May 23, 2018--Self-Driving Cars

Our car is getting on in years and so we've spent some time looking around to see if there is a car we could fall in love with and consider buying. Thus far, we haven't even had a whiff of infatuation. 

Here's the problem--

We are not on a strict budget so we've looked at everything from Chevys and Hondas to BMW's and Mercedes.

In all cases we have been repelled by most of the newfangled electronics that car manufacturers are trumpeting. Especially the auto-drive features. 

Here are a couple of examples of what I mean.

We road-tested an Audi and found aspects of it attractive. But others not so much. Every time we needed to stop for a red light or in stop-and-go traffic, the engine would shut off. Completely. It would start up again whenever I would press the accelerator pedal. At first I thought I was doing something wrong--stalling it out--or that the car was defective.

The salesman assured us that this was not so but that all Audis now come with this feature--they shut fully off at every stop to save gasoline. Very little, he acknowledged, but under pressure to make cars more fuel efficient (this was before Donald Trump had the government back off on these requirements) this was one way of helping with that. 

"Can it be overridden?" I asked. 

"Yes," he said, reaching for the dashboard from the back seat. "You press this button first and next this one and then this third one."

"That sounds OK," I said, "You do this once and you're set to go?"

"Not exactly," he said sheepishly, "You have to do it every time you start the car."

"Every time?" I was incredulous, "For me this is a killer virus."

"Scratch Audis off the list," Rona said, sounding disappointed.

Some time later we test drove a Mercedes C or E car. I can't remember which as I'm not much of a Mercedes aficionado. We had one once and hated it. There was always something wrong with the electrical system and after our third battery died we sold it back to the dealer at quite a loss. But by checking one out recently we felt we were being comprehensive and responsible.

To test it at speed we drove for a coupe of exits on I-95. At the second exit, the salesman in the back seat indicated it was time to turn around and head back to the showroom.

The exit on the right was a two lane affair and halfway into it it felt as if the power steering had failed and that I couldn't manually steer the car.

"We've got a problem," I declared. I also felt the seatbelt tightening, which signaled we were about to crash. In a panic I cried out, "Hang on. We're in trouble."

"Quite the contrary the salesman said, "It's just that you drifted to the right and the car's automatic lane-adjustment feature kicked in and is pulling you back into your lane. It's keeping you safe." 

In the rearview mirror I could see him grinning with pride.

I asked again about being able to override this "feature," and again was told it is possible. "When we get back to the shop I'll get one of our technical people to show you how to do it."

"Technical people?" I said feeling that needing this much expertise might be overkill.

"Well, it's a little complicated," the salesman said.

Rona said, "Cross Mercedes off the list," even though it hadn't been among those likely to appeal to us.

This got me thinking--Who needs all of these so-called features? And moreover, what is this wave of a movement to make cars and trucks self-driving? I know they say it's for safety purposes--cars that drive themselves get into less trouble and fewer accidents then when driven by the likes of me. Evidence--my drifting out of lane at the I-95 exit.

But I hate it.

Call me old-fashioned (guilty). Call me curmudgeonry (guilty again). Call me reactionary (that too). But I hate this alleged evidence of progress. I'd rather be less safe. 

Let me drive my own car. It's one of those things left that I can do for myself, by myself without any external prompting or unwanted assistance.  Leave me alone. Actually, being alone driving a car on the occasional open road is still one of life's pleasures. For many it's also a place of refuge away from the demands and responsibilities and pressures of life. Including whining children and backseat drivers.

March 8, 2016--Snowbirding: Porsche Panamera (Concluded)

"What do you think about that one,"Rona said excitedly. She was pointed toward a deep blue BMW.

"It does look nice," I acknowledged. "It . . ."

"Yikes," she said, peering at the sticker label affixed to the rear window.

"Yikes what?"

"It's $138,000. That calls for a yikes."

"Again, I thought we wouldn't approach this search for a new car by thinking initially about price."

"I know what you'll say--'We're very fortunate and we can get any car we want, especially,'" she added, "'if it turns out to be one of the last ones we'll ever buy.'"

"I don't remember saying that."

"Which part, Rona asked, "about being able to buy pretty much any car we want--forget Bentleys--or what I said about the last car business?"

