Home Sweet Home

There are moments and experiences that define home to people. A soothing accent, a familiar landscape, a certain meal or drink all affirm you are near your roots.

It was a little after midnight, and I was headed home with my cousin. She was catching me up on local gossip when my headlights flashed on a huge group of bicyclists speeding toward us in the opposite lane.

Bicyclists with hooves and horns. Mooing bicyclists. More precisely, a herd of cattle that had escaped their field and taken it upon themselves to relocate. They were running full tilt toward freedom. (This was incidentally also the direction of the local stockyard which I am sure came as a shock to the escapees. It's like breaking out of prison and taking refuge in the lethal injection chamber. Poor planning.)

I realized I was home when the first thought I had wasn't "why are there cows in the road?' but rather 'at least they are staying in their lane'.

Nice to know living in the city all this time hasn't erased the country from me.

Life in the slow lane

I have a long held theory about traffic jams. It wanders dangerously close to my theory that people should have to pass a test to procreate but is, in fact, separate.

Picture yourself driving down the interstate going an acceptable speed. Five over the speed suggestion or so. All of a sudden, brake lights are lit up as far as you can see. You slow down to forty or less and crawl along with all the other fellows stuck in the same predicament. You look for a wreck, a broken down car, construction, a flock of low flying seagulls... anything to explain why you are now behind schedule and increasing your carbon footprint by burning gas for longer than your planned time period.

Then, like Moses and the Red (or Reed Sea depending on your original translation), the lanes open up. Freedom is visible. You slowed down for....nothing. Nothing. No reason you can suss out for the slow down. You write it off as one of life's little mysteries.

I believe I have solved the mystery.

I have a tendency to push my car a little too far. Drive a little too fast. Change lanes a little too aggressively. Yell a little too indiscriminately at other drivers. (If my windows are up, it doesn't count, people.) Because of this particular set of my flaws, I have been to the front of the traffic jams. I have seen the nidus of congestion. It is almost always one car. One driver who has chosen to follow the bottom sign "Minimum 40". He or she (though it is usually a she) has chosen to putter along enjoying the complex and varying scenery along the interstate. They invariably have chosen to do this either at the peak of rush hour or at the time of day the road should be essentially empty. They choose to drive only on the busiest section of the road. They drive solidly in the middle or fast lane, switching to the slow lane just in time to exit before they are throttled by anger passengers. They are stealth poopheads.

I must assume it is one family tree that contributes these tortioses to our gene pool. We have to find that tree and cut it down. They have to be descendants of the guys who advocated chewing your food 100 times before swallowing. They must be related to the guys who drift sideways when walking in front of you so you can't pass them. Surely, they are cousins of the people who slip in front of you in the check out line at the grocery store, arrange all of their purchases by type, then are startled when they have to pay and spend five minutes digging through their purse ('cause it's always a female) looking for their wallet/coupons.

I appreciate their dedication to their slow lifestyle choice. I still have the occasional urge to run them down with a steamroller. I would bet I catch at least a few.

Lefties only

I made it to Dublin by the early afternoon. I had a wee bit of trouble renting a car; it turns out they do not accept photo copies of your driver's license, even if it expired while you were abroad and the new one was stuck in America. Put on my most winning smile and ended up with an ugly little Toyota or Nissan. I assured the nice man behind the counter I was quite adept at driving a stick shift. I forgot about the whole "left side of the road" thing.

The stick shift on the left wasn't so bad. However, I was a little uncertain at first if the pedals were also backward. I was confident the brake was in the middle. I guessed wrong about the other two. Nothing quite like revving the engine right before pulling out of a rental agency to get their confidence in your abilities high.

Survived the roundabouts, the interstates, the sheep in the road, and my inclination to pull to the right on a narrow road. Crossing the border into Northern Ireland, I noted signs informing me that the speed limits were now in miles per hour. Too bad my speedometer only reported kilometers per hour. I guesstimated how fast I was going. I guesstimated poorly. I was either being passed or flying by other cars on a regular basis.

Otherwise uneventful drive to Northern Ireland, checked into B&B, showered, went into town for dinner. Met Larry, a dentist, at the pub. Drank and hashed out what was right and wrong with the world. I'm sure we came to some excellent conclusions, but I can't remember any of them.