We are driving along a principal Adelaide artery. Dusk has fallen and passed. It is dark now. This main road carries a lot of traffic along its numerous parallel lanes. Unfamiliar with Adelaide and totally devoid of any sense of direction, I pay close heed to my guide, Georgie, a native of the city.
‘Merge left,’ commands Georgie. I obey. On my right a larger car swoops close, overtaking me. Studiously attentive to my own lane, I concentrate on the road ahead.
Georgie explodes. Pablo guffaws. They point: ‘Look! Look! Look over there!’ I look over there. Over there is the car that swooped by a few seconds ago. Indistinct movement from the roof of the car. Lines of cars in our many lanes slow now to take a bend and we close on the vehicle of interest. I sneak another look. There is movement: a head and torso project up through a sunroof.
Straightening up now, I resume driving as Pablo and Georgie shriek ever louder: ‘Look! Look!’ I do look. The moving torso has arms. The arms wave frantically. The face appears to be female. The torso is manifestly female: with every wave of her arms the waver causes her breasts to wobble wildly. I know all this because the waving woman is naked from the waist up. What is more, the waving lady seems to be performing specifically for us.
This is puzzling. Unfamiliar with local road culture, I wonder whether we are witnessing a species of road rage. In fact the waving and the wobbling – and quite likely the undressing – are all the opposite of road rage: road love, in fact.
Jumping and wobbling and waving in the cold of this winter night the woman mouths words in our direction. We cannot hear. Quite frantic now the dancing mime of The Great Northern Road redoubles her tempo. Surely we will notice her, surely we must hear.
The traffic lights turn red and all cars come to rest. The swooping car has swapped lanes, drawing directly alongside us so the terpsichorean gesticulator can make herself heard. She makes a winding movement with her right hand. She mouths her message. Windows slide downward in the car on our right. We lower our own. Voices are heard, a chorus from our neighbours: ‘Your lights! Turn on your lights!’
We turn on our lights, smile, wave and mouth our thanks. The lights turn green, the dancer disappears from the sunroof and we drive our ways.
Wonderful story and reminded me of an anxious moment in my past. In London in my early twenties, driving home at midnight from a party, and wondering if I was within the very new drink/driving limit, I stopped at the traffic lights by Westminster Bridge. There was a knock on my window and policeman stood outside. Quaking, I wound down (as you did in those days) the window and he said, ‘I should switch on some lights, if I were you, Miss!’
Fabulous vignette, HCG
And great to be in touch
Lit up the night for you, did it Howard? I’ll have to try driving without lights next time I’m in Adelaide. 🚙💡
The traffic culture of that civilised city is one is its great attractions
In this case, two of its attractions
Yay for the City of Chuches! I miss Adelaide …
I know now how Adelaide welcomes a male visitor
How that gracious city greets a female visitor is yet to be revealed
I will be interested to learn
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I am pretty sure I know which Miriam you are
I believe you are a bud from an ancient tree
Thanks for writing