Ignoring that, I said, "I guess I mean that $138,000 is a little much for a car. Particularly a BMW, which is not my idea of a Ferrari-kind-of-car."

"I don't think you have any idea what one of those would cost. It's enough to make one think seriously about becoming a socialist and voting for Bernie Sanders. And to tell the truth, I would have no part in spending even $100,000 for a car. A car is a car. It's not like buying a house or paying for college tuition.

"For the price of a Ferrari--whatever that is--I assume one could buy a really nice house and pay for tuition all the way through med school."

"Shouldn't we try to have fun with this rather than making all kinds of political allusions? I get enough of those every day on MSNBC."

"As long as you stop looking at $138,000 cars."

"From what I read in Consumers we should check out the BMW 2-Series. It gets off the chart ratings."

So we did. Even took one out for a test drive and it was a lot of fun. Not exactly the "Ultimate Driving Machine," but very responsive and for us just the right level of luxury. But for Rona who has back issues and for me who has late-in-life issues, the getting in and out could have one of both of us needing the ER. So we eliminated it from consideration and turned our attention to the 328i's. It's a bit stogy with its four doors but after taking it for a spin it wound up on our short list.

"I'm not sure," Rona said as we were driving home, "that we could be comfortable with a BMW in Maine. There everyone drives Subarus and Volvos. It's a reverse kind of status, not making too much of a big deal about one's wheels."

"Wheels? I love it when you talk car slang." I struggled against my seat belt to give her a kiss. "But you're right. We probably should get out of the BMW or, for that matter, Audi mode."

"I think I agree about the BMW but let's keep the Audi alive. I read that there's a new A4 about to arrive in America. The 2017 model that's supposed to be something special."

"It will probably be too high-tech for me. We don't need bluetooth or compatibility with smart phones much less all the sensing devices that take over your car in an emergency situation."

"Good point."

"We still have flip phones and . . ."

"Like Rhiana and Anna Wintour."

"Not exactly, but I prefer a car that a driver drives. Not a computer."

"I do as well. Maybe we should keep . . ."

"No let's keep talk. We need a new car. Ours is becoming unreliable. Above all, I want us to have one we can depend upon. Up in Maine we live on a dirt road that a tow truck would have a hard time negotiating so. And then if we're there during a late fall blizzard, I want a car we can depend upon to start."

"So maybe we should forget about BMWs and Audis and get right to Subarus and Volvos."

"Down Vicente's food chain."

So the next day we tried the Subaru Legacy and found it to the perfect Maine car. Totally practical with all sorts of safety things, including, we learned, that if we were in a head-on collision, rather than the engine crashing into the passenger cabin and crushing us to death, it drops out of the engine compartment and falls on the road, winding up under the car. Amazing! But we found it to be sensible and boring.

"If this is going to be my last . . ."

"Stop right there," Rona said. "Let's get beyond mortality issues and head over to Volvo. I have good feelings about the S60 model. Road and Track says . . ."

"You're reading Road and Track?"

"On line."

"That means soon your computer cookies will generate pop-up ads for assault weapons. Donald Trump says he reads Road and Track. And I didn't raise mortality issues. That Subaru salesman did with all his talk about side-impact air bags and engines winding up under the car after head-on . . ."

"I agree--enough. Pull in there. Let's check out the Volvo. One thing I know, our Maine friends will not make fun of us if we buy one."

"Half of them would prefer it if we bought a Ford pickup."

"Maybe we should check them out too."

"We're now about to look at Volvos. Let's try to concentrate on them and actually try to enjoy ourselves."

And we very much did, with the sensitive help of Donna H, the sales associate, and the manager. Sympathetic, even empathetic as they quickly picked up on our ambivalences--needing a car that worked in New York, Florida, and of course Maine. Preferring it to be luxurious but not too much so. Wanting to fit in in these diverse places, but also not make too much of a concession to what others might think. Minor torments of that kind.

After driving a sleek S30 all over Delray and then up to 80 miles per hour on I-95--where plenty of cars still whizzed by us--we placed it on our very short list. With BMWs probably no longer in play, the Volvo was likely the only car at the moment on the list. Short indeed.

Driving home again, Rona feeling weary and overloaded with too much to think about and juggle, referring to Vicente again, she said that maybe the next day we should go over to Toyota and Chevy and get down to the most practical of bottom lines.

