Last week, visiting friends in Italy, I had an epiphany in two car journeys. The first ride was in a spiffy-looking new Fiat 500 I’d rented. I’d been excited about driving this pretty update of a classic Italian design. Yet the brand new cinquecento was wheezy even as I drove it off the airport, and arthritic on the autostrada, petulantly ignoring my demands on the accelerator even as I bullied it with gearbox and clutch. Challenged by the steep ascent to a hilltop trattoria, it sputtered to a halt and demanded the eviction of two of my passengers (my hosts; a faux pas). This was a voyage of shattered dreams. Renting such an underpowered car had been a mistake; how could anyone dream of buying one?
The second ride was the same hill challenge, this time experienced as a passenger in my host’s ten-year-old Ford Galaxy. Have you seen photos of Boris Johnson’s 14-year old, battle-worn Toyota Previa? My friend’s Galaxy is, in its state of banged-up entropy, a rival for the Foreign Secretary’s antediluvian minivan.
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