It is pure, unadulterated cruelty. Somewhere in Dublin, there’s a sadistic road engineer cackling maniacally at their desk, probably surrounded by blueprints labeled “Project: Terrorize Americans.” How else do you explain the triple-roundabout gauntlet between Dublin airport’s car rental lot and civilization?

Fresh off the plane with my rental keys, I was still trying to flip my brain inside-out like a confused Rubik’s cube when we approached the first traffic circle of doom. My sisters, trapped in the passenger seats like unwilling co-pilots on a kamikaze mission, screamed wildly at each approach.

NextTribe takes small groups of women ages 45+ on fun, immersive trips across the country and around the world. But we don’t do the driving ourselves!! Learn more here.

“I bet someone has a livestream camera in the middle of the circle,” my older sister gasped, white-knuckling the dashboard from her terrifying perch on the left side—you know, where the driver should actually be sitting. “Or we’re on Dublin’s Funniest Home Videos: Watch Americans Slowly Lose Their Minds in Real Time. They’re probably selling popcorn.”

The mood in our rental car had gone from “vacation excitement” to “impending doom documentary” faster than you could say “Always After me Lucky Charms.” Things got especially somber when we passed a bewildered-looking Asian man standing roadside next to his crumpled vehicle, deep in conversation with Ireland’s finest.

“Oh sweet Jesus,” my little sister whispered. “He tried the roundabouts, didn’t he?”

I didn’t dare take my death-grip off the steering wheel or my laser focus off the road, where yellow and white lines were doing the Macarena in my peripheral vision. My parents’ tales from New Zealand haunted me—how the airport road shoulders were apparently scattered with little white crosses. Add to that the mental image of Spalding Gray and Matthew Broderick’s Irish road adventures (spoiler alert: neither ended with a hearty pub laugh), and I was basically driving while composing my own obituary.

Please, God, I prayed to whatever patron saint protects directionally challenged Americans, don’t let my mother lose three kids in one spectacularly stupid vacation mishap.

My Learning Curve

Amazingly, Ireland wasn’t even my most terrifying left-hand driving rodeo. That honor goes to my inaugural voyage into opposite-lane territory on the island of Dominica, where I’d volunteered to drive—without considering the lane orientation.

Not only was it a left-hand-drive country (surprise!), but the rental car was a manual transmission. Picture this: me, trying to operate a stick shift with my non-dominant hand while my brain screamed, “EVERYTHING IS BACKWARDS AND WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIE!” It was like trying to pat your head, rub your stomach, and solve calculus while riding a unicycle.

Six days of vehicular Russian roulette later, I practically kissed the rental return clerk’s feet in gratitude. We’d survived, though I’m pretty sure I aged seventeen years.

We were venturing into the Highlands, where “roads” are generous descriptions of what are essentially sheep paths with delusions of grandeur.

But Scotland with my fiancé Mike? That was psychological warfare disguised as a romantic getaway. Sure, I had an automatic transmission (hallelujah!), but we were venturing into the Highlands, where “roads” are generous descriptions of what are essentially sheep paths with delusions of grandeur. And every five minutes, some massive truck would thunder past, hauling supplies to whisky distilleries perched on remote hilltops.

Every time a truck approached, Mike would instinctively shift his knees toward the passenger door, as if his body could somehow bend the laws of physics and create more space between us and the oncoming metal death machine.

The real kicker? Every so often, we’d see road signs that cheerfully announced: “Oncoming traffic in the middle of the road.”

I shrieked the first time I saw one. “HOW IS THAT HELPFUL?!” I demanded of no one in particular, while simultaneously clenching my butt muscles for the next kilometer. Later, I realized these signs marked particularly narrow stretches where two cars could barely squeeze past each other. Revolutionary idea, Scotland: maybe just widen the roads instead of posting what amounts to “Good luck, you’re probably going to die” signs?

Get Your Head Right…I Mean Left

After surviving my admittedly limited but highly educational near-death experiences (survival = expertise in my book), I’ve assembled some hard-won wisdom for fellow masochists planning to drive on the “wrong” side.

One of key preparation is to make sure you’re in the right headspace. I know I spent the last several paragraphs describing my terror in vivid detail, but hear me out. Despite my colorful panic attacks, I kept telling myself, “You’ve got this.”

