Carsick

Today I visited three auto dealerships in hopes of refining my options. First thing I decided was that I'm not buying American. I know, you're supposed to drive a Chevy or a Buick or at least a Ford for an all-American road trip, but I just can't bring myself to spend that much money on a pile of metal that was not all that good a car even before their parent companies started talking about bankruptcy.

So instead I went to Kia and VW and Honda. I really liked the Kia Spectra. Sweet car. Classy and sleek. I felt nice in it, and it's pretty cheap to buy new. Sadly, word on the street is that Kia has a tendency to break down, and I want no part of that. Then I went to VW, where the salesman led me to the Rabbit. Another nice-looking car, and it's got my favorite name of the three cars I sat in today. Worse mileage than the Spectra, though, and someone needs to send a memo to VW management to hire salespeople who can give me a ballpark monthly payment in under twenty minutes of calculation; it turned out the Rabbit is a bit too rich for my blood, and the Jetta even more so.

That left Honda. They let me test-drive a used Civic. I would almost feel bad buying a Civic (or a Toyota Corolla or even a Scion) because it seems like everyone and their auntie is driving one these days, but apparently there's a reason for that: the Civic gets 36 mpg on the highway and Honda has a great support network. The car drove like a car should drive; it had this calm energy, no drama, just motion. I probably can't afford a Civic new, but I might be able to lease one or buy used.

This is all probably too much car talk for a blog that's supposed to be about love stories, isn't it? I want to be singing poetry at you and instead I'm drowning you in pragmatics. So I'll leave you with something called Flight by Louis Jenkins that pretty much sums up how I feel about the trip.

Past mishaps might be attributed to an incomplete understanding of the laws of aerodynamics or perhaps even a more basic failure of the imagination, but were to be expected. Remember, this is solo flight unencumbered by bicycle parts, aluminum and nylon or even feathers. A tour de force, really. There's a lot of running and flapping involved and as you get older and heavier, a lot more huffing and puffing. But on a bright day like today with a strong headwind blowing up from the sea, when, having slipped the surly bonds of common sense and knowing she is watching, waiting in breathless anticipation, you send yourself hurtling down the long, green slope to the cliffs, who knows? You might just make it.