The false safety of a Volvo

When I first moved to England, my soon to be husband bought a Volvo station wagon. It is the largest car on our street. In fact, I bet it is the largest car in our neighborhood. In our town, it is very impractical to own a car that is any bigger than a Ford Aspire or Honda Civic. Economic and small on this island that barely contains itself. We have the monster red Volvo which we only drive to go out the to the woods. We ride our bikes everywhere else. I drive in the car maybe once every few weeks now.

It has been a recent development that I have become very edgy when I drive with D. It happened twice yesterday where risks are taken that seem to be made out of impatience and frustration (on his part) that have relied on another car to be on their defensive driving guard. I shriek or gasp and I wait for the other car to hit my side of the vehicle. It is a hard thing to judge, really, because there are a few things at play. Mainly, I am used to being the driver and it is hard to relinquish control over to someone else. Then there is the fact that the D knows the car, knows the road, and has his own set of risks that he feels comfortable taking that I wouldn’t.

Yesterday, when I came out of one of the near death experiences, D apologized for scarring me and huffed that we shouldn’t drive together anymore. Not a realistic thing to say as I can’t drive in this country yet and even if I could, it isn’t my car. It was an empty threat letting me know that I was being silly for getting so scarred. I reminded myself of my mother. My mother, who has spent her whole life in areas of Canada and the States and is now too afraid to drive in snow. She is only 58. She shrieks at my father when he drives. She is constantly pressing her imaginary brake peddle. My dad has got used to this and tends to ignore it, but as his Parkinson’s escalates he is unable to drive as much leaving it up to my mum. I can see where problems are going to arise in that department. On the flip side of this parenting comparison. I drove once with D’s mother and once with his father. Both of them are at the stage, and age, where they should not be allowed to drive anymore. His mother drives like a bat out of hell down one lane country roads with blind turns. His father rides the middle line on highways. In both adventures I had to just look anywhere but to the road while in their cars. What I am coming to realize is that even though I generally feel safe when D is driving, the method and rules in which English people drive is far different from the ways in which I have in my past. Don’t get me wrong. I drove the crazy roads to and in Bangkok, I know chaos. England is a weird hybrid. I still can’t figure out the logic. It is almost like a self importance. No one waits for people to cross the street, sometimes people let other people in, sometimes you have to risk the smallest window and make other people slam on their brakes. It is not consistent. I just hope that at some point I will stop screeching at every dramatic movement my love does. It annoys me more than his driving does.