Back at Ya

It took a spell out west to appreciate the beauty of the rude, obnoxious, impatient Boston driver.

When my husband, kids, and I moved from Cambridge to Berkeley, California, for an academic sabbatical two years ago, one of the first things I noticed was that I could hesitate at a green light, with a long line of cars behind me, and no one would tell me what to shove where. I could slow to a crawl along unfamiliar streets, map in one hand, and no one would honk.

Let's call it a cultural difference. Drivers in Berkeley are not as, say, passionate about getting to their destinations as are their Boston counterparts. Within weeks I, too, fell into a meditative trance while driving myself and my kids around. That is, until one day last spring.

I was picking up my son from his bougainvillea-draped preschool when I got stuck in the school's circular driveway. The station wagon in front of me, occupied by a mom and her two kids, seemed ready to go. But then it sat there. And sat there. I turned the engine on, adjusted the radio and air vents, and babbled mindlessly to my son and infant daughter. Still, the car didn't move. I started to think about nap time, and how I wanted it to happen sooner rather than later or the kids would be awake until 10 p.m. And so, without really thinking, I honked. "Honk" is probably too strong a word. I tapped, really, and a sound came out. Two startled eyes appeared in the rearview mirror in front of us, and I waved lightly, as if to say, "All set?" The woman started her car and pulled out of the driveway, and I sped the kids home for their naps.

I didn't think about the episode again until a week later, when I ran into my friend Katy at morning drop-off. "Did you hear?" she asked, lowering her voice. "Last week some pushy mom was laying on her horn at afternoon pickup."

And this is where my brain disconnected. I honestly didn't remember what she was referring to. Besides, what she said bore no resemblance to my perception of the event. "Laying on the horn?" "Pushy"? Hadn't I tapped lightly? Hadn't I even waved afterward, half-apologizing? But these were thoughts I would have later. At the moment, I was imagining a frantic ogre rushing another stressed-out mom out of the preschool driveway.

"You're kidding," I whispered.

"Nope," Katy said. "I mean, if you can't give another mom a break at preschool pickup, you've got problems!"

"I hear you!" I said, but it wasn't until 10 minutes later that I realized she'd been talking about me. And, worse, that the other moms had been, too.

But had I really done something so wrong? I hadn't felt particularly mean-spirited when I honked. In fact, the whole exchange seemed refreshingly honest. All I was trying to say was, "You're blocking the driveway. Could you hurry it along?" Was that so bad?

Turns out, in Berkeley, it is. Over the next few weeks, several moms stopped making eye contact with me at pickup and drop-off. A few who'd been friendly before stopped saying hi. Maybe I was imagining it, but I was starting to feel as if my Yankee butt had been blacklisted. The whole ugly affair got me thinking about the horn and how liberally I'd used it in Boston. I thought longingly of the choice hand gestures and expletives I'd bandied about back home. On the East Coast, I felt no qualms about making my anger known when others cut me off, tailgated, or slowed for a yellow light instead of gunning it through the intersection. I realized I missed the honking, the yelling, the whole naked hostility that's part and parcel of driving in Boston. It was those daily doses of road rancor that made me feel, at a minimum, acknowledged, and, at most, alive.

This realization was the beginning of my understanding of why we couldn't stay in Berkeley forever. Sure, it's beautiful. And the weather? Forget about it. But there's something reassuring about a place where drivers, trapped behind their automatic windows and locked doors, choose not to avert their eyes when someone else's needs and desires intersect with their own, but to communicate loud and clear - even if it is just to flip you a lone, little bird across the lane lines.

We're back now, on our busy, noisy street in Central Square. Recently, I honked three times - and got three honks and a couple of choice hand gestures back.

It feels good to be home.

Katherine Ozment is a freelance writer in Cambridge. Send comments to magazine@globe.com.