"Why isn't he turning?" moans Stallman, throwing up his
hands in frustration. "Can you believe this?"
I decide not to answer either. I find the fact that I
am sitting in a car with Stallman in the driver seat,
in Maui no less, unbelievable enough. Until two hours
ago, I didn't even know Stallman knew how to drive.
Now, listening to Yo-Yo Ma's cello playing the mournful
bass notes of "Appalachian Journey" on the car stereo
and watching the sunset pass by on our left, I do my
best to fade into the upholstery.
When the next opportunity to turn finally comes up,
Stallman hits his right turn signal in an attempt to
cue the driver ahead of us. No such luck. Once again,
we creep slowly through the intersection, coming to a
stop a good 200 yards before the next light. By now,
Stallman is livid.
"It's like he's deliberately ignoring us," he says,
gesturing and pantomiming like an air craft carrier
landing-signals officer in a futile attempt to catch
our guide's eye. The guide appears unfazed, and for the
next five minutes all we see is a small portion of his
head in the rearview mirror.
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