As I planned for the summer trip to the US, and the required road tour that involved gathering the kids in New York, attending a soccer tournament in Chicago and returning back to my aunt's house in Michigan, I remarked on the obvious. "Driving in America, where everyone stays in their own lane, and follows the rules, driving without the cows, motorcycles, taxis, horse drawn carts and Xingda tricycles? No problem," I thought.
It was a friend with long time international experience that pointed out it wouldn't be the rule following I'd have to get used to- it would be the speed. In many African capitals, traffic doesn't move much above 25mph. My days of 70 on the interstate were far in the past. I under-estimated just how far.
The speed, coupled with our first leg which happened at night, spurred a chain reaction of anxiety and nervousness. The journey was filled with the reflective orange cones and barrels signaling construction and roadwork. The highways narrowed and constricted with cement barriers, playing optical illusions. If I'd already broken my vow not to drive at night, I reaffirmed my commitment. This would be the last time. I couldn't keep horrific images of rolling hood over undercarriage across the roadway, or being nicked by an 18-wheeler as it barreled past us. Like any good panic attack, the images intensified my fears. The fact that I couldn't stop imagining it seemed all the more likely to make it happen. It was a harrowing 15 hours that took forever to end.
Once in Chicago, it turned out the hotel we were staying at was a solid 45 minutes away from the tournament field. Forty-five minutes down a major expressway. By that time, I was longing for the stalled traffic jams and cow crossings I'd left behind. I kept a constant eye out for a stray motorcycle sneaking up on the right. But the most unexpected thing to get used to was the toll booths.
Pulling up to pay a fare requires a left handed exchange. I am required to turn in a ticket, some money, possibly receive change. All conducted with the left hand, which evoked a feeling of awkwardness. The first few times it happened, I hesitated and tried to reach across and pass the money with my right hand. I couldn't quite make the connection, and I definitely couldn't grab the change. I was surprised by the impulse to resist and the subtle sense of something not quite right every time I had to acquiesce. I did manage to stop myself from apologizing and just tried to observe my feelings, which had become first nature.
By the time we headed over to Michigan, I was feeling mostly myself again. While not completely at ease with the speed, I managed to quell the kaleidoscope of butterflies and make the drive in a reasonable time. Once we left Illinois, we also left the toll roads behind.
At my aunt's house, we were able to settle into creating some routines. We are a family that loves the gym and it took us only one day to get signed up at a nearby workout spot. They were offering a teen summer challenge program that made the family membership extremely economical. It was a refreshing sight to take a quick tour and see all my favorite machines.
Nabih and I were both tickled at our adjustment from kilograms to pounds. We had to do a bit of trial and error to find the sweet spot. One thing immersion leads to is the ability to live and think in a language, measurement system or currency. That doesn't necessarily mean the ability to translate. We experienced something of a learning curve as we figured out the new weights. It was so much more impressive to be crunching 100 pounds (a nice round figure) as opposed to 45 kilograms.
Overall, the conversions are easy to get used to. Fun little examples of how much living outside the US for ten years really changes the inner habits and thoughts.
