Seven months into the San Diego adventure and I am beginning to get comfortable with driving on the other side of the road. I refuse to be drawn into the right is wrong or left is right spiral – the jokes are very old and I simply look on the mental gymnastics involved as being like rubbing your head and patting your tummy at the same time. Obviously not something I would recommend while driving – unless it is a Bangkok or Beijing rush hour where the word ‘rush’ is a joke at the expense of the motorist.
I have driven for a long time and spent over thirty years in the UK doing thousands of miles and accumulating an undistinguished, and long expired, six points for two minor speeding offences. Both were on a Sunday before 9am with nothing on the road except me and the forces of the law. And 36mph on a 30mph dual-carriageway stretch was hardly either drag-racing or a challenge to the world land-speed record.
The officers involved were leather clad, motorcycle cops and used radar guns. Their stance, machismo and dark glasses suggested that it was a noon shoot out with a desperado in some lawless town rather than an overcast weekend morning with a slightly harassed middle-aged man in a provincial English town. But nobody is, or should be, above the law, so I paid my dues and took my three points (which is, at least, more than Arsenal have done in most matches this season).
My right hand/left hand sensibility has only let me down twice in San Diego and both times were in the first two weeks. Once as I was turning out of the drive onto the road and the second before 6am in the morning en-route to the airport. On both occasions the voice from the passenger seat said, “We drive on the right in my country, Englishman.” The tone of disbelief, scorn and reprimand was a reminder that, even after nearly 242 years, the time of coercion under the yoke of monarchical tyranny still rankles with some citizens.
What really paralyses me with fear is the rule here that allows you to turn right at a red light if there is no traffic coming along the road. It goes so far against the teaching of decades in the UK that I tentatively edge forward, pause, edge, pause, edge, until the honk of the queuing traffic behind forces me into action. I swing the wheel hastily and screech the tires while offering an apologetic wave to nobody in particular.
After turning I feel all the sensations that accompany an English person who is walking through ‘Nothing to Declare’ at customs and wondering if they accidentally packed three kilos of cocaine and a dead goat in their suitcase. I should confirm that I owe that description to an internet meme – it is so accurate as to be equally perfect for the feeling of having driven through a red light. I doubt I will ever get over my anxiety on this one.
What is even more troubling is that when the red light goes green the pedestrian crossing to the right goes green to signal that pedestrians can walk. It is totally counter-intuitive because just as you get the green light to go the pedestrians have the right of way on the road you want to take. And given the number of walking/texting Darwin award contestants you are never sure if they are about to walk or telling Aunt Lucy what they want for dinner.
Again, I edge forward, stop, try to catch the eye of the texting/dawdling pedestrian. Edge forward a little more, wave my hand at them to elicit a response, but all to no avail. And then the inevitable tooting and honking from behind as my indecision arouses the worst instincts in fellow drivers. It’s all pretty trying.
And for any Englishman of a certain age the four-way stop is an invention wholly intended to challenge our sense of fairness, civility, and goodwill to all people. This is a country where cities are largely built on a grid-system so there are lots of what people in the old country call ‘crossroads’. But there also seems to be a prohibition on traffic lights so each of the four roads has a single white line with the word ‘Stop’ on it – and people are meant to take their turn.
But it’s like the mind-games faced in a busy barbers’ shop without a booking system – was the guy with the AC-DC t-shirt here before you? And will he beat you up if you take his turn? Did the old geezer with the whippet sneak in without you seeing? Is it fair to go in front of someone who looks like they only have enough hair for a ‘pensioner’s special price’? And is the bloke with the youngster reserving space for both of them? Is that reasonable and will they want to go concurrently or consecutively?
Heaven help you if you feel that someone has taken your place in the queue because there is only so much loud tutting you can do before people wonder if you have dentures that are slipping. I have always thought that barber’s should adopt a ticket system akin to those at the delicatessen counters of busy supermarkets. Even better might be the opportunity to buy your cheese and ham at the same place as you have a hair cut – could be a world-beater for the ASDA/Sainsbury merger if my old work-mate and Sainsbury CEO Mike Coupe really wants to ‘be in the money’.
All that having been said, my engagement with every four-way stop is a little like a gentleman’s excuse me at a grand ball where I have misplaced my dance card. Imagine that my turn to go is the lady I want to dance with. I sit with a look of longing at her beauty but few expectations about it being my turn as others assert their option to have a quick rumba, waltz or, more appropriately, American Smooth.
First is the big, bearded guy (and it IS always a man) with his cap on backwards who drives a truck the size of Texas and takes his turn, whether it’s his turn or not, at the intersection. Then comes the young buck with music blaring out of the open windows, who is on the phone and has the sense of right that only the young, rich or with military-grade hardware in the boot (or trunk to US readers) are entitled too. After that is the grey-haired, short-sighted older person who has decided that stopping is a recipe for disaster because of the state of the car’s brakes and the possibility it may never start up again.
Surely, it’s my turn next? But then there are Mom and Pop and a people-carrier full of young sprogs on their way to the Zoo and by the time they are through it’s a battle for supremacy between the Uber/Lyft (I believe they all work for both companies) driver in a hurry and the harassed US Postal Service van on an Amazon-inspired mission to deliver 56 packages over a 100-mile radius in the next half-hour.
I wave them all through and smile that peculiar English smile that reflects decades of inhibition, fortitude and, most especially, guilt for things that happened years before we were born. It’s definitely my turn next because there are no more cars. But then I face the other certainty of a drive in the sunshine in San Diego – people on foot.
A dog-walker with seven assorted dogs – some of highest pedigree, some rescue mutts of dubious extraction – all very hairy and quite literally barking mad. Then a jogger whose best 5km time is long-gone and who manages to slow down to cross the road secure in the knowledge that no California driver will assail their pedestrian rights. And, of course, a cute group of school-children with peaked caps and rucksacks who only pause for several minutes mid-crossing to apply more sun-cream and have a drink to rehydrate.
Just as the two and four legged have passed and my foot is coming off the brake I face the final, and relatively new road-challenge. Whizzing through the four-way, with the sense of entitlement known throughout the world come the cyclists on the dayglo coloured, rent by the hour bikes and close behind the motorised Bird scooters. It is like the chase scene in Mad Max Beyond Pleasure Dome but a lot slower and with no death, destruction or mutants and the certainty that no fossil fuel was harmed in making the wheels go round.
When all is said and done it’s an adventure but with music in the car, air-conditioning and time on my hands I can think of worse ways to spend time. And I quite like being polite and cautious on the road after years of hustling around the country for work and time-tight school pick-ups. As Charlie Tebbutt used to say as he drove us to new business pitches during my time running the PR division of Charles Walls, “Better to be fifteen minutes late in this world than fifty years early in the next.”