"I'm not sure I want to do that. We started out fantasizing about Porsche Panameras and Mercedes--and I get taking them off even our Maybe List--but I think I'm OK with Toyota but Chevy? I don't think so. The Malibu is probably great, but I still have images of Dinah Shore on TV throwing kisses to the audience after singing about Chevy--'See the USA in your Chevrolet. America is asking you to call . . .'"

"Spare me. I get the point."

So just yesterday we drove over to the local Toyota dealer.

The showroom was in a massive new building right down Federal Highway. Dozens of cars on shiny display on the selling floor surrounded by bass-walled offices and comfortable waiting areas.

We checked out the Camry after deciding that the Avalon, if we were going downscale, even if "only" a Toyota was a bit too fancy looking. "Let's see the bead-and-butter model," Rona said.

It drove well, was fairly peppy, cornered almost as well as the BMW, and was a bit more than basic in the cabin. Fit-and-finish too was impressive--a concept I had "discovered" in my due-deligence research. "I think we have to give it serious consideration," Rona whispered, not wanting to show too much interest to the hovering salesman.

I nodded in agreement, to tell the truth feeling a bit deflated.

We started out at the very high end of the food-chain and here we were giving serious thought to a Camry. We'd be fine in Maine with one, OK in Florida, and who cared about New York as the car will just sit in the garage.

"I don't think I want a Toyota," I finally said to the solicitous salesmen.

As we were leaving, I said to Rona, "Look over there in the main waiting room. Who are all those people? There are about twenty of them, all with canes and walkers. Are they here on a field trip from their assisted living home? Again, I don't want to dwell on you-know-what, but do I really want to buy a car from a place that's on the senior citizen circuit? I mean, it's nice of the Toyota people to make them feel welcome, but . . ."

"They're not here as an activity," Rona said. "Notice where they're sitting. They're waiting for their Toyotas to be serviced."

"That does it," I said, "I hate myself for feeling this way and probably half of them are younger than I am. But . . ."

Back home, with the Volvo still the only car for the moment on our short list, looking out at the ocean to connect with something elemental--it's spinner shark season--I noticed a two-story ladder leaning on the side of our neighbor's house.

"What's that?" I asked Rona. "Is someone fixing her window or something?"

"I think it's the window washer. See the pail with a sponge and squeegee in it?"

"You're right," I said. "And look at that," I added. "Notice the car he's driving?"

"I've had it with cars. Can we not talk about them until tomorrow? I'm all relaxed and checking out the sharks."

"But you need to take a look."

Rona reluctantly hauled herself up out of her recliner chair and walked over to where I was standing.

"My God, you're right. He's driving a Mercedes. One just like our old E-450."

March 7, 2016--Snowbirding: Porsche Panamera (Part One)

"What do you think about the Panamera?"

"Not one of my favorites, but the coffee, I suppose, is OK."

"Coffee?"

"Yes, you know, Vicente's favorite place. Panera."

"You're talking coffee?" Rona said, quickly growing impatient with me, "And I'm talking cars. The Porsche Panamera. The one we both like. At least to look at."

"You don't have to shout. I can hear you."

"Our car is getting to be six years old and has well over 100,000 miles. Shopping for cars here is so easy. It seems that every few streets there's one dealer or another. Maybe we should look around to see what we like. Perhaps even find something to buy."

"I don't know anything about cars. And neither do you and so . . ."

"And so if we don't get started," Rona said, "and see what we can learn, does that mean we'll keep our VW forever?"

"That's not the worst idea I ever heard. But I get your point. We should look around. Ours is starting to have problems. Fortunately, still minor ones. But maybe before we get started we should see if Vicente's at Panamera and get some coffee. He knows a lot about cars."

Under her breath Rona said, "Panera," but I could hear her. I didn't tell her I was trying to be playful.

Vicente was at his regular table, hooked up to wifi and working on an article about his legendary New Mexico ancestor, Padre Martinez.

"You're crazy," he said, "The Porsche you're interested in costs at least $100,000 and . . ."

"And," I said, "we thought we would ignore prices at first and zero in on what we like. I'm seeing this as maybe the last car I'll ever buy and so, what the heck, you only live once."

"Or twice," Rona said, rolling he eyes.

