THE NEXT FEW INSTALLMENTS of these virtual pages will discuss a topic seldom discussed here–my personal life. You are hereby warned.
I’M NOT SURE when I first became aware that I had misgivings with “America’s love affair with the automobile.” I only know it came at an early age.
I grew up in what at the time was the countryside of Snohomish County, over a mile away from even a convenience store, dependent upon grownups’ cars to even see a movie (the area had no transit system at the time, and the rudimentary one it later obtained has recently been decimated by the first of KV-Lie favorite Tim Eyman’s kill-transit initiatives).
I developed a lifelong disdain for the supposed paradise of the exurbs. I longed to live in a real neighborhood in a real town, even a small one. The countryside became something I wanted to escape from, not to. A sidewalk, a street grid, neighbors, stores that faced a street instead of a parking lot–these were my initial basic icons of a true civilized community (though I wasn’t educated enough yet to actually use such hi-falutin’ words as “community”).
In real farm territories, the automobile was a symbol of freedom and progress. From my vantage point in the far suburbs, it represented enforced isolation and loneliness.
I seemed at the time to have been the only kid anywhere who believed this. Eventually, I’d learn that many, many adults who’d come of age in the Blank and X generations felt the same. (Hence, the hyperinflated housing prices in “real” neighborhoods, and the economic rise of “restored” downtowns at the expense of malls and strip malls.)
But returning to the topic at hand, I finally escaped, eventually settling in Seattle. As a poor college student and an even poorer college graduate, I never got around to buying a car.
It meant that I was dependent on rides to and from places in the far suburbs (such as Boeing Surplus), and that certain other tasks have always been more problematic than they might otherwise have been (such as distributing magazines).
But it also meant that I could read while commuting to work, and that I never had to worry about the little things car owners seem to always worry about (gas prices, new tires, insurance, parking).
One Saturday earlier this month, I borrowed a friend’s late model station wagon. It was my first time behind the wheel in years. To my surprise, it was as easy as ever (even parallel parking). The leisurely, non-traffic-jam drive was even relaxing in a semi-hypnotic sort of way. I instantly understood the lure of the words “Road Trip,” beyond the urge to actually get anywhere.
I’m afraid to make it too big of a habit. I remember the cautionary words from Repo Man: “The more you drive, the less intelligent you become.” (And Repo Man came out before the invention of hate-talk radio!) I suspect the kind of attention safe driving requires might rewire the brain over time, discouraging a certain type of wandering thought process in which certain great and/or stupid ideas can develop.
And as for acquiring my own low-mileage Clarkmobile, that won’t happen just yet. I’ve other major expenses these days, as we’ll discuss tomorrow.
TOMORROW: Misadventures in the housing market.
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