If you could drive any vehicle in the world, what would it be?
Um, my husband bought my current car while we were still living in England and he was in Los Angeles on a house-hunting trip. True story. He called me and said, “I visited three preschools, checked out four neighborhoods, bought you a car, and got a Brazilian wax.” Maybe he didn’t say exactly that. It’s possible he checked out five neighborhoods.
I didn’t ask him what kind of car it was. I wasn’t even interested in the color. I knew he’d gotten a minivan because I was pregnant with Lilah-who-we-didn’t-know-was-Lilah and we needed a car that could fit three car seats or boosters. I’d asked him to check out gas mileage before he picked me a car.
Cars are transportation, as far as I’m concerned. They get you from one place to another. Trains are sexy. Trains are mysterious and dramatic with that buildup of anticipation, burst of air, flash of motion, and the emptiness they leave behind. Cars? Cars have ignition keys and gas pedals.
So, maybe I’d drive a train if I could.
I don’t like driving. I find it somewhere between annoying and excruciating, depending upon the length of the trip. I do it when I have to, but when I come to a new place, I learn it on foot, on a bike, or by public transportation. When we lived in London, I never bothered to learn to drive on the other side of the road. I went almost two years without driving, except on visits to the U.S., and I didn’t miss it at all.
If I have to choose a dream car, I guess I’d like one that relies as much as possible on solar power. And comes with someone else to drive it. But, really, what I want is one of these:
Talk about sexy.