Car Culture Shock

It bears mentioning that my decision to sell that uber-SUV was hastened each time I pulled up at the gas pump. It was staggering to be reminded constantly that a smallish, two-seater could get fewer miles to the gallon than an eighteen wheeler! Perhaps I exaggerate, but the acquisition of a modern-thirty-miles-to-the-gallon-and-comfortable-and-quiet-on-long-drives-sedan compelled me, albeit begrudgingly, to thin my herd and pass the FJ-40 on to another dreamer with deep pockets and a shallow environmental conscience.

Why mention the FJ-40? Perhaps to dissuade the critic who would dismiss the present rumination as preciously altruistic. Perhaps just to remind myself that so recently my own automotive preferences ran to the gargantuan and gas guzzling. Or perhaps simply because this rhinoceros of a vehicle represents the only interesting point of reference among my otherwise insipid history with four wheeled locomotion. In short, consider my scarlet letter prominently visible as I attempt to convey a bizarre tale of reverse culture shock experienced between June and September 2003, the first exciting months of my US repatriation.

“Whose car?”
“Mine,” I offered at once confident and proud.
“Nice. I just bought the same car.”
“Really? I just bought mine on eBay!”

By way of introduction, I site an uncanny encounter late this autumn. A jogger with a beautiful husky keeping pace stopped by to introduce herself. She was a new veterinarian in town, and my new-to-me Subaru Sport had attracted her attention. Although she had moved from London and I had moved from Paris, we launched into remarkably similar car shopping chronicles. If not for this brief encounter, I would probably have let my story slip into dusty oblivion in the interstices of my memory. Chocked it up to re-entry weirdness and let it go. And it may well be re-entry weirdness, but having discovered that much of my story existed in duplicate, recording and sharing the story became inevitable.

Before we arrive at the polyphony chapter of my story, there’s an entertaining prologue that popped up in “Car Culture Shock”, my last e-Marginalia installment. Do you remember the zippy white Mustang that we piloted around the Four Corners? Do you remember my souvenir from dear Officer Jollycopper? Well, after my fateful foray through the Southwest, my P.O.A. was to return east for a sublime summer in Westport, New York. In addition to swimming, sailing, waterskiing, fly-fishing, hiking, gardening, tennis-ing, jogging, theater-ing, dining, and all of the other “-ings” that draw many of us to this charming village on the Adirondack shore of Lake Champlain, my mission was to buy a car.

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