Mad Woman Behind the Wheel

Written while living in Japan 1996 - 2000

“Mom you’re embarrassing me,” whines eight-year-old Stephen Paul as he covers his face with his backpack so no one will see him. “Who’s driving, me or you?” I reply as I grab my sunglasses off the dashboard before they fly out of the window from the force of the sharp left turn I just made. I am driving like a maniac, determined to beat traffic that is sure to make me late getting Stephen Paul to school. Gripping the steering wheel with my right hand, I quickly put my sunglasses on my face with my left while pressing the accelerator so that the blue BMW trying to ease in front of me doesn’t beat me to the light. Same ‘mad-woman-behind-the-wheel’ story, different day.

My frustration as a foreigner driving in Japan seems to increase with each passing week. And so does Stephen Paul’s embarrassment. Today I slip an old school house music CD into the stereo, turn up the volume and tell Stephen Paul to fasten his seat belt. “Mom, do you have to turn the music up so loud? It’s only eight o’clock in the morning,” Stephen Paul calmly reminds me, with hopes that I’ll turn the music down so as not to attract added attention. My reply is a sloppy kiss on his forehead, a rev of the engine and another turn of the volume knob, which makes passersby stop and stare — just what Stephen Paul is hoping to avoid. I remind him, yelling over the music, that this is not about him but about my ability to find an ounce of pleasure in the chaos of driving in Tokyo. And today that pleasure comes blaring through the stereo speakers. Stephen Paul sighs and sinks down into his seat, muttering to himself that it’s going to be a long ride to school. And it usually is.

* * *

Each day as I pull out of our parking space in the dusty, dirty lot behind our apartment building, home to a family of stray cats that seek warmth on the hood of our car, I am in defense mode trying to maneuver my way around pedestrians. Although I have been driving in Japan for about five months, not a day goes by that I am not amazed by the pedestrians who feel that cars should move out of their way. I know this shows a really twisted side of my personality but when I see a woman dressed neatly in a skirt and high heel shoes or a well-groomed man in a tailored suit step in front of my car without so much as a cautious glance, sometimes all I can think about is speeding up and running them right into the pavement. Oh, in my twisted, psychotic fantasy I never really hurt anyone. I simply gain satisfaction from scaring the hell out of them as I throw my head back, laughing a sinister laugh, while peering into my rear view mirror at the tire tracks all over their nice clothes. We should all dare to dream, right?

On any given weekday, I cannot get one kilometer from home before a little old lady walking with a cane jumps out in the middle of the street as if her rear-end was equipped with a bumper. And it never fails that another driver considers the street their own personal parking space leaving an unattended car with the hazard lights blinking. These incidents serve to magnify my rage as I witness people on scooters (with NO helmets) weave in and out of traffic as if they own the road. And if I have to slam on my brakes to avoid hitting one more pint-size kid wearing a bright yellow boshi (hat) skipping down the street, the authorities will have to take my international drivers permit away and commit me to the nearest mental institution. Where are these kid’s parents anyway?

Though my complaints about driving in Japan are endless, I must remind myself how blessed we are to have a car instead of having to rely on the crowded trains and subways as our only means of transportation. Having a car means we are able to explore parts of Tokyo and Yokohama that we may never otherwise have stumbled upon. Having a car means keeping Stephen Paul, in all of his embarrassment, warm and dry on cold, rainy days. Having a car means enjoying our Friday family nights and not having to drag one-year-old Landon on the train as we set out to explore new, foreigner-friendly restaurants. Thus, in the midst of my blood boiling, my incessant complaining and my downright insanity, once I step out of our little Toyota Corsa, I always remember to give thanks for our car and for boundless opportunities for growth and understanding that make living in Japan so special and so meaningful.