“This is the county with the highest car tax,” F told me. “You mean a tax on cars?” I asked,” knowing her English was mangling what she meant. “No, this is the county with the most car accidents because of the roads,” she replied. I had been enjoying the twisting and winding out, thinking about the motorcycle I had when I was in my twenties. “The roads are not straight enough,” she said. “I know, I’m digging it,” I replied enthusiastically. “You are also going fifteen over the limit.” She likes my driving, so I kept my speed along the curving, mesmerizing landscape of farmland between forests, an early autumn sun glinting through the leaves with hints of red and yellow. I slowed for a sharp right turn and a sudden speed bump. Ten KPH now. Ka-thunk-ka-thunk. Then another hundred meters, ka-thunk-ka-thunk There were white one-story houses along a street in the middle of nowhere. A place where Fachwerkhäuser and a speed camera should greet oncoming cars.
Another road further up, into the Schwarzwald, with banking curves into short straightaways and the occasional hairpin.
And the tractor.
Challenging scenic drives here come with a penalty. I’ll take the minute of strange houses and speedbumps but The Tractor changes time itself. That minute becomes an hour. The dotted lines only show up with oncoming traffic and the game of edging out to see that traffic is aggravating. Feel the stack of cars building up behind you, glance back at the drivers all playing the same game and you are the one taking the heat because you have to go first.
I wonder if the farmer enjoys his role. Is he aware? It keeps me up nights thinking of how we get food on our plates when the damn farmer can’t go more than five KPH on a hundred KPH highway.
But I am back home again, eating bacon and eggs. I’ll get over it