It’s a little daunting to think about how much of your life you can spend in your car.
Not even just driving it, either. Sitting in traffic, waiting in line at the drive through, or even just being a passenger, buckled into a polyester seat, looking out at the view. We can all safely say we’ve probably spent at least a year’s-worth of our lives in a car. Childhood me would’ve found this revelation utterly revolting. Having grown up in Rome, the capital of Italy, I was no stranger to a traffic jam. I can still hear the cacophony of horns singing in the city streets, as we crept, inch-by-inch, to school. I remember laying my little head on the carseats windowsill, looking out to slaloming bikers and lewd gestures. It was insufferable; so hectic and overstimulating. No, little me did not like the look of driving.
My parents were generally okay drivers. I don’t want to say they’re bad, ‘cause they’re not, but I wouldn’t exactly revere them for their driving skills ethier. My mom is smooth, with sharp reflexes, but couldn’t find her way out of a paper bag. Arguments with the GPS were habitual, and getting someplace always takes a little over double what it should. Fortunately, Dad was less directionally-challenged, but more than made up for it with his unique, spastic approach to the open road. Being an Italian man from the Alps, he wasn’t afraid to drive under stressful circumstances. The only issue seemed to be that his fearlessness never did transfer to his passengers. One summer, when we went to visit my Mom’s family in Greece, he offered to bring an aunt of ours to catch a flight at the Athens Airport. Gleefully, she thanked him for the offer, and took him up on it. The next day she called my mom crying because of how bad of a driver she thought my Dad was. And I can attest to more than one drive with my dad where I’d whisper a little prayer under my breath.
It seemed that driving insanely was the norm. Whenever I’d get a ride from our neighbor to school, he’d hand me the severed head of a seatbelt, instructing me to plug it into the buckle so the annoying beeping would go away. In the busy plazas and squares, every driver was at war with the enemy: pedestrians. And cyclists, and other cars. Oh, and you can’t forget all the streets closed for construction.. All this to say, driving can be kinda freaking scary. And that’s without considering the possibility of a crash. Luckily, none of my loved ones’ or myself have been in any detrimental crashes. I experienced my first car accident in Greece, during one of these dreaded ‘school drop offs’. We’d moved to a city close to my grandma’s village. Driving here was way less of a nightmare than Rome, although some of the roads slalomed across town at unreasonably steep angles. My mom, sister and I were waiting at a stop sign at one of these aforementioned streets when my mom’s brakes wavered, and we headbutted a (thankfully empty) school bus on its side. My sister and I ended up wiggling out the windows, walking the remainder of the way to school as my mom and a neighboring cop stayed to resolve the scene. Another scare happened when my mom fell asleep at the wheel as she was driving back home from Grandma’s. She told me she passed out and the car spinned three times. She landed in farming land, nearly missing the lip of a sharp cliff into the Aegean Sea. I’m so grateful every day that she’s okay. She told me she thought it was her dad, my Papou, protecting her. I think she might be onto something. Weirdly, my dad’s record is spotless.
Look, I know it’s not great to walk around in life being afraid of everything, but a healthy dose of risk perception is what’s kept our species surviving for so long. Driving is a serious responsibility which should be undertaken with the reverence and discipline it deserves. Moving to the United States definitely broadened my understanding of just how serious it could be. Having transferred as a Freshman to a high school in rural Montana, I noticed that there were no buses or metros to get me around town. A lot of my classmates and friends took advantage of the state’s 14-year old license age limit and got themselves on wheels. This made sense, given most of them lived way back in the mountainside and needed a way to maneuver around. I relied on the kindness of these friends to get around, and to get my first taste of what it felt like to be behind them. I was terrified, but this was outweighed by my curiosity and excitement. It felt so liberating to move freely along open countryside roads. This was completely different from what I was accustomed to.
Ever since then I’ve tried my best to become the safest, best driver I can be. I have a long way to go; I’m far from perfect. I get nervous making right turns, and I’m still learning how to be defensive, but I have a clear goal and motivation as to why I’m doing this. In my old high school there were hand-made posters of a kid who I never met. He was a football player who got killed in a driving accident his junior year. I think of the life he could’ve had. I think of my family, of all of the close calls they’ve encountered. And lastly I think of all the time I’ve already spent in the car. I hope to experience more time driving, and fill my car with amazing people I haven’t met before. I can’t wait to fill my window with curling landscapes I’d never witnessed. I hope to honor my safety, and yours.