Missing my car
Three weeks ago I rented a car to go on vacation with my girlfriend: a steel-blue Renault Clio five door hatchback. We went camping in the north of Normandy, on the coast. I drove 2470.9 km in those two weeks. From home to my parents, to visit my father who was ill, from my parents to France, back and forth to a supermarket, on a tour of Normandy, back to my parents for another visit and then back home.
Then I delivered the car back to the garage where I had rented it, and missed it. We’d been living in and around that car for two weeks. It was our storage place and shopping vehicle. It got us everywhere we wanted to go. I drove, my girlfriend read the maps (she can read maps, you know). Even though we slept in a tent, the car was sort of a home-on-the-road.
Just after our vacation my dad died and exactly a week after our return we buried him. In order to be more flexible and mobile at the funeral I again rented a car and it happened to be the exact same one. In it I drove the next of kin to the church, to the graveyard and back home. The 349.1 km that I drove were for a much sadder occasion than our vacation. But still, when I returned the car I again missed it.
I now understand those who own a car much better. A car is -indeed- a sort of home-on-the-road and it feels that way too: important parts of your life are linked to it.