Your brain is surprisingly trainable, even when it’s currently running on pure adrenaline and Dramamine.

I hold with the idea that the more scared you are the worse you’ll do. On every vacation out West, I would always ski one particularly steep black diamond run. I found that if I stood at the top thinking “I’m going to die a spectacular death and they’ll find my body in spring,” I invariably went down in pizza-wedge like a terrified toddler or on my butt. But when I approached it with, “This is going to be an epic adventure story,” I skied it like a reasonably competent human being. Slowly, but without creating a yard sale of equipment down the mountain.

Same principle applies whether you’re navigating Scottish sheep paths or Irish roundabouts. Your brain is surprisingly trainable, even when it’s currently running on pure adrenaline and Dramamine.

If you’re still convinced you’ll create an international incident, some places offer one-hour “Please Don’t Kill Anyone” driving courses with actual instructors. Write to driving schools in your destination and beg for help. YouTube tutorials work too, though they can’t grab the wheel when you’re about to become someone’s hood ornament.

Don’t Be Crazy/Cheap and Rent a Manual Transmission

Yes, it’s cheaper. Yes, you think you can handle it. No, you absolutely cannot. Don’t play cognitive Twister with a clutch when your brain is already running Windows 95 while trying to process Mac OS.

Become BFFs with Your Rental Car

Getting in a rental car is always a comedy of errors. Where’s the windshield wiper switch? Oops, that’s the turn signal. How do you turn on the headlights? Why is the radio blasting death metal at maximum volume?

Every single time you get in the car—every single time—sit for a moment and remind your brain which planet you’re on.

In a left-hand drive car, this slapstick routine becomes full-blown farce. Take quality time to sit with your new four-wheeled nemesis. Adjust all the mirrors so you can see the wonderfully weird backward world around you. When you leave the rental agency, find the longest, most deserted route possible to your destination, or better yet, practice in an empty parking lot until you stop feeling like you’re piloting a spacecraft.

And every single time you get in the car—every single time—sit for a moment and remind your brain which planet you’re on. It’s like a daily software update for your spatial awareness.

Reprogram the Turns

Here’s the tip that’ll save your life: in left-hand driving countries, right turns are the serial killers at intersections. Not left turns. We Americans are so used to “right on red” and casual right turns that we hardly give them a thought. NOPE. Not anymore.

Turn right into the nearest lane like you would at home, and congratulations—you’re now playing chicken with oncoming traffic. This is precisely when tourists become cautionary tales.

My sister suggested a mantra that became our survival chant: “Lazy left, rough right.”

Remember: the cars most likely to turn you into street pizza are coming from your right. Crossing intersections? Look right first. Entering an infernal roundabout? Check right for incoming bogeys. It’s counterintuitive, but so is everything else about this experience.

My sister suggested a mantra that became our survival chant: “Lazy left, rough right.” A year later in Scotland, I was still muttering it like an incantation against vehicular disaster. Program it into your brain the same way you convert currency—it’s mental self-defense.

Oh, and on big divided highways, the slow lane is on the left, passing lane on the right. Cruise in the right lane, and other drivers won’t resort to full road rage, but they’ll definitely think you’re an idiot. Which you might be, but no need to advertise it.

Enlist Your Passengers

My sisters were mostly excellent wing women. “Stay left, stay left” became their week-long meditation, and I genuinely appreciated their calm navigation help and climate control assistance.

Save the dramatics for when we’re safely drinking in a pub later, recounting our near-death experiences over Guinness.

What I didn’t appreciate were the blood-curdling screams every time things got dicey. Look, I get it—being the passenger when someone’s learning to manuever on the opposite side is like being trapped in the world’s most realistic driving simulator. But I’m the one trying to maintain some semblance of control while an oncoming cement mixer seems magnetically attracted to our rental car.

I don’t want to hear “OH MY GOD!” or “WATCH OUT! WATCH OUT!” And I definitely don’t want to check the rearview mirror and see someone doing their best “Home Alone” impression. Save the dramatics for when we’re safely drinking in a pub later, recounting our near-death experiences over Guinness.

