"Dream Car" Pismo Beach, California
(Kodachrome 25) Artsediments©2010
(English)
My American Dream started in Madison, Wisconsin without a car. I had landed there with a one way thicket, a one year visa, and two bags with all my belongings. Literally. I got a cheap room in the country side, with tons of flies in it. Wisconsin is a state famous for the abundance of milk, cheese and cows, but not too many people advertise the amount flies that come with the package. They should.
After a few weeks, I realized that I badly needed a car. I was able to get my first American car for free through a friend. It was a white Lincoln 1974, one of the largest car ever built in North America. It was huge beyond imagination. You could sit very comfortably three very large people in the front seat. Everything in it was dead solid, from the doors to the roof. The engine was the most impressive part. When started, after pushing on the gas pedal in neutral gear, you could clearly feel the whole car bending slowly to the right. The more the gas, the more the bent. The consequence of the humongous mechanical torque created by the engine, like in a propeller airplane. The Lincoln 1974 was a monument to the baroque modernist opulence of the America of the seventies. Steel and gasoline will last for ever was its subtitle.
I spent only a few months in Wisconsin, and then I moved west to California, as any respectable fortune seeker in America. There I got my second American car. I bought it for next to nothing from a German woman, and I paid cash. The car was in perfect shape, as expected considering the seller. A great deal. In stark contrast with my previous car, it was one of the smallest car ever to hit the American roads, a Chevy Sprint 1984. The reference to Orwell was not casual. A car designed for the masses, in an age when resources and even the environment come into play. Small, fuel efficient, and cheap. I definitively spent less money in gasoline, and I could feel better for the environment, although I did miss the purely American charm of the Lincoln.
The rigorous comparison between the two cars is striking. The Chevy had a 3 cylinders, a 933cc engine, and weighted 1,367 lb. The Lincoln had 8 cylinders, a 7,500cc engine, and weighted 5,264 lb. It is fair to state that you need about six Chevy Sprint 1984 sprint to make up for one Lincoln 1974
I could say I loved them both. The way you can love a romantic decadent actress with her grand gestures, or an efficient secretary where not a single gesture implies waste. But the strongest memory I still hold in my heart is definitively related to the Chevy. I had started my quest for a better life in California as a knight without shining armor riding the red Chevy Sprint. That afternoon I was driving on Hwy 80 West, toward the bay bridge. The sun was shining, as it often does in that blessed country. I was still in a latent state of euphoria caused by the sun, the brave new world I was in, the 75 mph in one of the five lanes, damned closed to all the other cars driving to the exact same speed. I was looking at the bay. On the left, I had Treasure island, Alcatraz and the Golden Gate on the background. The beauty of it! My pursuit for happiness had clearly started on the right foot, or so it looked. And than it happened. All of the sudden , the back of my seat just failed, and in a fraction of a second I found myself laying down horizontally, staring at the roof of the car from the inside. The steering wheel free to turn anywhere it liked, my hands pointing to the sky. My heart jumped, and I clearly remember thinking "this is the end". A sad finale. Like a knight ready for the war that dies of an heat stroke inside his armour before even getting to the battlefield. Pathetic.
I remember thinking of my Lincoln 1974 in the precise moment I went down . When you are dumped by your fiance' right before the wedding, your first thought flies to your previous girlfriend that would never have betrayed you. With all the environmentally incorrect statements, all the absurd pretenses in terms of aliments, all the pathetic grand old gestures, the Lincoln would not have let me down in such an insensitive ridiculous way. Eventually, I did survived. However, I could never trust small cars again, and I still have a soft spot for huge environmentally unfriendly relics from a pre-decadence age with a large heart. True love is not based on efficiency, after all.
My American Dream started in Madison, Wisconsin without a car. I had landed there with a one way thicket, a one year visa, and two bags with all my belongings. Literally. I got a cheap room in the country side, with tons of flies in it. Wisconsin is a state famous for the abundance of milk, cheese and cows, but not too many people advertise the amount flies that come with the package. They should.
