Dwight C. Sturges: The Juggler (1934)

"I'm not the one to point out ironies …"

Toodling demands a high degree of adaptability. Not that anybody should ever attempt to become a chameleon. One should properly acknowledge the differing and varying local customs without trying too terribly hard to fit in, for such adaptation tends to highlight just how one does not fit in, often annoying locals. I say the visitor should properly stay precisely who they always were while deferring to whatever occurs around them. For instance, I consider myself a highly disciplined driver, as exhibited by the fact that I rarely, if ever, exceed the posted speed limit. I consider it a matter of virtue and discipline that I observe this limit and a form of immaturity to disregard it. Certain alien cultures see their world differently. In California, for instance, driving discipline entails almost the opposite of my parochial custom. In CaliforniaRules, speed limits serve as the baseline from which all driving must occur. A speed limit there does not mean 'do not exceed' but 'must exceed,' for it serves as a terminal minimum. Regardless of the conditions, a Californian must drive faster than any posted limit.

They seem to drive like lemmings. The first one goes, and then everyone follows. They're generally polite about it. Unlike Idaho drivers, who will ride my tail with an ill-concealed vengeance in their headlights before passing on some suicide turn, or Utah drivers—those saints seem seriously suicidal even on residential surface streets, California drivers seem the very soul of sanguinity. They exceed their speed limits with serenity as if they were simply tucking into a serving of avocado toast or munching gluten-free granola. Many of their roads organize themselves with trucks, which curiously recognize speed limits, and observant out-of-towners relegated to the right-hand lane, while all others speed by in orderly fashion on the left. No fuss and no apparent competition. They seem to snap right to their responsibility and speed. They seem nonplussed as they scream by us, granny and soccer mom, SUV and Tesla, at ten or fifteen above, regardless of the weather or road conditions. They even seem to maintain a certain smugness about their business, as if they were owed the difference, as if as residents of the country's most successfully progressive state, they get to do whatever they damned well please, and so they do.

Far be it from me or you to ever consider changing them or their rules, for they, being Californians, remain headstrong and resistant to conservative causes. My sole responsibility as a toodler crossing their territory involves making my most generous possible interpretations of their local customs in action, respecting the differences, and adapting in ways that won't compromise my intentions and values. The Muse reports that her grandmother used to speak derisively of her siblings who moved to California and lost their religion. And it might even be the case that some had moved there for expressly that reason, but I would never counsel myself or anyone to ever consider changing their religion if they were just visiting California, just toodling through. One maintains one's religion even when surrounded by apparent heretics, though one does not usually choose that moment to go all evangelical on themselves. Ninety-nine percent of any religion remains tacit regardless of the local conditions. When toodling through California or any seriously alien territory, it's generally best to keep one's religious convictions to oneself.

Still, the locals won't miss the presence of a genuinely disciplined conservative toodler like myself. I remain steadfastly generous, ceding to Caesar what was already destined to be his. I stay humble more than humbled in the presence of CaliforniaRules. I exhibit no overt gag reflex when exposed to their primitive lifestyles. I'll keep my jokes about them private, for nobody appreciates anyone who speculates how many of them it takes to screw in a light bulb or why. They rely upon the passive acceptance of strangers, just like anybody, so I humbly hug the slow lane they thoughtfully provide, seemingly expressly for my passage. I respectfully opt out of each invitation to engage in vehicular competition and cede the advantage to those who seem to deserve my appreciation. I appreciate their curious customs even if I refuse to engage in them. I admire the quality of their roads, which they over-engineer for their perverse purposes but which serve to smooth out my travels, too.

CaliforniaRules demand that perhaps the most climate-conscious populous drive in ways that quite naturally burn more fuel than they might otherwise. I'm not the one to point out ironies when I have my own to remain sublimely unaware of committing. Californians seem to proudly pay for their apparent arrogance. When gassing up there yesterday, this visitor paid five dollars and sixty-five cents per gallon. I do not begrudge them their curious practices. They remain free to pay their premium for fuel they'll automatically waste in transit. We each unselfconsciously engage in our complicities, each soiling our own virtues in turn. This toodler appreciates the opportunities Californians' great wealth affords him to experience. I pray that when they visit my ‘valley they liked so well they named in twice,’ they might find some way to repay the respect I showed them when visiting their home territory, though they don't usually. They tend to pay for their arrogance when visiting, receiving lessons in respecting local customs, courtesy of the local constabulary.

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