"I hear you," Vicente said, "So maybe you should start with the Mercedes and work your way down the food-chain."

"Food-chain?" I asked, "You're losing me. I thought we were talking cars."

"You know, start with luxury cars and then work you're way down to a Chevy or something. That way you'll find the one that will make you happy, if in fact this turns out to be your last car. But with your mother living to 107, it's possible you'll be needing to buy three or four more."

"So I can drive when I'm 100? I don't think so. Half the drivers down here look like they're 100, and you know what that's like. But, thanks for the encouragement. I get your point."

There's a Mercedes dealer in Delray so after finishing our coffee, we drove right over.

On route, it was only two miles from Panera, we saw more Mercedes than any other car. "I guess around here, the Benz is sort of like the Toyota or Chevy. The go-to car."

"Benz?" I was impressed that Rona was already getting into auto lingo.

"I usually think of the Benz as being distinctive, but down here it's everywhere. I'm not that much of a snob, I mean, but . . ."

"But, you are," I said," And I am too I suppose. But I think they're pretty good cars and think we should check them out."

"But what about the one we had? Fifteen years ago."

 "An E-450 I think it was. It turned out to be a lemon. So we sold it right back to the dealer. Lost at least $25,000 doing that."

"I hated that car," Rona remembered. "In two years we had to replace the battery three times."

"I also hated it. It was so clunky. Maybe this time let's see if we can find something sportier. How about a two-door? Or even a convertible? If I'm running out of time, why not . . . ?"

"We already went through our convertible phase. It was fun. But because of the way we live now, we make long drives to and from Maine and back and forth to Delray, I want something that runs smoothly and is quiet. Maybe then you'll be able to hear me when we're driving."

"My hearing again. But I agree--we should look for something luxurious."

In 25 minutes we decided that a Benz was not for us. The sporty one or two models we sort of liked weren't that comfortable and the back seats were almost nonexistent. So we moved on. Next, to the Lexus dealer.

That stop took even less time. We looked at the front grill, thought we were staring into the jaws of a great white shark, and took off even before a salesman could pounce on us.

Two showrooms were enough for one day and we decided to drive around again the next day to check out BMWs and Audis.

I said, "My instinct tells me we'll like the Audis. I know they used to go in reverse when you'd shift into drive, but I think they fixed that defect. At least I hope so."

"Now you're talking about having instincts about cars? You who would have trouble distinguishing between a BMW and an Audi. Or, for that matter, a Toyota and a Chevy."

To show that though I haven't had that much interest in cars for decades, I still had my macho pride and as we drove slowly up A1A I pointed out, "There's an E-Class Benz and . . . a BMW of some sort. At least I think it is. . . . And another Mercedes. That one looks pretty slick. I think it's a . . . "

"A convertible. That's what it is. A ragtop. I thought we decided that . . ."

"Listen to you--a ragtop! I haven't heard that expression since we had our Toyota Celica convertible. Ragtop."

"Remember how we made a big mistake taking it to an automatic car wash? In East Hampton. And how the water from the power washing nozzles flooded the car with us trapped inside. The canvas roof wasn't sealed very well." Rona began to laugh at that memory.

"And how we couldn't figure out how to stop the wash cycle. What a mess. And scary. We got all coated with liquid soap."

"So let's agree--no ragtops."

"Agreed. And there's an Audi," I pointed, "And another Mercedes. I wish I liked them better. That one, whatever model it is, looks pretty cool."

"How about keeping your eye on the road. There are all sorts of crazy drivers here."

The next day we went first to the BMW-Volkswagen dealer in Pompano Beach. As we pulled our Passat into a parking space in the middle of a dozen others, we were swept by a wave of nostalgia about our sad Passat, which we seemed so willing to trade in. After driving more than 100,000 miles, almost all of it side-by-side, we thought maybe we should hold onto it. Or, Rona suggested, maybe check out a new one. For the moment, ignore Vicente's food chain analogy.

"Let's check out the new VWs and then, since it's right next door, we can look at the BMWs. From the little Internet research I did last night, I think the 2-Series could be for us. It gets a very good review in Edmunds."

"My, you're progressing fast," I said with authentic admiration. "Yesterday Benz and ragtop, today Edmunds. I've heard of them but don't really know anything about what they do."

