I was never very good about keeping it clean or waxed. I didn't change the oil as often as I should. I didn't give it a name or think of it as "she." It was just "my car." "The Mercedes." Sometimes, "the Benz."
2002 S-500. Black, of course. What other color could it be? So big. So agile despite its great size. So damned fast. How many Priuses have I terrorized? How often have I blown the doors off some Subaru? How many times have I schooled some NASCAR wanna-be who thought his pick-up had pick-up?
Good times. Good times.
But it's just too much for Italian roads. So today I traded in the Benz for a Toyota RAV 4. Red. I'll ship the RAV to Italy, cheaper than buying a car with Euros. I'm sure it's a fine, little car. I got the V-6 and hey, it's quick.
I actually teared up today at the dealership. My wife's face was a study in sympathy. Okay, not sympathy. More like contempt mixed with disbelief. There were hurtful, sexist remarks about "boys."
But the truth is I doubt I will ever have another human-car relationship quite as intense as the one I've had since 2001 with my beautiful, black Mercedes. God damn, I love that car.