I have never before lived in a place where people consistently drive 10 miles an hour below the speed limit. In fact, everywhere else I’ve driven – Chicago, New York, Boston, Washington, D.C., and many points in between – people have consistently driven 10 miles an hour above the speed limit.

When I came into town last summer to look for housing, I asked the front desk clerk at my hotel how fast I could drive on the turnpike without getting ticketed. I was late leaving for the airport and needed to make up some time. He suggested 75, but admitted he often did 80 and had never been caught. Then the young man, a graduate student from Chicago, launched into a tirade about how slow Lawrence people drive and how irritating that was. He got red in the face. I felt sorry for him, still stuck in Chicago mode.

But I admit I think about his frustration now and then as I drive down Iowa Street. In the 45 mph zone, people drive 35. When it goes down to 40, they drop to 30. Yesterday a cop was innocently parked on a street corner intersecting Iowa, and everyone immediately slowed to 25 as if they felt guilty for being only 10 miles under the speed limit.

I don’t get it. Will somebody please explain it to me?

At first I found it charming. Now it’s starting to wear on my nerves. Because I fail to take Lawrencian pokiness into account, I always miscalculate how long it will take me to drive to a destination. The good news is that although I’m consistently five minutes late for meetings, I’m generally the first person to arrive.

And then there are the four-way stops. No one will admit to being the first one there, always yielding to the other drivers. If cars are arriving from all four directions, you are likely to be stuck for a long time. By the way, if anybody important is listening, it’s time to put a stoplight at the corner of 31st and Louisiana. Given the politeness factor, it hopelessly backs up in all four directions. Still no one gets angry – I really don’t get it.

Furthermore, for courtesy to pedestrians Lawrence has no rival. You can merely come close to the curb with a 50-50 chance you might decide to cross the street, and a car will screech to a halt to yield to you. There have been times I didn’t intend to cross the street but felt obligated to because someone had stopped. So I crossed. But that meant I had to then wait a decent interval and cross back to the other side, which kicked off the whole process again. That’s why it takes me so long to do errands.

Yes, I know there are exceptions. Just last week someone in a huge black SUV nearly ran me down in the parking lot beside Wheatfield’s. He actually sped up when he saw me cross to my car – proving perhaps that SUV drivers tend to be rude in every state. But by and large, compared to the rest of the world, Lawrence drivers are polite. I’ve been here three months and have yet to hear anyone honk their horn. Do you know how amazing that is?

Now I know many longtime residents will think I’m wrong – perhaps even a little crazy. You will insist that Lawrence drivers are rude and reckless. That’s because you haven’t lived anywhere else. In Boston, drivers won’t stop for you in a crosswalk even when they have a red light and you have a walk sign. In New York, all the taxicab drivers are gunning for pedestrians to teach them a lesson. In Chicago or Washington, D.C., if you drive the speed limit, motorists behind you will honk and gesture (quite unkindly), and some will flip out into dangerous road rage. You have to go 10 miles over the speed limit just to protect yourself.

There is one curious exception to Lawrence driver pokiness. Once south-going motorists leave the city limits on Iowa Street (Highway 59), they speed up and tend to go way over the 55 mph limit, and then I’m the one poking along, irritating everyone. That’s because I know that just around that hill three miles outside of town, there are four highway patrol cars waiting. They’ve always got somebody stopped, and I want to make sure it’s never me.

I admit when heading south I often crank it up to 58 mph – but never over that. That’s so when I get pulled over, I can project a dumb blonde stare and say, “But officer, I was going under the speed limit.”

He’ll answer, “No, madam, you were going over.”

Then I’ll say, “But officer it’s clearly marked – the speed limit is 59.”