Ever since I came to China, I have a chauffeur. Mr. Bai is nothing like Sabrina Fairchild’s father or Kato for Green Hornet. He is quiet, reliable, and knowledgeable of this city. With him doing the point A to point B, I enjoy attending to conference calls, working on my email, getting dropped off at the entrance, or dozing off with my iPod; somehow, I miss driving.
I remember, when I drove everyday, getting despaired of my appointment, fighting with fatigue, or looking for the non-existent parking spot. I am more than happy not to have those ever again. I miss having a private conversation with someone close, singing out along the radio, being alone with my own thoughts, exploring the new route, and the romantic spontaneity that is possible when I am behind the wheel.
Nine months after I got my driver’s license, I drove the first time in Beijing this weekend: and liked it.
Many of Beijing’s drivers are professional. They move like predators in a prairie — weaving through cars, pushing across lanes, and gobbling up safety margins to the heart-attack level. You swallow the anger, shake your head on these bullies, and try to let it go.
Parking in-town is as maddening as San Francisco, Manhattan, or London. Curb-side parking spaces are all managed. As you approach, the attendant telepathically sense your intention to park. He, or she, will quickly point out the spot for you, usually possible only for the master parallel parkers. No matter, the attendant will stop the traffic and give you all kinds of helps. He will magically appear the moment you intend to leave and politely collect the fees: about 1 to 5 rmbs per hour.
Passengers in my car are frequently bewildered, “You don’t yield to pedestrians here. The driver behind you will get mad at you. And you will never get across.”
I heard many people from all over the world will visit Beijing soon. I bet they are used to cars yielding to pedestrians wherever they came from.
Changes begin with one individual. And I got across. Didn’t I?