I’m seated, white knuckles clutching whatever I can find to hold onto. With every twist and turn, I can feel my lunch start to creep back up, turning my complexion into a hue of pale green. My body is jerked left to right like a ragdoll, unable to keep up with the constant, yet ever changing movement.

Yes, this happened to be the most terrifying (and painful) car ride I have ever encountered in my entire 18 years on this earth.

Upon landing in New York, excitement was at an all-time high. All of the staff members, including myself, were eager to explore the vast mystery that is New York, especially after spending six hours in a school-owned suburban and four hours on a jam-packed airliner.

But of course, we had to leave LaGuardia International Airport and get our bearings in our hotel before we could take on the Big Apple. So, that being said, we called a shuttle service. Within ten minutes, a blue, mini-van-like shuttle was ready to haul us and our luggage to the Crowne Plaza.

In the duration of the 30-minute car ride, my life flashed before my eyes dozens of times. Quick lane changes and sharp turns made me believe we would find ourselves victims of a crash. More than a couple times, I was convinced we would most definitely run over a pedestrian. (As a side note, from reading the lips of the pedestrians, I could tell they were just as dismayed as I was. Quite vulgarly dismayed, I might add.)

I suppose one has to be an aggressive driver to live in a gargantuan place such as New York City, but the stark contrast to the serene, calming country drives I’m accustomed to at home was a bit of a culture shock for me. Also, the horn, often seen as an act of spite in Texas, is commonplace in the Big Apple, with car horns of various frequencies filling the air at all hours of the day.

So now, my nightmares, which had previously been filled with monsters and ghosts from horror movies, have a new focus: insane shuttle drivers with questionable licenses.