"It's an amazing Website where you can learn everything about every car. Including how much to expect to pay for one after you've made your decision. So you can bargain about price successfully."

"I thought we weren't going to talk about price so we could keep the Pan, the Panarea, the whatever on our list. You know the one I mean."

"The Porsche Panamera. Edmunds doesn't love it," she shrugged. "And it could set us back 100 grand. Or more."

"What do you think Panamera means? I mean, is it Spanish for something?"

"I researched that too," Rona said, puffing herself up. "It's not a real word but the name is derived, like the Porsche Carrera line, from the Carrera Panamericana race."

"The Carrera line? I have no idea what you're talking about, but I'm impressed." This was starting to feel more like fun than an expensive chore. "Let's check out the VWs. I like change, but not that much."

Since we want a car that's shorter than our current one--getting around in Maine, especially where our house is, would be a lot easier if our new car were a few inches shorter. A foot would be ideal, but every inch helps.

"How about that one?" This time Rona was pointing. "I don't recognize it at all."

"I can't even distinguish between the new version of ours--the Passat--and the Jetta. To tell you the truth, they look the same to me."

"And to tell you the truth," Rona admitted, "To me, pretty much all cars look alike. I mean what's so different about the Mercedes we see all over the place and the Bentleys and Infinities?"

"Or even the Teslas?'

"Teslas? It looks as if you too've been doing some Web surfing."

I simply smiled, "It's something called the CC. The Volkswagon-CC. Never heard of it."

"I like the look. It's pretty sleek. Let's go inside and see how it feels and maybe even how it drives."

Which we did. On close inspection we both thought it was attractively designed. Four doors, but with the feel of something smaller and hopefully peppier. "Let's take'er our for a spin," I said to the very solicitous salesman who was applying no pressure.

"My pleasure," he said. "If you like your old Passat, I think you'll find this one familiar but different."

"Perfect," I said, impressed he had me so well figured out.

It turned out to be quite familiar, which Rona and I both liked, but different enough for us to ask him if he could put his hands on the V6 version since I felt it could use a little more pep, or oomph than the four-cylinder version.

"Listen to you," Rona said, enjoying my enthusiasm, "Pep. Oomph. How old are you again?" She gave me a quick kiss.

As it turned out Vista Motors didn't have a V6 in stock, but the salesman promised to search around to see if any other dealer in South Florida had one that we could check out. We told him we were feeling serious about the CC but wanted to look at other models and would let him know if we were interested in perhaps going to the next step. We also didn't want to appear too eager and thought that by playing a little hard-to-get we might be able to negotiate a better price. Maybe even when trading in our trusty Passat.

"And did you see how much it cost?" I asked as we walked toward the adjacent BMW showroom.

"Though we promised not to look at any price stickers, I couldn't resist. It goes for maybe half of what we were thinking we might wind up spending. Nothing wrong with that," I said.

Rona agreed.

Porsche Panamera

To be concluded tomorrow . . .

September 23, 2013--Midcoast: True Religion

With outstretched arms, he exclaimed, "She doesn't own a pocketbook! I'm in love!"

We were at the Volkswagen dealer to get a new running light installed. A light bulb icon had popped up on our car's computer screen with the message--"Replace left front downcast light."

"That sounds so Victorian," Rona said. "What's a downcast light? Anything like downcast eyes?"

"I have no idea. It does sound like a fancy name for a VW light. Look it up in the owner's manual. I think it's the light below the headlight that's on all the time in the daytime. For safety."

"With a name like that, I can't wait to see what they'll charge to replace it. We should probably go to NAPA and buy a new bulb for $5.00 and screw it in ourselves."

"That would make sense if we knew what we were doing. I don't even know where to add oil or even if the car has a dipstick. Everything is so high-tech these days. My suggestion--let's go to VW. I don't want to make a mess of things that will then need fixing and cost more than simply paying them ransom to change the bulb."

The staff was very accommodating, took care off us and the car, and only charged $37, including the bulb, labor, and tax. They even threw in a car wash which, I joked, they'd have to do again in a day or two considering the rutted dirt road that drops down to our house.

"Sure," the service manager said, when turning the car over to us, "Really, come by any time. We'll be happy to take care of you."

He felt sincere.

"I see you have New York plates. Where in New York you from?" he asked.

"Manhattan," Rona said.

