I’m not a car guy. But I wish I was ‘cause car guys are cool: They know how to fix stuff and don’t have to lie to the mechanic. When you’re stupid about cars, you don’t want your mechanic to know.
Otherwise, they’ll lose respect for you.
So you play along with whatever they say: “Well, if my headlight fluid is running low, let’s get that fixed ASAP. Definitely don’t want my headlights to run out, haha. Y’know, now that you mention it, I thought they were running low. So let’s refill my headlights… and if you have time, please rotate my hubcaps.”
I’m not a total dunce: I’d usually leave a few coins in the ashtray. I figure, if the mechanic can resist the urge to steal my 27 cents, I should be able to rely on ‘em to be honest and trustworthy with that $4,000 overhaul. (Admittedly, it was an imperfect system.)
Life is tough when you’re a guy who’s stupid about cars.
But a few years ago, I did something different: Before, all my cars had been American. When I was a teenager, I drove my Mom’s old Buick station wagon. I got a Pontiac Grand Prix when I graduated from college. About 10 years later, I replaced it with a new one. After that, I drove a Caddy CTS for a decade.
They were all fine. No complaints.
But they were just cars to me.
That all changed a few years ago when I discovered Alfa Romeos. They’re so nice! Fast, pretty, super-fun to drive! So, I got a beautiful Alfa Romeo Giulia.
It was love at first sight.
She was gorgeous. Black exterior, a mustard-beige interior, and a Ferrari-made engine. And my baby loved to go fast!
Of course, she was Italian, so she was kinda moody and temperamental. Sometimes, weird electronic signals would go off. But she never left me stranded. Not even once.
And every time I started her up, my heart raced before my car did.
She was the first car that made me paranoid: I hated parking near you “normies” — you lowlifes and dirtbags in your disgusting, revolting Saabs, Volvos, and Hondas — because I didn’t want anyone to ding my doors. (It annoyed my kids because I’d always park miles away from wherever we were going.)
I don’t know what it’s like for you, but here in Florida, Alfa drivers all wave at each other. You see another Alfa coming by, so you give ‘em a quick wave — and about half the time, they’ll wave right back! I miss that.
Kinda felt like we were in a neat little community.
But then came Hurricane Milton. Our home in Tampa Bay was badly flooded: Four feet of water. All three of our cars were wiped out.
Including my beautiful Italian girlfriend.
Sigh! Watching your car drown in a flood is just heartbreaking. First, the water short-circuits the electronics, so the windows start going up and down, and the car seats move back and forth. It looks like it’s being controlled by a ghost. Then, your car enters its death throes: The alarm goes off and your poor baby cries for salvation, but curses and drat, her cries go unanswered.
And a few hours later, the floodwaters recede, and your formerly perfect car is caked in mold. It really does happen that quickly. (At least in Florida.)
So I needed to get a new car. I wanted another Giulia, but my family was against it: The car made me too paranoid and the repair bills were getting out of hand.
See, that was the other issue with Giulia: She was beautiful, but her upkeep was considerable. There just aren't a lot of Alfa parts floating around, and because Italian cars are built differently, maintenance costs more. A few months before she died, I paid $2,000 to fix her turbo. Obviously, as her mileage increased, so would her cost. My Italian girlfriend was already north of 90,000 miles, and alas, the Alfa brand isn’t exactly synonymous with longevity and durability.
Long story short: For the past two weeks, I’ve been driving a Tesla Model S.
It’s weird, man.
I mean, I like the car. It’s crazy-fast: The model I got goes from zero to 60 in 3.2 seconds, which is just nuts! Your whole body jolts backward — and you launch forward like a frickin’ rocket ship.
It’s waaaay faster than Giulia. (And I promise you, she wasn’t slow!)
The regenerative breaking takes time to get used to. In a normal, gas-powered car, you continue to roll forward until you hit the brakes. In a Tesla, the opposite is true: The car stops moving when you release the (non-)gas pedal. So I can drive all over town without hitting the brakes.
It’s very odd.
The car holds about 220 miles per charge. And that’s fine. Not great, so I usually charge up from home. And on road trips, Tesla actually plans your journey for you, lets you know where on your route their Superchargers will be available, and even advises you how long you’ll need to charge at each one. I drove a Tesla from Tampa to Georgia, and everything went fine.
Elon Musk made a good product. It’s a great car.
But it’s just not as much FUN as my Alfa. And I honestly don’t know why!
When I drove my Guilia, it was like playing a video game. It was joyful, exciting, and interactive. But when I drive this Tesla, it’s more like watching a video game. I’m not really participating; it’s more like I’m monitoring.
The car does all the fun stuff on its own.
Also: My Guilia was definitely, 100% female. (Don’t ask me how I know this. I just do.) But I have no clue what gender this Tesla is! It doesn’t really feel male or female. More like an asexual robot, if that makes any sense. Everything is sanitized and clerical.
So that’s my story: I’m now one of the EV dorks. (Next, I gotta grow out my manbun.) And no complaints: It’s a cool vehicle. I named it “Sparky,” which seemed appropriate for an EV.
But y’know what?
I still miss my Giulia.
