I met a middle-aged American couple who had been driving around the UK. Although they had enjoyed the experience, they had a question for me: why are all your drivers so angry? They’re always flashing their lights at us, they said. I explained that unless this was because someone had felt the Americans had no business in the fast lane of a motorway, they had got it all wrong – we generally flash our lights at people to let them in. Let us in, they echoed in wonder. Yes, you know, let you in, as in: after you, sir; or, please, madam, drive on. Right, they said, doubtfully.
I think the British may be the world’s most accommodating, considerate – or least inconsiderate – drivers. Obviously, I’ve not driven everywhere, but I have been behind the wheel around most of Europe and a little on nearly every other continent. In my experience, we are the best at letting others in from slip roads, allowing fellow motorway drivers to change lanes or join from a junction, making way on single-track roads and so on. All facilitated with a wave of a hand or a flash of the lights and similar in return, by way of acknowledgment.
Admittedly, I am an enthusiast for this kind of thing. Pitiably anxious to be liked, I’ll let anyone slip in front of me in return for a bit of love. Such is my generosity that my passengers have been known to despair of ever getting where we’re going thanks to my need to win friends along the way.
I try to spread this love when I’m abroad, but this has been a hard road travelled. Nobody lets you in; nobody thanks you for letting them in. In Croatia last month, as I desperately sought acknowledgment, my generosity got ever more extreme. No driver who wanted to move into my path was denied; all were waved at or flashed in. And nothing. Not a flicker of gratitude came my way.
I finally gave up after coming to a complete halt to allow a woman to nose out of an awkward spot. She looked at me at first as if I had lost my mind and then, as she sped away, she shot me a glance of what I can only describe as withering contempt. Enough, I decided. No more Mr Nice Guy – until I’m back in Blighty, being every motorist’s best mate.
