Orange is the New Red

The day will arrive when the car of your dreams becomes the car in your driveway.

That was the tag line in a Chrysler commercial I saw during the holiday season. Automakers saturated the airwaves, desperate to reduce their end-of-year inventory. Does anyone really buy a new car in December, stick a giant bow on top and surprise someone with a gift that doesn't fit under the Christmas tree?

My first car did have a bow attached, a totally unexpected gift from my parents on the occasion of my 18th birthday. It was red, with a black plastic interior. A few years later, with not-too-many miles on it, it would routinely stall at idle; no one could diagnose the problem. The car of my dreams was a Honda Accord with a manual transmission. I couldn't take one for a test drive, though, because I didn't know how to drive it.

My second car was the color of cream, with a matching interior and cloth-covered seats that were well-suited to hot summer days. Buying a foreign car was anathema to my father, but he loaned me the money and taught me how to drive a stick shift. Those cars were assembled with a precision unknown to Detroit at the time, and although he could not admit it, he was impressed. A few years later, he replaced my mom's car with ... a Honda Accord. (Automatic transmission, of course.)

For the next several years, a page torn from the Sunday New York Times Magazine graced the windowless wall over my desk at work. The background was a luminous rosy sunset. The foreground featured a silver Ferrari, shot from the side. This was my new dream. Unattainable.

Some 130,000 miles later, it was time for my next car. It was a toss-up between the Accord and its new cousin, the Acura Integra. The salesman who accompanied me on the Honda test drive looked to be the dealer's son, home from college for the summer. Gripping the door on a curvy back road, he exclaimed:

I see you like to drive!

At the time, the Accord and the Integra seemed indistinguishable to me; I went with the lower-priced Integra. I preferred the car in dark blue, but its electric blue interior was - in a word - hideous.

My third car was silver, with a black interior. Within a week I had a severe case of buyer's remorse. I hated the way it handled. Too pragmatic to take a loss on it, I soldiered on.

A few years later, I consoled myself by picking up a second car from a friend. Before he bought one of the first Miatas to reach our shores, his collection included a Jaguar sedan and two other convertibles, a Fiat and an Alfa Romeo. (And yes, he would need the occasional ride when all three of those were out of commission.) When he acquired a fiancée with long, wavy tresses that were incompatible with convertibles, I acquired that red Miata.

The Integra was stubbornly reliable. After enduring it for some 148,000 miles, I was more than ready to move on. But, what next? I wanted a car that would be safe, reliable, and fun to drive. A hatchback would be convenient; Honda no longer offered one. I took an Acura RSX for a test drive on a curvy mountain road and couldn't return it to the dealer soon enough.

A friend suggested BMW. "Too much snob appeal," I countered. "Ah, but have you driven one?," he asked. My test drive at the local dealer was essentially a loop around the block, a mile (at most) through a suburban residential neighborhood. Based on that, they expected me to spend how much on this car? I found another dealer where BMW was showcasing a traveling fleet of assorted models. Each test drive raised funds for the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation. They handed you a key and a route map, and sent you on your way. I merged smoothly into the northbound traffic on the highway, glanced at the speedometer and ... whoa, I'm traveling how fast?

I guess they don't expect to sell many cars at those events. The salespeople were so busy chatting and munching on hors d'oeuvres that no one paid me any mind when I walked into the showroom. I remember announcing:

Excuse me - I would actually like to buy a car.

Then, last summer, a friend indulged his dream.

The first time he turned the key in that shiny black car and I heard that engine roar to life, a new dream was formed.

Once I took the wheel, my fate was sealed.

The day has arrived when the car of my dreams has become the car in my driveway.

It isn't a Chrysler.