Car #4: Noddy

Well, maybe I shouldnt have said anything. Xsara1 died in her sleep last night. It might be that kind of death that's reversible, resurrectable, Lazarian death, but when you turn the key and nothing happens -- I mean nothing -- that's dead, in car terms, at least as far as my mechanical ability goes. And the suddenness of her passing was a surprise indeed. Just yesterday she was so vibrant, so alive...

So we unstrapped Kepler from his Big Boy Seat and decided to spend the day at home, playing in a more domestic direction. "S" sent "J" up to try the jump-start method, which failed, and then, with Carlos unreachable and lest we be trapped in the house for the entire weekend, we received a loaner to replace our loaner... but what a car we got.

"D" loaned us Noddy, his 1977 Citroen Dyane.

This is a dream come true, I thought. I love classic Citroens. The French make crap cars, but they make them beautiful. I've always wanted a 2CV or even better, a DS. Someday, when we've finally found the dream house and moved into it, I'll get one of these. There's no better welcome to France than to pick up friends at the airport in a car like that.

But despite all the years of classic Citroen lust, I've never actually driven one. Crikey. Cars have come a long way since 1977. The starter button is just that, a button. The key (which fits into a keyhole under the steering wheel) only serves to lock the steering wheel, but anyone can turn the car on with no tools whatsoever. Amazing, those French engineers, inventing the Club years before that automotive security device came along; "D" told me that some teenagers had once tried to hotwire his car, and couldn't figure out how to do so. It would never have occurred to them the the car was built pre-hot-wired. And I suppose it's a smart system, so long as the would-be thief doesn't live directly ahead of the car's parking place...

But I digress.

On the drive to his house, "D" gave me a driving lesson, a strange necessity considering how many cars I've driven in my life. But in Noddy, nothing was obvious. Gas? Leaded, of course. The windows? They slide horizontally. The door-latches, the lights, the gear shift: all cleverly concealed. That latter object, the stick-shift-stick, turned out to be the ball-topped lever sticking straight out of the dashboard where the radio ought to be. And where you'd expect first gear to be: reverse. Of course.

But on the ride home, all alone, I did love the car. It was a mindtrip to drive, a whole different language of driving, another paradigm uninfluenced by the standards to which all cars now seem bound. The road to our house is a windy one, and the whole journey felt like an old French movie, with the cloth top rolled back, the engine so loud, the handling so unresponsive. Magnificent. It wasn't comfortable, and I don't know how useful Noddy is to us, since she doesn't have the necessary seatbelts to secure a child seat, but fun? You bet.

So yes, I still want a classic Citroen. I might never drive it, because the French make crap cars. But I still want one, because they make them so beautiful. And when I pick you up at the airport, look for me in one of these:

But don't offer to drive. I'll have to teach you first.