Turn, Turn, Turn

My girlfriend Paige tells me that I talk too much about driving.

Which I'm about to prove to you by making the second entry in this blog about, well, driving.

Or, more specifically the quaint local custom of the use of turn signals as offensive weapons.

(And, yes, every region has its quirks. In Baltimore, where I used to live, the "local quirk" was idiots running red lights. Screeching panic-stops are the norm.)

When I first got here, I used my turn signals for the usual stuff. For instance, signaling that I was about to turn. 

But, as Paige noted, the local custom here is to use turn signals when changing lanes on the highway.

(Okay. By "Local Custom" I mean, of course, the law. And common sense. And all of the things that go into keeping me from losing my brand new Georgia driver's license and keeping the roads safe. But let's not let that get in the way of a good story.)

On the highways up north, I'd just wait until there was a decent gap and then change lanes. Nobody got hurt and most people were happy.

Here, though, the signal is less a sign of a future intention ("I'm planning to move over eventually.") and much more of a screaming alarm ("Here I come, baby!!!"). 

Not to complain too much, but I've parallel-parked in bigger spaces than that coffee-swiller in the Challenger slid into in front of me this morning after about 3 nano-seconds of turn-signal warning.

So, I figure, when in Rome….

Now, I use my signal all the time. And I wave sheepishly at the guy behind me who I may have cut off. 

It's just a local courtesy.