Shifting gears

It was quickly clear that renting a car when living here is just no option. The first weekly bill plays badly with my mood and a decision is quickly made. We buy a car. A real American car.

But in the country of trucks and jeeps, our garage is adapted to city limits. You even wonder if a Mini will fit.

Not that we have been wondering about it. About the Jeep. Or the truck. Or the Mini. No, living in California there are only two options.

You drive a hybrid.
Or a thirtysomething.

I did not even know what a hybrid was. I come out of a country where environmental education is absolutely non-existing. Not popular. Not modern. But here, in California is green a trend. And hybrid a must. I tested. And I liked it. Approved.

Next test. The thirtysomething. If you want to be cool in San Francisco, you drive an oldie. Recyclage, I suppose, just fits to the green trend.

So, my own German and I are turning around this tiny, black Volkswagen Beatle. It's tiny, I say. And dirty, he says. It's broken, I say. But so adorable, he says. I think it went wrong when we gave him a name. From then on it was clear we would take him home.

So, here I am.
Saturday morning.
7AM.

San Francisco is still asleep. And I sit in a bug trying to shift gears. It's a hard job. Driving a tiny-dirty-broken-but-adorable VW beatle. Shifting the gears.

People smile. And I wonder.
Will they stil smile when I shift gears on the hilly roads of San Francisco?