"Amazing," he said, "I moved up here from there three months ago."

"From a VW dealer there to this one?"

"No. From a job in investment banking." He made a face.

"To do this? I mean . . ." I didn't quite know how to put it without offending him.

"That's OK. I think I know what you're thinking--that it must be a big step down for me."

"No. Just that . . ."

"No problem," he smiled to show I hadn't upset him. "In many ways it is a big step down. I worked for this bank for eight years. I made big money. Big money. I had all the toys--a Rolex, Prada this and Prada that, a BMW, and a fancy Italian dirt bike. All my friends were doing well too. After work--if I had the energy for it--I'd go out with them. Bars. Clubs. Restaurants. Expensive wine. Girls. Lots of girls. The whole New York scene. I had a two-bedroom condo in Chelsea. The good life, right?"

"It does sound like quite the life," Rona said, trying to sound neutral.

"Somehow it wasn't working for me. I was so busy most of those years that I didn't have the time or energy to take a moment to figure out what I was doing, how I was doing, and if it was working for me." He looked off toward the stand of spruce trees ranged beyond where the VWs for sale were arranged.

"So what happened?" Rona asked softly. "How did you get from there to here?"

"I'm from South Jersey, down by the shore. I lived there until I came to the city to work for the bank. My parents loved it here. The beach, the ocean, their friends and family. But every year they would come up to this part of Maine."

"So you knew the midcoast that way?"

"Not really. You see, I thought it would be boring here. Nothing for me to do. I was on high rev. And they said, don't come to Maine with us until you're ready. To understand it. So I never went until this June. Just for a few days to help them set up a house they bought on Southport Island."

"So that's . . . ?"

"Not exactly. I was so busy working on their house I was in my city mode. I barely looked around. I'd get up and hit the ground running. Scraping, patching, painting. That sort of thing. But I suppose, in spite of myself, Maine was beginning to get to me. Or maybe I was beginning to get Maine."

"I understand that," Rona said.

"They know a lot of people in the area from having vacationed here forever. One couple who live next to the house they bought had a cookout to which my parents and I were invited. And wouldn't you know it, there was this girl, this young woman at the party. I don't think it was a set up or anything; but whether or it was or not, we hit it off. Like from right out of a movie."

"That's it?" I said, "That's what got you to give up your banking job and move to Maine?"

"A version of that. I liked her so much, Natalie, that I came back the next weekend, ostensibly to work on the house but more to see her. She's a nurse right up here at the hospital." He pointed toward the road to Midcoast Hospital.

"I never knew a nurse before. All the girls I knew in the city were working for the same bank I was or for clothes designers. At least it seemed like that. Nothing wrong with that or them, but somehow we seemed to spend a lot of time checking each other out--shoes, bags, jeans, cars, bling. That sort of thing. What it felt like we were all working for. Not for the work itself, if you know what I mean--that was all kind of abstract. About numbers, very much including what we were making and our bonuses and what that would buy us out in the Hamptons and what kind of car we could afford to buy."

Rona and I nodded along as he told his story.

"It was no more Jersey Shore for me, baby. I'm movin' on. On and up." He paused to sigh and to look again toward the nearby woods.

"And?" Rona asked.

"Well, that second weekend did the trick. We were going out to dinner, Natalie and me.  I got all dressed up since I was planning to take her to a nice place my parents knew about and recommended. I drove over to her house to pick her up. When she got in the car I noticed she didn't have a bag with her. So I asked if maybe she forgot to take it.

"'Forgot?' she said, 'I didn't forget. I don't have a pocketbook.' I thought--no pocketbook? Everyone  I know has the latest Marc Jacob's bag and plenty more, but Natalie doesn't have even one!"

"That's not unusual up here," Rona said.

"Not only that, she doesn't have a pair of heels or Prada anything. She buys most of her stuff from Renys, Wallmart, and LL Bean. I love it!"

We smiled.

"She said to me, 'Look at you. What are you wearing on your feet? And those pants of yours.' She was making fun of me--friendly fun--but was also being serious. 'These are True Religion jeans,' I said. 'Everyone in the city wears them.' 'How much did they cost?' she asked. Shyly, I mumbled, 'About $400.'

