A few weeks ago I was driving along when a car nosed
out from a parking lot into my lane, in a way that I felt required some outraged
flailing of arms. The driver was a young man, sporting a large baseball cap and
(probably) a pair of jeans riding somewhere around his knees. In response to my
performance, he eyeballed me and, calmly but firmly, raised his middle finger.
I felt silly, stopped flailing, and we both went on our way.
What a constructive exchange that was, I thought. I had released my frustration, he defended himself while acknowledging his error, and no damage was done - either to our cars or ego. Was this how driving in LA worked, I wondered - is there a sort of unwritten highway code of rude gestures, helping people to stay sane amid all the congestion and rushing around? So I decided to test it out.
A couple of days ago a driver behind me thought I was being too cautious in turning left through the gaps in oncoming traffic. He leant on his horn with such fury that I thought he might actually explode. So I mischievously raised a finger back at him. Well, it turns out that not all drivers in LA are up to speed on the unwritten code…
What a constructive exchange that was, I thought. I had released my frustration, he defended himself while acknowledging his error, and no damage was done - either to our cars or ego. Was this how driving in LA worked, I wondered - is there a sort of unwritten highway code of rude gestures, helping people to stay sane amid all the congestion and rushing around? So I decided to test it out.
A couple of days ago a driver behind me thought I was being too cautious in turning left through the gaps in oncoming traffic. He leant on his horn with such fury that I thought he might actually explode. So I mischievously raised a finger back at him. Well, it turns out that not all drivers in LA are up to speed on the unwritten code…
We turned left, he raced in front of me and
gestured – with what I now saw was a meaty arm – to pull over. I’d like to say
I did, and put him in his place with some excellent karate. Or deployed some
silky British diplomacy, so that we shook hands and went on our way. Instead I
hared off at high speed thinking “F*@!%^&*!!!”.
There followed 60 seconds which would have been
comical if I had not been so petrified. I would turn into a side street, he
would follow. I would whip round a car park, only for him to be waiting at the
exit, eyes blazing and still gesturing for me to get out. Just as I was running
out of side-streets, he gave up and disappeared, leaving my heart rate to
return to some sort of normality.
Maybe, just maybe, I misjudged that particular situation. I guess I'm not quite an LA driver yet.
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