Going Nowhere Fast

Supperhour didn't work for us in Brooklyn. We had both traffic patterns andmy son's schedule to consider. So early Saturday morning it was. Myson and I got to escape our cavelike apartment. My husband got tolounge in bed for a few extra hours. And the best part of the deal: I got to concentrate on the road - not, for a change, on my family.

Our nondestination of choice was the Brooklyn Bridge. Back and forth we'd drive - sometimes 10 or 12 times - as if we were on autopilot.I leaned back into the bucket seat of my hatchback, whose posturerecalled a dromedary. My hand squeezed the automatic clutch as if itwere a stick shift, and for the first time in a week I felt in control.

My destiny was clear: to span the East River. Thegreen light flashed above Tillary Street. I smashed down theaccelerator, and with its 130-horsepower engine, my car attacked the1.5-mile route with exhaust streaking behind us, I imagined, like acontrail.

Forthe first couple of times, I took the Manhattan-bound Chambers Streetexit, ignoring the "No Turns" sign, and spun around as soon as I passedthe triangular traffic divider, a risky maneuver. I didn't want to makethat a habit; I was well acquainted with the New York PoliceDepartment. Once, on Tillary Street, opposite Brooklyn's main postoffice, I got pulled over by a police officer. He had found fault withmy decision to circumvent a backlogged entrance to the Brooklyn Bridgeby cutting across two lanes of traffic while waving my arm out thewindow. I pushed open my door.

"Ma'am, stay in your car," the officer said. "Do you realize what I pulled you over for?"

"Gosh, I know I did something terribly wrong, sir. It felt terribly wrong."

He looked into my eyes. "Ma'am, among other things, you ran a red light. " I'll let you off with a warning."

"Oh, thank you, sir. It's a very confusing approach. I'll do a better job next time."

Luck wouldn't always be on my side. It was time to find a legal route.