next]
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