Henry Ford: 100 Years of Backseat Squabbling
I’ve just finished reading Roger Angell’s New Yorker piece on driving, and it’s brought up a desire to hire a car and head for . . . someplace. This is, of course, highly strange, as those who know me will aver, given that I have never had a driving license, an even stranger circumstance because I grew up on Long Island, where car culture dominates all other forms. This isn’t to say that I haven’t ever driven a car. I have, many times, if always illegally. I have even done a little bit of middle-distance driving, once notably taking the wheel in a blinding snow storm on the NY State Thruway. The long-distance driving Mr. Angell describes is something in my lief always left to others, my parents, much like he experienced, and much as he tells it, full of animals and children – mostly me – getting nastily ill. This is not to say that driving hasn’t had its sublime moments, although none of them included women, as unfortunate as that may have been then. Still, I have been behind the wheel with the radio on and the windows open, heading for some place, whether home or away, where I wanted to be. Mr. Angell’s article leaves aside the other notable automobile experience that comes from hitchhiking, which I’ve done my share of and which is for the most part sadly passed away, and many of my best experiences travelling by car have come from caging rides in this fashion. Now here I am in Sydney, a city where you can really use a car sometimes, although it isn’t really necessary, especially if you live, as I do, in Surry Hills, where the CBD is just over there and Darlinghurst and Paddington are just over there the other way and there’s plenty of what’s wanted in between. (We’re also just a few blocks from Central Station, so long distance travel is no further off than just as far as you can carry your luggage without hurting yourself, not to mention that the airport is one of the most accessible on the planet, allowing very long distances to be traversed with ease.) Car culture is significant here, but no more so than beach/surf culture, the various performing and non-performing arts, et al. But Sydney aside, I’m in Australia, and it would be unforgivable not to drive the Pacific Highway south, visiting Melbourne and Adelaide, and all the roadside attractions in between, heading up to Brisbane and out to the Red Middle. I’ll leave crossing the Nullarbor to trains, though, and visit Perth that way. In fact, these scenarios demand driving to some extent, for although it is possible to avail oneself of the other methods, like the coast of California, Big Sur notably, you’ll miss some of the best bits if you don’t drive. It’s going to happen; I’m going to make sure of it. If I keep bringing lunches to work, we can save enough money for the $40 per week the lessons will cost. It’s not like Epping is noted for its culinary offerings anyway. That will wait until I get home.