After landing, a bus from the airport took me as far as South Dublin, where Darling Husband had spotted my car, so I could make pickup time at Little One’s school (about as muddy and authentic as can be). And as I slid in behind my right-hand drive wheel, it felt comfortable, even with my jet lag-induced grogginess.
The day before leaving, I had been stressed, especially about dealing with immigration authorities. Having sailed through, thanks to a friendly Garda down the road, I realized I was actually enjoying the drive over the hills and dales of County Kildare. The windy-twisty three-track roads demand a certain skill and attention, not unlike those Driver’s Ed movies of our youth. But the ever-changing scenery (snow on the mountains today, neighbor finally finished his fence, oh, look, three sheep on the road today) keeps things interesting.
Once a week, Darling Husband’s work schedule means that I need to trek into Dublin and pick up Number One Son from his school. The path takes me over the hill at Bohernabreena and drops me into Dublin’s south suburbs. The older roads are dotted with roundabouts; the newer ones with signals and right-turn pockets. Not surprisingly, the roundabouts move, while the signals back up. I am thrust back into American Mode, twiddling my thumbs while waiting for the light to change.
And then it hits me: I enjoy the break from driving that Ireland and my business trips give me. American transit systems are built up around business travelers, who can easily get from the airport to the everything-you-could-ever-need hotel; often at the expense of infrastructure for the everyday masses. And yet here I was, looking forward to driving, even comforted by it. Little One notes that there is only one stop sign between home and school, one place of rest on the 20-minute drive. And there it was: most of my driving here is driving, not waiting to drive. Most of my driving in the States is waiting, not driving.
Every now and then, I see a Prius in the city, and think maybe I should have got one of those. And then I am reminded: in the city, where waiting is the game, having a car that does not idle is a huge advantage. But out here in the sticks, we do not idle (except when we meet someone we know in town), and there is only one Prius around here (and I have met the driver--she's American). The rest of us drive, efficient small cars, covered in mud. Because we drive rather than wait.
