When you have been traveling between England and America as many times as I have over the past few decades, you get a bit accustomed to the lag, as it were. Mostly it’s about a 10-hour flight with an eight-hour time difference, which can be a little alarming for the less than frequent, long-haul flyer, but I have learned to manage it fairly well. Food is key on the flight, lots of water and as much sleep as you can muster. I then just jump right into the time zone, and I situate myself pretty swiftly that way.
I jumped off the flight from San Francisco to London recently, made my way over to the rental car place and jumped right on into my Vauxhall Corsa. Thank goodness she was automatic, because it’s all I can do to stay consistently left when I make the transition from there to here, plus the fact that you are driving on the “wrong” side of the car makes it all a bit of a challenge.
Having circled the airport a few times, as is my wont, when I have somehow set up two navigation systems that are barking orders almost simultaneously, I finally get properly underway to discover that not only are all the instructions on the car in French but also kilometers. The French I can manage, the kilo-whatevers not so much.
My Corsa would beep annoyingly when I was approaching a speed camera or when I seemed to be speeding, which was all a mystery for me, because I had no idea what speed I was actually going. It was a bit twilight-zoney and not something I had ever dealt with before. And then it began to rain and the car started to bark at me in French to put the window wipers on the back and then the front and check the head lights were on. Goodness me, this was a surreal experience; surely I was dreaming. Wait, I needed to pay attention driving my little French automobile on the wrong side of the car on the wrong side of the road after I had just traveled across the world, hadn’t I? And then it began to rain and I couldn’t help but giggle to myself at my own personal hell of my own making.
“Shouldn’t you just rest up at an airport hotel after such a flight?” my husband queried. “How about you don’t immediately drive to the east coast after such a long trip?” my friend meekly suggested. I had suitable words for both of them. When I am headed home — to my hometown on the east coast of England — I need to get there and I need to get there as soon as possible. I just had not reckoned on all these roadblocks along the way.
Oh, and then I hit the traffic and the roadworks and still the rain fell. The powers that be were all laughing at me. “Just jump in the French car, will you? Drive happily along in the drizzle, feeling just so great, won’t you, as two nav systems — one English and one American — are barking at you in an unattractive chorus, telling you to go this way and that, and the car is yelling in French about the wipers and the lights.” I thought maybe I had already passed over, and this was someone’s view of the purgatory that I deserved before I went anywhere else.
At the junction where I — always — sighing with relief — turn right to get on the final stretch to my home, there was an unfamiliar roundabout in place. The rain fell and I went around the merry-go-round a few times, going “What the?” before I realized that this was not a joke, it was a real thing, and, in order to get home, I needed to turn off. What on earth was going on today? The spirits were conspiring to tell me it was time to turn my hand in, I needed to park the Corsa and call it today. But no, I wasn’t leaving the stage set that easily. It was only 6 miles until I reached my home. I had come this far, and I was going to crawl my way across the finish line.
Going over a cute little bridge on the 30mph speed limit (in kilometers apparently) and turning a tight bend, there were, immediately, cows to be found hanging out in the road, just happily chewing on the spring hedgerows, going nowhere in a hurry. I honked on my French horn, once I found it. Nothing. There were at least eight of the very large boogers, obviously deaf. Where had they come from? Should I put my car in park on this dodgy, tiny road with hazard lights flashing and try to scare them home through some hedgerow or another?
I can do cows, I tell myself. Well, at least jersey ones that we rescued once upon a time — they are lovely. These were milk cows; did they look like they were in a good mood? A friend of mine was once run over by a cow. All these thoughts are trampling through my brain, as I wonder how the heck I am going to get through this cow-jam and park my French car in my hometown by the sea and finally call it a day, all battered and bruised by a very long journey, but safely home.
I was half in and half out of my Corsa when a young man on a quad appeared with a border collie on the back, making all kinds of noise. I think it was the man, not the dog. All of a sudden, the large black and white road obstructions went through the hedgerow and the tiny road was clear again. I was free. I almost geared down in my delight to be driving at 30mph in kilometers again and promised my rather tired self at this point that nothing else was going to happen today. The rain had stopped, the day was still youngish. I was going to get into my rental house, take a shower, put on some clean clothes, reacquaint myself with the me outside the Corsa and put myself firmly back on English soil.
As I sat gazing out at that familiar sea in that familiar town where I had just taken four hours to reach, I exhaled heavily and had another little chuckle. Some days are just a bit tougher than others.
