Driving.

I have a complicated relationship with driving. As excited as I was the day I passed my driver's test on the first try, I have come to almost dread being behind the wheel.

Today, two of my cousins, my sister, and I went to take a yoga class at Yoga to the People. One of the studios is located on St. Mark's Place in the East Village.Check it out. My plan was to pick one of my cousins up and drive to Ridgewood to meet up with my other cousin and take the L from Myrtle-Wycoff. When I do drive, I take my dad's 2002 red Subaru Forrester. When I pick up cousin #1, she informs me that she has her boyfriend's GPS is in her car that's parked on some o ther block.

"We could just drive into the city."
I hesitated. "Well, Papi did say we could drive there. As long as someone had a GPS and had crossed the Williamsburg before."
"You want me to drive?"
"Yeah. I've never driven across the bridge before and you have."

So we pick up the GPS. My cousin takes the wheel. I take the backseat, not entirely sure if this was such a great idea. I call cousin #2 to let her know we would be picking her up and driving there.

The GPS had a low battery. "Eh, it'll be fine," cousin #1 assures as we make our way down Myrtle Avenue. 

As my cousin makes her way onto the Williamsburg Bridge, she puts the turn signal to the left, indicating she will be merging to the next lane. Either she didn't properly look at the side view mirror or the other vehicle was in the "blind spot," but our side view mirror grazed the side of a Toyota SUV. I yelled, obviously.

"What the hell just happened?" I asked.
"We scratched their car."
"What?? What are we supposed to do?"
"Meet them at the other side of the bridge."

The lady in the Toyota's passenger's seat showed us the napkin she was taking down the license plate number. Cousin #1 yelled out the window,"This is your fault! My dad's a cop!" Both lies.

I called my house to find out what in the world I was supposed to do. My mom picks up. "Hi Ma. We're on the Williamsburg. Can you put Papi on, please?"
"Why? Did something happen?!"
"No. Just put him on."
"Hello." Finally!
"Hi Pa. We're on the Williamsburg. So what had happened was we're driving, right? And these Chinese people came out of no where! The side mirror scratched their car. What do we do?"
"Who's driving?"
"Diana."
"Make sure to take down their license number. And make a police report once you cross the bridge. Write down the color of the car too!"
"Thanks Papi. Bye."

Well, that conversation went easier than I expected.
"Hm. This car is under Tia Gento's name. I wonder if that affects anything," I wonder out loud.
"Oh shit," remarks Zuly, cousin #2.

So we finally cross that god forsaken bridge. We stop in a "No Standing" section on Norfolk Street, by Delancey.
"Alright, let's get ready to rumble," I half-joke. We all step out of the car.

Diana calls the police. "Yes, hi. We're here at Norfolk and Delancy and there was a..." I zone out after that. I check the damage on the Toyota. The couple driving it were pretty calm.

"Let me just see what happened," I say as I check out the side of the car. There is was: a red and white streak about seven inches in length alongside their shiny, dark gray finish. "Oh, man." There wasn't a dent.

"Well, accidents happen, you know," I say.
"They do, it's okay," says the wife.

"So, the cops are coming," says Diana once she's off the phone.
"Okay, good," I say, sort of in a daze. I lean against the Subaru, feeling cold in my thin leggings and indigo converse sneakers. I have the car's registration in my fist.

"Why does this ghetto fried chicken stuff always happen to us?" I ask Zuly.
"I know. Whenever we're together, something has to happen!"

We are referring to last Saturday afternoon, when Diana's car got towed from a sushi restaurant's parking lot in Elmhurst. We spent almost three hours arguing with the manager on how we weren't informed about the car blocking some customer from the business next to the restaurant and how he had to pay the $201 to get the car towed back to us, not us. He was refusing because he had a waiter ask us if we were in a little black Toyota. We were never asked. Long story short: my older cousin, Diana's sister, and her her husband come and yell at the manager too. The tow truck comes with the truck and seeing how the tow truck person wasn't being paid, he was driving away--with the car. My cousin's husband drives after the truck on Queens Boulevard, with his two year old son in the back. We get the tow truck to come back, we get the manager to pay, and we vow never to return to that sushi place again. A time before that, we were stopped on Broadway, also in Elmhurst, because Zuly's younger sister, Mely, didn't have her seat belt on in the back. Diana was also driving and got a $130 ticket.

My dad calls again. "Hello?" I answered.
"When the cops come, make sure Diana talks to them first. Say they were the ones at fault. Take down their license plate number and take pictures with your phone of the damage," Papi says.
"Okay Papi. I already have the license plate number down."
"Okay call me when they get there."
"Okay. Bye."

As I was talking on the phone, Zuly was talking to the husband/driver. He asked her if I went to Brooklyn College, remarking on the sweatshirt I had on. "Yeah, she does go there!" she answers cheerfully. "Oh, that's a good school!" he says.

A few moments later, the wife comes up to me and says: "Listen, if we file a report my husband's insurance will go up and your insurance will go up."
"So what do you guys want to do?"
"Just leave it alone. The car is only scratched."
The husband chimes in. "Yeah, there's no dent or anything. It's fine, I'll get it fixed."
"Are you sure? The police are on their way."
"No it's fine. You are all so young! I just want to go meet my friend, I'm already late."
My dad calls again. "I'm sorry, that's my dad calling." I answer the phone.
"Hello?"
"Is the police there yet?"
"Not yet. Papi, they say they want to leave it alone. They don't want to file a report anymore."
"Alright. Take down their driver's license information then."
"Oh look, the cops are here." I hang up.
The police had finally made it. Diana and the husband tell the police to leave; they had it under control.

"Alright then. Do you want my driver's license information?" I ask.
"No, it's fine. Leave it alone."
"Oh, alright then."
"Be more careful! Have a good day!"

We went back into our respective cars.
"Well that turned out okay," said Diana.
"I guess so. We're not driving into the city again," I said.

Still, after the Toyota took off before us, I had a bad feeling at the pit of my stomach. What if they sue us? How could they? They didn't know my name, just my dad's license number. That's registered in my aunt's name. Who's address is upstate.

"Oh, these kind of things happen all the time when you're driving, Lily," Diana attempts to comfort me.
 "Yeah. My dad's been in tons of accidents a lot more serious than this!" Zuly says.
"Ugh, I just hate when this happens! It drives me insane."

Rest assured, I really did need that yoga session. We ended up parking on E 4th Street, between Avenues A and B. We had to walk over to St. Mark's, between 2nd and 3rd avenues. A 10 minute walk.

Surely, this was not a worst case scenario. In all seriousness, it was not even that big of a deal. The side view mirror on our Subaru has some paint scratched off and is a bit cracked. I just hate driving culture, if there is even one. The making sure no one scratches your car. The parking it in the right place to avoid overzealous parking tickets. The making sure you turn in the right place. The rules on certain parts that don't apply to others. It makes my head spin. It stresses me out immensely. Even trying to get out of the city was a nightmare, with the pedestrians and the blocked streets. And I wasn't even the one driving!

So, from this day forward, I refuse driving anywhere near Manhattan. Or having someone drive a car I'm responsible for into Manhattan. I don't think my nerves can take it. I'm sticking to the most wonderful and reliable L train, that takes the same (if not less!) time to get to the same destination. And there is no stress to avoid those "No Parking" or "No Standing" signs, no Muni-Meters, no random fire hydrants, no people cutting you off without putting the turn signals!

I'll just stick to driving in Brooklyn and Queens when I absolutely have to, thank you very much. Driving in New York is just another reason to love the subway system.