Under the Sun
Cars isolate people
from each otherWhen I lived for a few months in Washington, D.C., I found myself without wheels for the first time in decades. It was a big adjustment, but after some initial confusion about fares, stops and transfers, I began to enjoy riding the Metro.
The station was a short walk from my apartment and took me within a block of the office in less than 15 minutes. It got me to the airport, the train station, the Mall and all the museums and galleries.
The only time I missed having a car was when I shopped at an Asian food market that was about a half-mile from the nearest Metro station. Hauling plastic bags heavy with fresh tofu and non-haole rice through the humidity that's D.C. in the summertime is not a pleasant experience, and I'm sure I repelled other riders once when a package of takuwan leaked.
Otherwise, the Metro was great -- clean, comfortable, efficient. Most interesting was the mix of people. Navy guys in their gleaming whites, the suits -- male and female -- toting fat briefcases, teenagers who seemed to travel only in herds, lone blue-collar workers with their first names machine-embroidered on their chests, aloof college students, exotic women in saris, doughy-faced men in pork-pie hats and tourists with fanny packs strapped to their tummies hopped the trains and the steep escalators that took them to and from the underground rails.
The fusion of humanity sharing public transportation seemed to decant a communal spirit. People were aware of each other, waiting their turn, being polite and giving way when necessary. This sensibility disappears easily when we're in cars.
On my way to Longs last week, a woman in a teal compact inadvertently blocked an intersection, preventing me from turning left. A fellow in a blue van behind me lost it. He leaned on his horn and yelled out the window at me and the poor woman in the compact. In a few seconds, the woman was able to move out of the way and I made the turn with Mr. Blue Van riding my bumper. Still angry, he shot past me and veered, tires squealing, into the Longs parking lot. When he saw that I'd followed him in, he glanced nervously into his rear view mirror. I pulled into a space near where he'd parked, not to hassle him, but because it was open. He immediately backed out and drove to the far side of the lot, probably thinking I was going to confront him. As he watched me leave my car and head for the store, the anger on his face melted away to shame. After all, how threatening is a short, gray-haired woman.
I felt bad for him. I've had my bouts of road rage and always felt silly and embarrassed afterward. He didn't get out of the van, but sat there, shielded by metal and glass.
Cars do that. They give people a sense of protection from the outside and outsiders. They extend the human territory. Alone in my car, I'm the boss. I control the environment. I turn on the air-conditioner if and when I feel like it. I open or close the windows for my pleasure. I tune the radio to the music or talk I want to hear. I steer. In the haven of my car, it is easy to forget that around me are not other cars, but other people.
I doubt that Mr. Blue Van is a mean, rude man. I doubt that he'd cut in line at a checkout counter or shout bleepers of obscenities at middle-aged women who are in his way. He may be inclined to, but without the shelter of his van, he would have to observe the rules of society. He would have no cover.
The city has grand plans for a public transportation system that has drivers already complaining. I suspect the resistance has a lot to do with an unwillingness to give up the sanctuary of our own private automobiles, but short of building more roads on already scarce land, Honolulu has few choices. I don't agree with some of the plan's details, but if the system can get me to work or to the supermarket quickly, I'll pay the fare and leave my Toyota in the garage. I'm sure locals won't mind the smell of a leaking package of pickled radishes too much.
Cynthia Oi has been on the staff of the Star-Bulletin for 25 years.
She can be reached at: coi@starbulletin.com.