In Which "To Get to the Other Side" Is Not a Good Enough Reason

The question isn't so much why did the chicken cross the road, but how? And the answer is, with mincing hesitation and multiple false starts.

Standing at the edge of a breathless, busy street in downtown Korla, I extend a tentative toe, then quickly yank it back. Maybe now? Oh, no, no. No. How about... nope. OK, go! Aaah! No. Twitching and jerking, I do a solo, spastic Hokey Pokey.

I am at a crosswalk. This does not matter. I have been told the cars might stop. I do not believe it. From what I have seen, the cars will honk and maintain speed.

The people around me seem remarkably blase about the whole thing. There's the merest hint of a break in traffic -- a whisper, really -- and they saunter across three lanes to the middle of the road. I scuttle like a scared crab.

And then... Great. I'm standing on the 10-inch space between the white and yellow lines. Cars zoom by going and coming, their drafts whipping my hair around my face. I'm balanced on a tightrope of asphalt. OK. OK. Now? Nope. Aaaaannd... go! No, no. How about... ? There's a truck! (Carrying three Uyghur musicians in the back, surprisingly -- two playing drums and one a tinny trumpet.)

Finally, a tiny window of opportunity and I'm off at a sprint -- AAAAIIIIEEEE!!! -- apparently pursued by an army of devils that only I and my other personalities can see.

It is very undignified. I do not care. I have crossed the road and I might just stay on this side forever.