Curb Appeal

Driving in Japan is a true test of coordination and nerves. My first challenge was reprogramming my brain to drive on the left. Easy enough in theory, but throw in some narrow streets, fast-moving scooters, the fact that the steering wheel is on the wrong side of the damn car, and my lifelong muscle memory of right-side driving, and suddenly every drive became an adventure.

Turning near-disasters into controlled confidence.

And then there’s the curbs... Oh, the curbs. My natural tendency to drift left to avoid oncoming traffic (a habit formed by years of American driving) meant that I kept kissing the curb. By "kissing," I mean repeatedly slamming into it like a drunk in a bumper car. The pinnacle of this romance came one fateful day when I hit the curb so hard, I punctured a tire.

Limping my way to the tire shop, I expected a simple fix. Just replace the busted tire, and I’d be back on my way. But the tire shop had other plans. Apparently, selling just one tire was out of the question. They insisted I buy two tires—presumably because they didn't want an odd number of tires cluttering up their inventory. I tried explaining I had no desire to pay for two tires, but they weren’t having it.

So I left the shop with two brand-new tires—and a bonus: they gave me back the perfectly good tire they replaced! So now, in addition to a newfound fear of curbs, I own a spare tire for a rainy day. Or maybe I should just start a collection?

My curb-smashing got so bad that I genuinely considered investing in a set of those metal curb feelers that you used to see on Cadillacs in the '70s. You know, the little springy things that let out a ding ding when you got too close? Oops. Sorry. Wrong video. This one. Why did those go out of style anyway? These might be the only thing standing between me and another tire-related financial disaster.

On top of my curb woes, cars in Japan are right-hand steering. This reversed layout of everything inside the car has led to even more fun. For one, I keep trying to signal with my windshield wipers. It’s not very effective for safe turns, but I do have the cleanest window in Japan. Also, I lost count of the times I confidently entered the wrong side of the car—though I quickly learned that if you pretend you’re just grabbing something from the glove box, no one has to know. And then there were the truly heartbreaking moments when my instincts betrayed me and I entered the wrong lane of traffic. Nothing wakes you—or your passengers—up quite like an unintentional game of chicken.

One of my most harrowing wrong-lane incidents happened at a quiet intersection. I confidently made my turn, only to realize I was now face-to-face with a small delivery truck. The driver, to his credit, didn’t honk (Japanese drivers do not honk no matter how bad the situation). They are way too polite for that) and even gave me a look that said, “Somehow, this MUST be my fault. I am SO SORRY!" So polite.

In my panic, I overcorrected, swung the car too far left, and somehow ended up on the sidewalk. A group of elderly pedestrians watched the spectacle unfold with mild amusement, probably placing bets on whether I’d survive my first month. I sheepishly waved, reversed off the curb, and did my best to pretend that was exactly where I meant to park. Clark would have been so proud.