THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1994, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Thursday, October 13, 1994 TAG: 9410120109
SECTION: DAILY BREAK PAGE: E1 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: BY SARAH MISKIN
LENGTH: Medium: 72 lines
Sarah Miskin is a Fulbright Professional Exchange Scholar from New Zealand. She will be writing occasional stories detailing her experiences in America. In today's installment, Sarah tells us about adjusting to driving in a new country with different rules.
A COUPLE OF days after I arrived in Norfolk, my fellow journalist and Fulbright exchange reporter, Earl Swift, drove through a red light.
Anxious not to offend my only acquaintance such a short time into my three-month stay, I didn't mention it . . . until he did it again.
Fearing then that I was in the car with a maniac driver who might kill me before I'd seen anything of America, I delicately phrased a comment about his perception of colors. Was he perchance color blind?
He laughed. I had made the first of many blunders in America. In this land of the free, freedom extends into running reds.
Wow! At home, we are so down on this that we have red light cameras at some intersections. These snap pictures as the lights change, and any driver caught in glorious technicolor whipping through an orange or red has the offending photo - plus a fine notice - sent to his home.
After spending the past 28 years of my life learning that red means stop, I now find that it means stop . . . sometimes.
Worse was to come. According to my orientation, I was sitting in the driver's seat - only there was no steering wheel. Earl was in the passenger seat - only he had command of the vehicle. And we were driving on the WRONG (right) side of the road.
I begin to fear that I may not live to see my family again. Especially when every time I cross the road I look right first as large trucks and ``Yank tanks'' bear down on me from my blind side.
After a couple of close calls, I have pinned a notice to my desk saying ``Look Left THEN Right.'' I also practice defensive walking in the corridors of The Virginian-Pilot's offices. I hug the right wall and make tight right turns and wide left turns, looking left then right. I figure that in the corridors, the worst I can do is spill someone's coffee.
This sorry tale is not as amusing as it sounds. Exactly a year ago, four out of five members of a family touring New Zealand - mother, father, 4-year-old boy and month-old girl - were killed in the North Island after the father crossed into the right (wrong) side of the road. Only an 18-month-old boy survived.
Some of my so-called friends in my Christchurch office, on hearing of my driving troubles, sent me some other cheering stories.
``Tourist driving `a worry,' '' said one, in which a police officer called the driving habits of foreign tourists ``appalling.''
``Accident caused by `tragic reflex,' '' said another, in which a French diplomat put three people (including his wife) in hospital after driving on the right.
Yet another quoted car rental companies saying that incidents ranging from minor damage to total write-offs were costing them hundreds of thousands of dollars a year in vehicle repairs and replacements. A chilling thought when I have just this week hired a car and taken to the roads of Norfolk.
I am vaguely reassured by the thought that if I do have an accident, I am following in a Fulbright tradition. An Alabama journalist who came to my newspaper in 1988 managed to have a slight mishap in one of the office cars. No one was injured and the piece he smashed off the other driver's car clipped right back on. Sort of.
I hope I am as lucky. Judging by the aggressive way people drive here, America IS the home of the brave . . . or, in my case, the brave and the insured. ILLUSTRATION: The View from Down Under
by CNB