It’s not like I was trying to or anything, though: It was the middle of the morning, a misty winter day. I was driving on a quiet street in the part of Washington, D.C. that’s sometimes called “Little Rome,” owing to the number of monastic institutions surrounding the Catholic University of America. From the right lane, the carload of nuns made an unexpected wide left-hand turn passing in front of me, and my Honda ran right into their left-side passenger door.
With a pop and the faint burning smell of sulphur, the airbag exploded into my face, like a kind of giant, surreal mushroom. I put the stick shift in park and—amazingly collected—turned the radio and then the car off, and got out calmly.
These were young nuns, twenty-something, in long habits—one of whom came running over with: “Oh my gosh, that’s not cool.” [Read more…]