In 1950s Vancouver our family often went for a weekend drive to see a View, of which there are, of course, millions in beautiful British Columbia. My Views, however, frequently ended up being of dusty gravel; with me stuck in the airless backseat of our dull-green Chevrolet, we inevitably had to pull over so that I could throw up."I became a car junkie"
You'd think that would have put me off cars forever, but perversely, I fell in love with them. It began when my father ditched the Chevy for a vintage white Jaguar. Suddenly, we had a diva in our midst. She threw frequent fits, but also outclassed every car on the road. Plus, she possessed a sunroof -- and everyone knows fresh air is good for nausea, especially when you can poke your head outside (this was the '50s, remember; we were worried about “the Bomb,” not minor things like accidental decapitation).
So, thanks to my dad, I became a car junkie. But (also thanks to him), I've never been addicted to all cars. I actually loathe most modern ones, that look like sucked-and-spat-out lozenges. I despise brake-dance driving, which comes from the embrace of automatic transmissions (if your car doesn't have a stick shift, how can you connect with its essential nature?). And I barely notice overproduced Rolls-Royces, Caddies, Porsches, BMWs and Ferraris.
"Me, I want personality"
My fevered dreams have always been of quirky cars. As a teen, I longed for a Morgan, a British sports car with a wooden frame. I once went on a blind date with a guy just because he drove a Citroën Maserati and I'd never seen one. No, nothing transpired (though I did ogle the dashboard), but my craving for a Citroën meant I eventually acquired one of my own: a lumbering, black 1972 DS (pronounce the letters in French, Day-S, and it sounds like déesse, or goddess). It was definitely that, and more. We lived together for four challenging, blissful years until it rusted so badly, I reluctantly signed a card allowing its parts to be used to resuscitate others of its kind.
In other words, I like cars with which (whom?) I can have a relationship, although I suspect this is a female point of view. Most guys seem to want flash and dash from their cars. Me, I want personality. Even if a car is a bit battered, can't get much above 110 kilometres per hour without stressing out and has its cranky moments, if I feel we're in this driving thing together, I'm happy.
I want my car to comfort me when I'm down, challenge me to do better than I think I can and make me realize I can't live without it. Come to think of it, that's more or less what I want in a guy, too. But that's another story.
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