Cars Coming Out My Ears

Recent personal epiphany: Apparently, I care about cars.

Never before in my life did I believe that the type of car I drove would be of personal significance or consequence. Evidence to that end: my father bought me a used Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme in 1997. Implicitly, the Olds was neither cool nor particularly attractive; my friends called it the "rental car" because it was a Floridian-retirement-community shade of bright teal. Despite its lack of physical appeal, the functionality was excellent and I felt incredibly safe driving it. My supposition is that my subconscious decided at that point that a car was merely vehicle for transport, and not a statement about who I am, what my beliefs are, or how much money I have.

Such an admission might make one wonder if I was really born and raised in consumer-driven America. Shame on me for being so naive!

Post Oldsmobile, I have had a three other cars--very practical vehicles such as a second-hand Volvo wagon and a Subaru Outback. But since I am neither a soccer mom nor a lesbian (someone told me that Subarus are the offical cars of lesbians. I sort of thought they were the offical car of Vermonters, but I guess that is six of one, half dozen of the other). Perhaps the first inkling of actual interest in what would be taking me from point A to point B was revealed when we moved to Charleston in 2007 and I decided on a Mini. Was I cognizant of the possible statements such a selection made? I did not think I was, but who knows? At the time, I attributed my selection to the facts that I found it very easy to drive, even easier to park, and rather adorable in general. The only beef regarding my Mini was that my husband found it supremely lame.

But now that I am car-free, I have a new and profound understanding of the problems intrinsic with the paradox of choice. The myriad options, combined with my acute awareness of what a car says about the person behond the wheel, makes this task of finding a new vehicle rather challenging. Maybe that sounds insecure or weird (unsurprising as I can be either insecure or weird at various intervals on most days of the week), but the fact remains that first impressions do matter. And just like how I dress proffers a message about who I am (for example, I would not go out of my house bra-less and sweat-suit clad--except for the occasional late night dog walk--and nor would I ever go out in an Armani suit or mink coat), I also feel my car should be a reflection of who I am.

Considering that stance, it has been quite revolutionary to discover that I must be having some sort of crisis of self because not only do I not have a particular model or make in mind, nor do I have a specific era, function, or even color in mind either. Thus far, I have looked at and seriously considered a number of options. My front-runners have been a 2008 blue Jeep Wrangler, a 1965 red Mustang, a 2007 black Cadillac CTS, a silver 1986 Alfa Romeo spider, and a 1999 black British-import mini (don't worry: my husband is on board with this Mini as it is the old model).

The kibosh was put on the first four listed for the following reasons: I am neither a surfer nor an avid off-roader, I am not a flashy adrenaline junkie, I am not a subtly wealthy, cashmere sweater-set wearing woman in her 70's, and I am not cool.

I hope my borderline-inexcusable stereotyping will be excused.

The old school Mini is still a contender despite that fact that someone recently told me that a Mini says: "Look at me; I'm cute!" The thought that I would be proclaiming such a self-satisfied little message to the world at large disgusted me, until I realized that such is actually my MO in life in general. Personal revelations can be quite humbling.

After further consideration, I actually think that the old Mini says: "Sure, I am a little bit cutesy, but more importantly, I have been around the block and yet I still happily buzz through life. Plus, I am a just a might bit cool, a tiny shade retro, and a smidgeon classic too." And, if that message is sorely misinterpreted, then the fact that the car is British will impart to people that I appreciate a good sense of sarcastic, sardonic humor.

I think I may have a winner.

But that could change in 3-5 minutes.

Really, this whole car selection process has provided a lot of insight as to why my resume implies I suffer from serious and serial vocational ADD: if I cannot even settle on a car, how can one expect me to settle on a career? Amazing how telling one aspect of life can be about another isn't it?

Inspiration: Not MIA

Someone asked me the other day if I have not been posting on my blog because I missed Paris so much and had nothing inspiring to say about the United States.

This comment is, in retrospect, a bit insulting--not only to the United States as a whole, but to me as a writer. While I love the romance and theoretical notion that Paris is where every writer MUST be in order to create melifluous prose on a regular basis, I am not actually only inspired by Paris. The cafe culture certainly ameliorates any efforts to put pen to paper (or finger to key). That much is not just a Hemingway myth, as I found it to be marvelously true. But a writer can write anywhere. I think.

I hope.

And I do definitely miss France; I miss the food, I miss the anonymity, I miss the feeling that the world was at my fingertips and that everyday was an intercultural lesson in and of itself.

But I live in Charleston, and this city is equally impressive and amazing. For one thing, the food is incredible here as well--not only the world-class restaurants that seem to draw James Beard accolades like moths to a flame--but also the commitment to local produce and seasonal ingredients. Charleston is a lot like Europe in those regards actually. The great news for the pastry afficionado in me is that Macaroons bakery makes a mighty fine, authentically French, croisssant. You can imagine how thrilled I am that the people around here definitely share my affinity for butter. And I just ate at a new resto this past weekend where the french fries outdid anything I consumed in Europe. Yes, Belgium I am talking to you. Please try les frites at The MacIntosh: scrummy beyond beyond. So it is hard to say I miss Parisian food when the culinary delights here are definitely up to par--bien sur!

Additionally, my intercultural needs are being met: as a native New Englander habitating in South Carolina, my life is actually rife with such opportunities. And at least here I can speak English whilst having gross misunderstandings about cultural codes with my neighbors. Rather, I can speak some semblance of English, depending on how deep the Southern drawl of my conversational counterpart.

Of course I miss Paris. But it was my preoccupation with other writing projects that rendered me "blog-less" for the past month, not the fact that I was uninspired by no longer having the city of light as my backyard. Charleston inspires me every day; I am excited to jump back in to life here. And, as the sun actually shines here, I believe I am going to enjoy being back in this city of light immensely.