A Stellenbosser in Boston

This is the launch posting of my common, by-the-way web log - a web log by an alien for locals and aliens. The author comes from another planet, if one can believe the CIS (used to be the INS, but Bush changed that). This is not the serious, issue-ridden web log. Nope. Not this blog. Of course, as expected by anyone who knows the author, the odd bitch and moan session will make a frequent appearance. And being a web log by a foreigner - or is that an alien - the locals will be sent up here too.

This author listens exclusively to British radio over the Internet - incurably a culture snob. A pity the car doesn't have Internet. There the radio has to be on 101.7. Nothing else suffices.

Speaking of the car, this author is helplessly in love with driving. But alas, driving in Boston during normal hours is an exercise in exotic insanity. It must be a disproportionate fear of insurance rate hikes that insure against sudden death by violent mutual occupation of common ground, also known as the car accident.

The most exotically insane road manoeuvers play out in and around Boston on a daily basis. Interposed along the time line of automotive frustration is a certain vegetating procession spread across as many lanes as the Massachusetts Road Authorities could care their pockets to allow. But the number of lanes are not the issue here. The Bostonian car driver knows not his left lane from his right lane. That is the issue here.

Submerged in a sublime preoccupation with the inner self, the Bostonian driver would blissfully glide along at a most frustratingly slow pace in the uttermost left lane of a freeway, cell-phone implanted in one of the ears. That left lane is the place to be, the first open space the Bostonian driver seeks out, regardless of cruising speed, or the lack thereof. That left lane speaks of accomplishment - the top of the world; the king of the castle, pottering along in the fast lane, ruling with a real sense of bourgeoisie over lesser mortals piled up behind. Pick anyone of the handful of creepways that bless Greater Boston and you'll stumble upon these creatures. They spread like vermin from right to left, east to west and north to south around Boston, pottering along.

Then there is the mindless madman with the death wish, tearing along at silly speeds in something resembling a clone of a batmobile, cutting from lane to lane in a death-defying dice with fate. The highest accomplishment for this category of insanity is the near miss uber-late dash for the exit lane. That is the grand prix par excellence. Snap the breath from your nostrils with the bow-wake off his super-uber-modified-bespoilered F16 ground edition. You could count the spot welds on the rear suspension arms whisking past within microns of your preciously pampered front bumper.

Of course, in Boston you seem to get only the two extremes: the vegies and the madmen. That is, if you ignore the foreigners, who sit around in shock and awe, gasping to overcome the culture shock.