Illustration: Steve Wacksman
Kneeling on the shoulder of a highway ramp somewhere outside Nashville, I ran my thumb over the black mark my Subaru had just made on the pristine fender of a late-model Audi.
“Do you have insurance?” the driver asked as he looked down at me, his gray pompadour tidily gelled, his golf shirt tucked just so. With my New Jersey plates, wild curls, torn jeans and terror-stricken face, I was sure I was dead meat in his eyes—not to mention in the eyes of our auto insurer.
This would be the second at-fault accident for my husband, Paul, and me within two exhausting weeks of moving into our just-renovated Nashville bungalow. Our plan was to split our time between a rental apartment, to which we’d downsized in Montclair, and our new little nest in Music City, to which Paul has commuted for 25 years.
What we hadn’t factored in was the horror of Nashville driving, from its merging highways ill-suited for an exploding population to pick-up trucks so large and traveling so fast, they call to mind Russian tanks.
In that moment on the highway ramp, all I wanted was to be back home in my Garden State, confidently navigating the zany Clifton traffic circle, the Raritan toll bridge, and the Escheresque entrance to the Holland Tunnel.
Mr. Golf Shirt cleared his throat. Then came nine of the more shocking words I’d heard in my lifetime: “You know, forget it. Just remember, Jesus loves you!” Then he turned on his tan loafers, climbed into his Audi, and took off.
It wasn’t the first time that Southern kindness left me, a born-and-bred Jersey girl, gobsmacked. There were those Publix cashiers greeting me with huge smiles and how-we-doing-todays every time I reached checkout; the hello-how-are-you greetings from strangers on the street; the couple who spent 15 minutes helping me dislodge two storage crates from my cart at Costco.
Up in New Jersey, the chances of such encounters occurring are slim to none. But I’m okay with that, because I am from here. I am of here. I am used to fights over leaf blowers and double parking. I’m as obnoxious as everyone else as I jockey the aisles at ShopRite. I know that, beneath the prickliness, there’s authenticity and a general commitment to values I share (which is not necessarily the case behind those smiles in redder-than-red Tennessee).
With all that said, now that I’m back in New Jersey, I’m taking a cue from my new Southern neighbors. I’ve started to say hello to folks while walking my pup and to chat up cashiers around town. No one has called me a kook yet, and most respond with a startled smile. And in the meantime? Mr. Golf Shirt sent my license plate info to his insurance company and is going after us for damages. I guess Jesus didn’t love this Jersey girl all that much after all.
Peg Rosen and her husband, Paul, love their place in Nashville but still consider Montclair home.
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