"'Four-hundred dollars?' she whistled. 'That's about what I pay each month in rent. And you spent that on a pair of pants.' 'True Religions,' I said, as if the justify the cost, but then realizing that would mean nothing to her."

"Nor me," I said, "I never heard of them. And, by the way, what a strange name for jeans."

"I thought the same thing," he said. "Not right then but later when I thought the whole thing over--the evening, what Natalie said, and how I was feeling about her, myself, and my life."

"And you decided to give everything up and move here?" Rona said. "To come here to live? After just two visits?"

"Actually three because I came back for a third long weekend in June."

"Amazing," I said. "And, I think, impressive. To live here not knowing, for example, what the winters are like. How it gets dark by 3:30 and . . ."

"I know. Not from experience, of course. But I think I'm ready for it. Natalie and I are still an item. In fact, more than that. But we're both experienced and trust our feelings. We'll work hard to make things succeed. So far, so good. Actually much more than good."

"For what it's worth, I think . . ."

"You know what really did it for me? I mean what lead to this seemingly impulsive big change?"

"Natalie?" Rona guessed.

"That's a big part of it. Very big. But it was those jeans of mine. The True Religion ones."

"I'm not following you."

"How aptly named they are--True Religion. To think a pair of jeans, which should probably sell for $20 in Renys, goes for $400 in Barneys. And to link it to religion. When I realized I was in some crazy way worshiping jeans, I thought to save myself--pun intended--I'd better get out of here before it's too late."

He extended his arms to take in the VW sales lot and the encroaching woods

"And so here I am. Maybe this will turn out to be crazy, but so far it's feeling really good. Like I belong here. That this place was waiting for me until I was ready for it."

August 20, 2013--Midcoast: Mud Splattered

We don't need a new car but it's fun to look around.

Rona the other day was saying that we don't really need our VW Passat station wagon. That it's too big and hard to maneuver in and out of our narrow driveway. What's more, she says, "It's a little boring. Shouldn't we, for the summer at least, have something a little smaller and more fun? Maybe even a convertible?"

Up here in the midcoast of Maine, vehicles of choice are pick-ups, Volvos, and lots of Subaru Outbacks. All well-splattered with mud.

Driving back from our once-a-month car wash, we spotted a rare, sleek BMW ragtop. "Something like that," Rona suggested, pointing and  craning her neck to get a better look at it as it raced up the Bristol Road.

"Really?" I said, "No real Mainer would drive something that fancy. Even the very rich people here drive broken-down pickups. It's not like East Hampton where everyone has a Range Rover or Boca Raton where Bentleys outnumber Chevys."

"And none of those come coated with mud. Every other place in Florida is a car detailer." I knew from this that Rona was only playing with the idea of getting something spiffy to drive that would make us stand out and alienate us from all our friends.

"I don't think we've seen one Range Rover," Rona said, feeling good about that. "That's one of the reasons we like being here so much--you don't have to drive a Mercedes to show off or fit in."

"And I can get away with having only five pairs of pants to wear."

"Actually, four," she corrected me.

Not disputing that, I said, "There's another reason to keep our current car, though after washing it it looks a little inappropriate. I sort of liked the mud."

"What's that?"

"The other day in the New York Times I saw an article about a study, an actual study that compared how rich and lower-income people drive."

"Which concluded?"

"Essentially," I said, "that BMW drivers as compared to people with Fords are much more aggressive and discourteous."

"Why am I not surprised. Show it to me when we get home."

Later, while reading it, Rona quoted from the piece, "'The [study] team watched a four-way-stop intersection [in Los Angeles] over a week, noting how likely drivers were to cut in front of others when it was not their turn to go. In their observation of 274 cars, the researchers found that the more expensive ones were more likely to jump their turns in the four-way rotation.'"

"Didn't they also find," I recalled, "that about 80 percent of the drivers did the right thing?"

"Yes, that's the good news. 'But,'" she read from the article again, quoting the lead researcher, who did a study of cars and pedestrians in crosswalks--in California the law requires cars to yield, "'But you see a huge boost in driver's likelihood to commit infractions in more expensive cars. In our crosswalk study, none of the cars in the beat-up car category drove through the crosswalk.'"

"That settles it," I said, "No BMW for us. I like my VW. Especially when it's all splattered."

"That should be by later this afternoon," Rona said to assure me that we would soon lapse back into inconspicuousness.