In a long traveling life, I had always depended on public transport: the clattering train, the slow boat, the tuk-tuk or scooter rickshaw, the overcrowded chicken bus, the careering East African minibus known as a matatu, the shuttling ferry, the trolley, the tram. For the first time I was driving myself the whole way in my own car. What made the experience a continuing pleasure was that, in my car, I never knew the finality of a flight, being wrangled and ordered around at an airport, the stomach-turning gulp of liftoff or the jolt of a train, but only the hum of tires, the telephone poles or
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