By otakuyassine3@gmail.com 
I drove through the four-way stop-sign without slowing down or stopping because I didn’t even see it. Someone to my left pressed on their car horn so passionately that I thought I was the star in some sappy Hallmark movie. I slammed on the brakes before hitting a pedestrian in the crosswalk and then proceeded to roll through the intersection in indecisive fits, waving apologetically in all four cardinal directions. I was stunned at my mistake because I have decent eyesight for my age and should have seen the abundant clues to stop. I had a valid excuse though. I was a foreigner in a foreign land.
The people I cut off could have accepted my oversight at face value but as I drove away they could see my car tattooed with out-of-state license plates. I knew this was the mark of the devil because I looked in the rearview mirror to see a driver flipping me off and others shaking their heads in disgust. My license plate, only two states removed from this four-way debacle, received no sympathy from the locals I almost flattened. I’m ashamed to admit I would have reacted the same way.
We’re all supposed to graciously share our roads because they are a public commodity paid for by the taxes we give our government. We permit day-trippers to cross state lines to leaf-peep in autumn and we allow others to travel during the holidays to break bread with extended family. We also feel charitable when we welcome tourists to our many ski resorts or to visit historic landmarks in far corners of the mountain west. This gives us the revenue to tackle our local to-do lists. Some communities want new sidewalks and more bike trails. Others want a new hospital or a better airport. Tourists should receive our heartfelt thanks. We need visitors from out-of-state whether we like it or not.
One could argue that drivers unaccustomed to our roads get an unfair rap. They don’t know about the idiosyncrasies hidden in plain sight. Commuters will be cruising to work at 60 mph and a driver with a foreign license plate will wildly slow down as they’re being swallowed by a pothole the size of Rhode Island that local drivers all know to avoid. It’s easy to blame a tourist for the cascade of cars now braking a half a mile back and for the delay added to the morning commute to work. It’s not really the tourist’s fault the pothole never gets repaired.
In my quaint town most visitors don’t know about the green electrical box that lives near the exit from our grocery store. It popped up a couple of years ago and refuses to move. The box blocks oncoming cars so dramatically that it’s become a popular topic of conversation at parties. Those in-the-know choose to go the long way around or take their chances by screeching their tires and gunning it recklessly. Out-of-town drivers befuddled by the box inch forward for many minutes until they’re in the middle of oncoming traffic. It’s not fair to blame an out-of-state plate for this poorly placed electrical box.
On the other hand, one could argue that drivers from out-of-state rightly deserve all the ire, dirty looks, and vulgar hand gestures they receive. An out-of-state license plate is often attached to the erratically-paced driver camped out in the left lane flashing a nonsensical blinker to nowhere. They’re also the ones that come to a complete stop and idle in the middle of a main road to look at the seasonal elk migration. Once you start paying attention, out-of-state plates are often the ones to flagrantly forget how to zipper-merge, drive like a caffeinated toddler through intricate roundabouts, and take too long to pump gas at the local station because they are inside asking for directions.
Searching for out-of-state plates has become my adult car-spotting game. It’s similar to the “Punch Buggy” game I played as a kid in the backseat of my parents’ car. Being the first sibling to spot a Volkswagen Beetle gave you permission to yell and punch the other. The game was euphoric. As an adult, seeking out-of-state license plates and screaming a driver’s egregious errors to no one in particular is the release I need. I’m always packed with an arsenal of colorful vocabulary when I drive as a local. It’s safe, satisfying, and fun.
If I drive in your town with an out-of-state plate and blindly run my car through a poorly placed four-way stop sign, I am prepared for your outrage. It’s worth taking the heat to see some glorious sunsets, spot wild animals, and to spend time with extended family in a far-away land.
Andrea Chacos lives in Carbondale, balancing work and happily raising three children with her husband. She strives to dodge curveballs life likes to throw with a bit of passion, humor, and some flair. She can be reached at andreachacos.com.
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