What I like about living on the side of a high hill is the community cooperation needed for anyone who lives here to get home. The road is snaky, with five blind curves between the bottom of the hill and our driveway, and in some places not much more than one lane wide. Or it could be as generous as a lane and a half, with little niches carved out of the hills flanks for additional parking. In most places there is no guardrail, so a miscalculation could send you tumbling down a steep slope into someone's yard, or more likely, into their hot tub and outdoor fireplace. So this means if you are coming up the hill and someone is coming down at the same time, you both have to figure out who is going to pull over onto the not-really-a-shoulder so one of you can creep by, or back up to the last little side niche you can remember passing. It's a small collaborative effort that I rather enjoy and appreciate the good-natured eye contact and hand wave that goes with it.

That makes the people who refuse to engage in this politesse stand out rather starkly. Occasionally someone will barrel past, forcing you to stop short or cut over hard. In my experience to date they have always been women. They drive cars that look like mine, slick, foreign made, silver (because white is too princessy, black is too mafia, and red is too LA). But they don't look like me. They are all pale-skinned, sheltered indoor creatures and blonded and sporting enormous glamour sunglasses. They look like those albino cave fish, driving blindly with huge blank eyes, unaware of their freakishness.