A friend of mine in Holland just recently blogged about driving--or rather, her lack of driving and about how nervous she gets when she does have to drive. It got me thinking. From what I've observed in American culture we tend to be defined by what we drive. Muscle cars, classics, eco-friendly, whatever--they all tell you something about the person who owns it. (Except in my husband's line of work--the cars all belong to the driver's cousin or girlfriend and they were just driving it...and no, that bag of crack isn't mine either, Officer.) You never see mini vans at drag races. Though, I did go see a school bus race one time--gotta love the south!
I would be lost without my car. I remember all of the vehicles I've owned, yet I have a difficult time remembering past boyfriends. Even in Spain when I really didn't need a car and Things 1, 2 and 3 spent more time in the driveway than out on the road, I wouldn't have not had them. Thing 2 clung to life even after the gear shaft broke in 3rd gear--still managed to drive from Rota to Seville! Thing 3 made the journey back to the US with me. Though all the loving care in the world couldn't help it when its frame decided to warp and it was sent to the great junk yard in the sky. All of them have been like my children--petulant and demanding children, but children non-the-less.