One thing I miss from home is my car. I picture it, shiny and silver, that perfect vehicle of freedom and independence, waiting so loyally in a garage in Canada.
I rode in someone's citrus green Vauxhall today-- a make of car that is as ubiquitous in England as the Honda Civic is in North America. I told the driver that their car reminded me of my Honda Civic hatchback at home.

Oh, a Civic. Yes, nice. Quite a big car then, isn't it really?

To point out the obvious, a Honda Civic hatchback by Canadian standards is a mouse among the elephant-sized SUVs and ostentatious trucks driving on Canadian roads.

Yes, well...we drive up mountains and stuff....in Canada.

I'll apologize right now for the inaccurate stereotypes I am perpetuating during my stay in the United Kingdom; but you can't expect me to be a flawless amabassador around the clock. Usually I come up with replies that both amuse and educate--so my embarassing reply today about how Canadians "drive up mountains" can be written off.

I may long for my car but certainly not to the extent that I would ever get behind the wheel of a horse and cart over here, let alone a motor vehicle and not to mention anything with a clutch. I take my own life into my hands every day simply by trying to cross the street, I would never dream of endangering and certainly putting the breaks on someone else's life by attempting to drive.

Driving in the UK has been one of the most terrifying experiences of this trip (runs a close second to wandering the dark and scally-ridden streets of Salford). My first impression of England was on the road after leaving the airport--airports are like parallel universes that exist according to their own set of guidelines. So England didn't actually begin until I left the airport.

The culture shock that is driving begins as I approach the vehicle: on the wrong side. Passengers get in on the left-hand side, something I still haven't adjusted to. Once inside you can forget about being an annoying backseat driver because all the mirrors are turned in bizarre directions and so shoulder and blind-spot checking are lost causes. Not that I would have time do any of that in between white-knuckling the seat and ducking my head between my knees.

Driving in the UK is an experience with some semblance to what I imagine riding the luge must be like. Hold on. Tuck your head. Point your toes...okay, that last one only applies to the luge.

The vehicles are much smaller, and so they should be--the roads are mere goat trails. There is no concept of a grid system over here: roads simply wind and curve and veer off so that the road maps of England look like the varicose veins that meander across the back of your grandmother's legs (not my grandmother, of course--Don't worry Nana, your calves are lovely).

Whether it be because the roads are small and winding or every English driver is actually insane behind the wheel--everyone drives fast. I'm sure I've nearly lost my life several times on the road, twice by the same driver of some delivery truck on Ring Road (the highway-like road that is in essence, a ring encircling greater Manchester). Apparently he doesn't practice checking his blind spots--at least we got to shout things like "bugger," "sod," and "toss off" at him.

To add to the chaos:
- stop signs are an endangered species in England, I've maybe seen two.
- street signs are not where they should be: practically, at the top of a sign post at the intersection of two streets. Instead, they are sometimes found somewhere on the side of a building about two feet off the ground. I mean sometimes, because often times they are no where at all.
- stop lights flash Green-Amber-Red and then Red-Amber-Green. I can't understand the logic behind this and apparently the British can't either because it's pedal to the metal on amber.
- round-abouts are everywhere. There are rarely four-way stops, and especially not where you would think they are most needed, like a busy intersection of two main two-lane streets. Instead, drivers careen into the round-about, hugging the corner all the way and fly out (sometimes across two lanes) in order to hit their exit point. Extra laps are required when exits are missed.

Within a car occurs particular conversation as well, specifically about driving. While driving, the British talk about driving. Now that I've experienced it for a month it makes perfect sense to me: to get from point A to point B in the UK requires a team effort to decipher the roads. Often times there are five different ways to get to point B and the conversation is simply an argument over which way is the better. It's an open game for the driver, his passenger, anyone in the backseat and anyone who might be on a cell phone with anyone else actually in the vehicle.

The driving experience draws to an end as you enter a car park in search of a stall where you eagerly await falling out onto asphalt and slobbering kisses on it for the very fact that it is stationary unless subject to an earthquake. You can do that if you can get out of the car. But to do so, first slither your way inbetween the half inch the door is allowed to open before scraping against the car in the next stall. Every space is a small cars only space here.

I saw the driver of a Land Rover literally inch back and forth for minutes, desperately trying to back out of a stall and into the parking lot. After labouring at what was beginning to look like a lost cause, Land Rover finally passed its nose out of the end of the stall (by running up against a lamp post in the process). The Brit watching with me replied in conclusion:

And that is why you don't drive SUVs in England.

Extricated from the vehicle, door closed and safely five steps away from what is surely to be my coffin one day--I exhale, and decide on walking home.