The Iron Fist of the Machine!

A week ago, I was running in the morning, and I was hit by a car. I had not been wearing my contacts and I came up to a guy that was pulling out of an intersecting road with the road I was abutting. I could have sworn that he had given me the conformatory glance and that I would be safe in doing my little jig in front of his beamer, but to my surprise, he began to pull out as I got in front of him. I slammed my fist on the front of his hood as I was thrown out into the street, and I could tell, after I got up, from his blurry expression that he was unnerved in the extreme; I felt bad. So, in strange form I mouthed an apology and kept on running albiet a bit slower as my legs had gotten kind of beat up. I will say though, there is nothing like getting hit by a car to pump you up for a 10 mile run before you've eaten breakfast.



There is a point to this. Getting hit by cars reminded me of the daily experiences of Polish drivers over the summer. While I was in Poznan, I was hit twice by vehicles, one going about 5 mph and the other probably about 15. At crosswalks. This flabbergasted me; I mean seriously? I'm crossing the street, and a car just straight up hits me? The crosswalk is clearly marked, there's no ambiguity here, and the driver felt his time was more important than my life. I was fairly pissed, but this seemed plausible in a country where everyone peels out, whether you are going a mile or 5 feet, in every kind of car you can imagine. One morning, I saw a minivan full of kids take off like a bullet out of a back alley, nearly hitting 12 pedestrians on the sidewalk, all of whom reacted to the sudden appearance of a fast moving 2 ton piece of metal full of screaming children with stoic indifference.



The ridiculousness of Polish driving left me in terible confusion, but I had the whole situation elucidated when I met my man Boris in Zadar. He told me that this kind of behavior on the road is a product of the post communist mentality that pervades eastern Europe. You see, when you are a human crossing the road, you are just an individual; you are essentially nothing. But as soon as you get behind the wheel of the car, you are part of something greater. From behind the turning cranks and blasting valves, seated at the controls of the gleaming, steel machine, you become a god. Who is anyone to cross in front of you when you are so much more powerful? Any fool unwise enough to cross in the crosswalk deserves to have his pitiful form tossed aside.

And perhaps this can represent one of the facets of my enthusiasm with being an American. I step into the road with abandon, for I know that, here, cars must stop. There are many things that Americans take for granted, but I feel like the individual's safety when crossing the street in a designated crossing area is something that everyone deserves. Perhaps it would serve our current administration well to concentrate on this aspect of Foreign relations. Maybe we could be more sucessful in improving our foreign image if America is touted as the land of right-of-way. Chortle.