We were in southern California over the holidays. As is typical, it was a fun but exhausting trip. I’m currently trapped under two very warm, purring kittens who understand their job better than I do in keeping me from doing too much when I’m achy. Brad was a Cat Nap Master. Zak and Sarah are already Senseis at merely 5 months old.
One of my planned outings during our trip was to meet up with a friend whom I hadn’t seen in over 30 years (God bless Facebook). She lives about an hour’s drive across the Los Angeles maze of freeways and road construction from where we were visiting Rob’s family. I fully intended to drive myself to the reunion while Rob played with his brothers. But as Rob deftly maneuvered us from the airport to our hotel after we arrived, I immediately began rethinking my plan.
I used to love to drive. I didn’t think anything of popping onto a freeway or navigating stop-n-go commute traffic. I actually looked for excuses to drive my clutch car on the hills of San Francisco just for the thrill and challenge of putting my fancy footwork to the test. But after my back surgeries, my driving life took a big detour. No longer able to comfortably twist around to check traffic before lane changes, I became very familiar with side and frontage roads. No longer able to work, I made sure I was home well before any bumpers met bumpers. No longer in any particular hurry, I lost the need to always travel in the fast lane. Literally and figuratively.
Here in the Portland metro, there is indeed traffic. However, I still smirk to myself when people complain how bad it is. Sure, there are certain times and mile markers I try to avoid but honestly, I’m more concerned about getting stuck behind a school bus after 2:30 than I am about freeway messes.
But Los Angeles is a different story. They drive very fast there. I’m not certain what the speed limit is on the freeways but anecdotal evidence suggests it’s between 70 and 80mph. They also don’t like to let any space get wasted. There must be some unwritten law banning more than two car lengths of space between vehicles on LA freeways. Any open space is quickly consumed either by someone who wants to be milliseconds ahead of you just out of competition’s sake, or someone just passing through on their way to an open space two lanes over. Added to the excitement is that LA drivers seem to like to keep it sporting by not signaling where they might be heading. I suspect there are very few burned out blinker lights in the Los Angeles metro.
As yet another indication that my California roots are graying, I had to concede my fear of driving the LA freeways. Feeling like a wussy girl right off the farm, Rob and his dad chauffeured me to Kathleen’s house and enjoyed a museum while she and I caught up on our lives since grade school. After our visit, we hit commute traffic in the LA basin with Dad expertly changing routes on the fly. I assessed the situation and took full ownership of my wussiness, settling in for a nice weave back to Orange County.
Today as I was passing a construction zone with one blocked lane, I smiled to myself as I noticed that all the cars were lined up in the open lane for about a mile approaching the blocked lane. A full mile of useable lane unoccupied since there was a sign saying it would eventually disappear. I still haven’t concluded whether Portland area drivers are insanely nice, insanely patient, or insanely unobservant. Any which way, I suppose drivers everywhere are crazy in their own unique way.
No comments:
Post a Comment