An Idiot’s Guide to Valencian Traffic

2 Oct

                

The Spaniards have a reputation for taking life at a pace that’s a little less frenetic than that of the U.S., and that was one of the aspects of Spanish culture that I most wanted to see for myself.  As someone who’s used to meticulously organized calendars, meeting deadlines, and rushing around Charlottesville or Richmond with a notebook in one hand and a caramel macchiato in the other, I was hoping for some relaxation.  And, for the most part, that’s what I found.  At 11:00 A.M., the avenues of Valencia are full of people stirring sugar into their morning tea and spreading olive oil over toast, chatting with their neighbors.  At 2:00, when the Mediterranean afternoon swallows up the city in a haze of sunlight and heat mirage, most stores are locked up tight for the siesta.  At any time of day, I see throngs of Valencians ambling down the central garden of the Río that runs the length of the city, pushing strollers or walking dogs so slowly that I wonder if they are actually moving.  Things aren’t so crazy here, and I like that.

                But when it comes to driving, all those notions go straight out the window.  Spaniards drive like they are participating in a nation-wide NASCAR race.  They zoom through narrow streets at speeds that make me cringe, constantly changing lanes and swerving around motorcyclists.  Stop signs and red lights seem to be a gentle suggestion to many rather than a command.  What’s even more unnerving is that plenty of people drive while texting or calling.  On my second day in Spain, a friend and I were walking along the nearby Gran Vía del Marqués del Túria when a young guy, texting and driving, ran a red light and rammed the car in front of him.  Both cars shuddered from the impact, and a thin plume of smoke rose from the first car’s hood.

“Holy shit,” I said (eloquent as ever).

Traffic continued to hurtle down the avenue.  The other driver opened her door and got out, surveying her smashed fender.  I fully expected obscenities to be shouted, accompanied by calls to the police.  But the two drivers only looked at each other, then at their ruined fenders, then back at each other.  The woman shrugged.  Then they both got back in their cars and drove away.

“Holy shit,” I said again, this time in awe.

Think it looks easy to get to this picturesque fountain in the middle of the street? Think again!

This nonchalant attitude towards automobile damage seems to extend to pedestrians.  Valencia has many wide, multi-lane streets split down the middle by small gardens or rows of palm trees.  This means that crossing the entire street can become a high-stakes adventure in two seconds flat.  The electronic walk signal or not has a habit of blinking once, then suddenly turning red.  Many are the days that I get stuck right in the middle of a busy street when the little green man on the signal disappears.  When that happens, traffic speeds towards me, splitting around me as if I am a rock in the middle of a river.  As you might imagine, this is somewhat unnerving.  My roommate Sally, who has nerves of steel, often rides her ValenBisi (a public bike you can pay to use and park in designated Bisi spots all over the city) inches away from these cars.  I, too, would like to get off my butt and Bisi around the city, but the thought of being smashed into a pile of gears and fleshy bits keeps me from actually renting one.

“One day you might learn how to drive here.  You never know.  I got used to it,” the UVA program director told me when I commented on it to her.

I am still not sure how to explain the discrepancy between most of Spanish life and driving, but I am now pretty sure of one thing: I will probably never drive a car in Valencia.  Getting over culture shock is one thing.  Getting behind the wheel, though, is another.

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