US 98

The "US 98" highway is like the Kurortny Prospect in Sochi—the entire city stretches along it. We ride along this highway every day on our way to and from work. At the intersection, we wait for the right signal; all the cars stop, and then we go. All cars always stop.

Once, my friend Anton called me in Destin. We were talking, and I mentioned my bicycle.

• Why do you even need bicycles? - Anton asks.
• What do you mean why? We ride them, there is no other transport, and nobody drives a car.
• But what about public transport?

Even then, I realized that for my friends, I would have to describe my American life in the smallest detail, and someday I would definitely have to write about US 98 and how we ride bicycles here.

• Anton, what public transport are you talking about! In Destin, and almost everywhere in America, there is no public transport in principle!

A bicycle is a sign. In Destin, if you see a person on a bicycle, it means they are from Russia, and you can safely shout "Hi!" to them. If not from Russia, then from anywhere else, but definitely not an American. Americans drive cars, and those who came via Work and Travel ride bicycles.

In the Russian house, there are ten girls and nine bicycles. Nine, because Yulia's bicycle was stolen. Yulia is generally unlucky with bicycles. And with the intersection of Crystal Beach Drive and US 98.

A bicycle is property. I have a purple bicycle. I bought it at Walmart for 64 dollars. I spent another $8 on a bike lock. I always lock my bike. Karina, who is in America for the third time, told us to always lock our bikes because "once some Russians will pass by your house, and then they will pass by a second time, and you won't find your bikes."

A bicycle is a responsibility because even on one, you have to follow the rules. Almost all roads in Destin have bike lanes. And on US 98 too. All major intersections have buttons. You press it, wait for the white pedestrian to light up (in the USA, the walking person on the traffic light is white, not green), and then you go. There are large, complex intersections. But everything is clear with them too. I didn't think that here in Destin, the rules I learned in a Moscow driving school would come in handy. And now, when Vika says: "Oh, girls, I don't understand how to drive through this intersection at all!", I answer: "Follow me," we wait for our signal, and we go.

In the USA, traffic rules differ from Russian ones in the following way. At a controlled intersection, you can turn right on a red light if there are no obstacles. Those turning yield to pedestrians and don't wait for green—they turn right immediately. At uncontrolled intersections, there is no "yield to the right" rule like in Russia. Simply, whoever arrives first at the stop line, in front of which the word "STOP" is written in large white letters on the asphalt, crosses the intersection. That's it.

This also applies to cyclists. If two cars arrive at the same time, the drivers wave their hands at each other to agree on who goes first.

I regret that I don't have an international driver's license. That I never got my license at all. Here you can buy a car for 400 dollars, and it will run. Seventeen-year-old girls work with me at Maui Nix, and they drive to work in their own cars. Abby has a Lexus for $40,000, Henna has a Ford Focus for $25,000. (And I have a bike for 64 bucks! But at least I'm always in shape, and it's much more interesting this way - read on =)

A bicycle is beautiful. In the USA, when you ride a bike, passing cars honk at you not because you are in their way, breaking rules, or doing something wrong, but because you are a girl in short shorts on a bike. Often Natasha and I are riding, and people shout things from their windows. Sometimes they tease us, like "we're in a car, and you're on a bike." But the main thing is that they always yield the road. Everyone.

At first, I was embarrassed by this reaction from Americans—they might whistle, shout something, or honk—but then I stopped being embarrassed, and now I smile. If the Americans whistling are cute, I might even blow a kiss in return).

Everyone here always yields to cyclists. I always say "Thank you" to everyone here and smile, even if I know they won't hear it because of the closed windows.

But a bicycle is also dangerous.

The "US 98" highway is like the Kurortny Prospect in Sochi—the entire city stretches along it. We ride along this highway every day on our way to and from work. At the intersection, we wait for the right signal; all the cars stop, and then we go. All cars always stop. But one time, a car didn't stop and kept driving through the red light. And that car hit Yulia.

• I flipped twice. The only thing I managed to think was: "That's it, I'm going to break my neck now!"

Yulia got away with just bruises and contusions. And shock. The ambulance arrived, the doctors checked if she had any fractures and left. The police officers who also arrived at the scene took Yulia's details and left. They didn't even take her home.

• I'm standing alone, the driver has already left, I'm in a state of shock. Opposite me are three police cars and six police officers! I say to them: "take me home, please" and all that. And guess what one of them said to me!

• Sorry, your bike won't fit in our car.
  That's it, and they left! The vaunted American police! If you write about this, write that they are all ******!...

• Show me your bruises.

Yulia shows me a huge dark blue spot on her leg. Americans call this color "navy blue"—I remembered the name because it's one of the dress code colors at Abercrombie this season, and I had to buy a top in that color. There is the same spot on her arm. And a deep abrasion on her leg that still hasn't healed.

That day, Yulia only recovered from the shock at home. First, she came home, and only then did she burst into tears. Yulia rode home on the bike, which remained intact.

The "US 98" highway is like the Kurortny Prospect in Sochi—the entire city stretches along it. I ride along this highway every day on my way to and from work. At the intersection, I wait for the right signal; all the cars stop, and then I go. All cars always stop. I look carefully at every car and think: "Just try not to brake now! After all, it was one of you who hit my friend."