Keeping Left

Bleary-eyed after the three-hour flight from Sydney to Wellington, New Zealand, we trundled to the Avis rental car counter and picked up our vehicle: a gratuitous upgrade from economy to a Toyota Rav-4. (We have yet to see if this is good; how is the Rav-4’s gas mileage?) We walked across the parking lot, freezing in the 10-degree wind of Wellington after the 25-degree sun of New South Wales. Bags thrown in the trunk, I hopped into the wrong side of the car and found a steering wheel.

The streets of Wellington were mercifully empty at midnight on a Saturday night. Having my first left-handed driving experience during rush hour probably would have taxed my nerves and possibly the New Zealand medical care system. For once I was thankful about arriving on a late flight. “Keep left, keep left,” I kept reminding myself. With heightened awareness of all the techniques my Driver’s Ed instructor had imparted during those long, boring high school hours, burned into my conscience and buttocks by the painful plastic chairs in the lecture auditorium, I drove the multitudinous traffic circles of Wellington with Sara as my trusty navigator.

Traffic circles aren’t a problem—they’re actually quite useful for keeping traffic flowing. (Unless you put stop signs around them, as they do in Pasadena.) If there is no one else on the circle, you just cruise in, around, and out. Easy.

The turning signal is the problem. It’s on the wrong side of the steering wheel. And it’s amazing how the pathway from thought (“I need to turn left up here”) to action (finger touches lever behind wheel, presses down with perfectly calibrated force) is ingrained in my left hand. Total muscle memory. In the wrong hand.

Here's what should have happened:
"I need to turn left up here." Finger touches lever and turn signal comes on. Smooth turn. Turn signal turns off.

Here's what actually happened:
“Who turned on the wipers? Is it raining outside? No! I pushed the wrong lever. How do I turn off the wipers with my left hand? Do I twist or press?” Eyes instinctively look for flashing lights in rearview mirror. Adrenaline levels spike. (Distance to turn: 100 metres and closing.) Wipers speed up. “Darn it! Don’t twist, press!” Left hand gets a clue and presses wiper lever. Wipers stop. Adrenaline levels plateau. (Distance to turn: 50 metres and closing. Driver’s Ed teacher situated deep in the id shouts that it’s too late to signal, and turning without signaling is illegal. C'mon, Superego, do your thing!) Right hand fumbles for lever and locates it. Strange feeling. (Distance to turn: 25 metres and closing.) Hand feels satisfying give and resistance of lever, followed by reassuring click and small flashing light on dash. (Distance to turn: 5 metres and closing.) Adrenaline levels drop. Slight tremors pass through arms and legs. Breathing resumes. “Smooth finish, smooth finish.” Turn, straighten vehicle, check rear view mirror once more. Give dirty look to laughing navigator.

The windshield was dirty anyway.

I only did that twice last night. Only once did I almost make a right hand turn into oncoming traffic. They just don’t give up on this left-side thing.

Really, the hardest part is feeling the road from the right side of the car. I sense that the weight and bulk of the car should be on my right side, so I tend to space the car in the lane accordingly. This results in the left tires frequently finding the bots dots or rough shoulder on the left side. In my two hours of experience I have had to keep myself aware that I should be sitting in the right (wrong) side of the lane I’m in. Weird.

Without any serious accidents (only navigational ones) we arrived at the Hesses home in Masterton this morning at 9:30. It’s a 1.5 hour drive to their home. What? Doesn’t add up, you say? (Left airport at midnight, arrived at the other end of a 1.5 hour drive at 9:30 am?) You’re right: it doesn’t add up. We spent about four hours making an important discovery.

For those of you who have wondered how many people over 4’3” in height can sleep in the back of a Rav-4, the answer is:

None.

It took us four hours to discover that, and I'm 6'2". Sigh.

Oh, and we napped for an hour and a half on the Hesses’ road, thinking 7:30 on a Sunday morning was too early to come knocking. This time we kipped in the proper place: the front bucket seats. A little stiff in the neck, but nothing some New Zealand wine won't fix.

Safe and sound for 13 days on the North Island, we will sleep very well tonight.

~emrys