Don’t Overcorrect

Your biggest fear driving on the wrong side is that your brain will wander and your car will follow—straight into the lane you’re used to calling home. To combat this drift, you might overcompensate by hugging the shoulder like it’s your emotional support guardrail.

Turns out, there’s danger there too—pedestrians with death wishes, aggressive signage, and parked cars that appear out of nowhere like automotive ninjas.

I veered so far left that my mirror started high-fiving the mirrors of every parked car like I was working the receiving line at a very slow wedding. We dubbed it the “Ireland High Five.

Case in point: driving through the busy main street of Kenmare, I veered so far left that my mirror started high-fiving the mirrors of every parked car like I was working the receiving line at a very slow wedding. We dubbed it the “Ireland High Five,” and since I was going roughly the speed of molasses and nobody’s car got damaged, we could actually laugh about it.

In Scotland, our rental car was apparently equipped with a judgmental AI that beeped every time I wandered out of my lane. After too many fouls, the car would announce, “Drowsy Driver Alert: Stop for a Coffee.”

“I’M NOT DROWSY!” I’d yell back. “I’M JUST AMERICAN!”

It became a personal challenge to see if I could drive without triggering the car’s passive-aggressive commentary. Think of the game Operation, but with potentially fatal consequences and significantly less fun.

Beware Reverse and Parallel Parking

You’ll think roundabouts are your mortal enemy–until you have to reverse or parallel park. Then you’ll actually miss the carnival-ride aspect of the occasional spin on the old traffic circle.

Deep in the Irish countryside on roads that were clearly designed for hobbits riding bicycles, my sisters and I found ourselves in a Wild West standoff–grill to grill–with a pickup truck towing a trailer. On a hill. Around a curve. Because of course.

After some strategic hysterics from the peanut gallery, I realized I’d have to be the one to cry uncle and back down.

After some strategic hysterics from the peanut gallery and startling stubbornness on the part of my roadmate, I realized I’d have to be the one to cry uncle and back down.

I sat up straighter, told my sisters to zip it, and proceeded to reverse our car in a pattern that would’ve made a drunk bee proud. I stopped at least twice to take calming breaths and question my life choices, but eventually managed to reach a layby—those blessed wide spots that allow two-way traffic to co-exist on one-lane roads.

As for parallel parking? I attempted it exactly once. Let’s just say it was a geometry problem that would’ve made Euclid weep and I ended up facing the wrong direction in what I’m pretty sure was a different county.

Go with the Flow

When in doubt, follow the car ahead of you—especially through roundabouts—and hope that it’s not another confused American.

An Irish taxi driver who rescued us for dinner one night (I’d implemented a strict “no night driving” policy) let us in on a local secret: rental car license plates have special prefixes.

“We can spot you Yanks a mile away,” he chuckled. “That’s how we know to give you extra room and maybe say a little prayer.”

From then on, we laughed every time we spotted those telltale plates, knowing full well that somewhere, locals were probably taking bets on whether we’d make it out of Dodge with all our mirrors intact.

The Right-Side Return

Here’s the plot twist in the final chapter: the most dangerous moment isn’t navigating those backwards foreign roads. It’s when you return to your own neighborhood.

Your brain assumes decades of muscle memory will kick in, but instead, you’re sitting at your neighborhood stop sign having an existential crisis.

After a week of hyper-vigilant “don’t die in a foreign country” driving, your brain has been operating at DEFCON 1. Every turn, every intersection, every roundabout has been a calculated survival exercise. Then you get back to your familiar streets, and your guard drops.

Your brain assumes decades of muscle memory will kick in, but instead, you’re sitting at your neighborhood stop sign having an existential crisis: Wait, which side am I supposed to be on again? Is it lazy left or psychotic left? If I turn right here, will I end up wearing a Mercedes as a very expensive hat?

The confusion clears up in about a day, but there’s always that moment of cosmic irony: What if, after surviving the overseas ordeal, I became a cautionary tale in my own driveway?

Trust me, explaining that accident report would be more embarrassing than any roundabout mishap: “Well, officer, I survived Ireland, Scotland, and Dominica, but apparently my own cul-de-sac was my Waterloo.”

=