After a few weeks, I realized that I badly needed a car. I was able to get my first American car for free through a friend. It was a white Lincoln 1974, one of the largest car ever built in North America. It was huge beyond imagination. You could sit very comfortably three very large people in the front seat. Everything in it was dead solid, from the doors to the roof. The engine was the most impressive part. When started, after pushing on the gas pedal in neutral gear, you could clearly feel the whole car bending slowly to the right. The more the gas, the more the bent. The consequence of the humongous mechanical torque created by the engine, like in a propeller airplane. The Lincoln 1974 was a monument to the baroque modernist opulence of the America of the seventies. Steel and gasoline will last for ever was its subtitle.
I spent only a few months in Wisconsin, and then I moved west to California, as any respectable fortune seeker in America. There I got my second American car. I bought it for next to nothing from a German woman, and I paid cash. The car was in perfect shape, as expected considering the seller. A great deal. In stark contrast with my previous car, it was one of the smallest car ever to hit the American roads, a Chevy Sprint 1984. The reference to Orwell was not casual. A car designed for the masses, in an age when resources and even the environment come into play. Small, fuel efficient, and cheap. I definitively spent less money in gasoline, and I could feel better for the environment, although I did miss the purely American charm of the Lincoln.
The rigorous comparison between the two cars is striking. The Chevy had a 3 cylinders, a 933cc engine, and weighted 1,367 lb. The Lincoln had 8 cylinders, a 7,500cc engine, and weighted 5,264 lb. It is fair to state that you need about six Chevy Sprint 1984 sprint to make up for one Lincoln 1974
I could say I loved them both. The way you can love a romantic decadent actress with her grand gestures, or an efficient secretary where not a single gesture implies waste. But the strongest memory I still hold in my heart is definitively related to the Chevy. I had started my quest for a better life in California as a knight without shining armor riding the red Chevy Sprint. That afternoon I was driving on Hwy 80 West, toward the bay bridge. The sun was shining, as it often does in that blessed country. I was still in a latent state of euphoria caused by the sun, the brave new world I was in, the 75 mph in one of the five lanes, damned closed to all the other cars driving to the exact same speed. I was looking at the bay. On the left, I had Treasure island, Alcatraz and the Golden Gate on the background. The beauty of it! My pursuit for happiness had clearly started on the right foot, or so it looked. And than it happened. All of the sudden , the back of my seat just failed, and in a fraction of a second I found myself laying down horizontally, staring at the roof of the car from the inside. The steering wheel free to turn anywhere it liked, my hands pointing to the sky. My heart jumped, and I clearly remember thinking "this is the end". A sad finale. Like a knight ready for the war that dies of an heat stroke inside his armour before even getting to the battlefield. Pathetic.
I remember thinking of my Lincoln 1974 in the precise moment I went down . When you are dumped by your fiance' right before the wedding, your first thought flies to your previous girlfriend that would never have betrayed you. With all the environmentally incorrect statements, all the absurd pretenses in terms of aliments, all the pathetic grand old gestures, the Lincoln would not have let me down in such an insensitive ridiculous way. Eventually, I did survived. However, I could never trust small cars again, and I still have a soft spot for huge environmentally unfriendly relics from a pre-decadence age with a large heart. True love is not based on efficiency, after all.
(Italian)
Il mio Sogno Americano comincio' in Madison, Wisconsin, senza una macchina. Ero atterrato con un biglietto di sola andata, un visto di un'anno e due valige con tutti i miei averi. Alla lettera. Trovai una stanza economica nella periferia con migliaia di mosche. Il Wisconsin e' uno stato famoso per l'abbondanza del latte, del formaggio e delle mucche, anche se non molti fanno sapere delle mosche associate al tutto. Dovrebbero.
Il mio Sogno Americano comincio' in Madison, Wisconsin, senza una macchina. Ero atterrato con un biglietto di sola andata, un visto di un'anno e due valige con tutti i miei averi. Alla lettera. Trovai una stanza economica nella periferia con migliaia di mosche. Il Wisconsin e' uno stato famoso per l'abbondanza del latte, del formaggio e delle mucche, anche se non molti fanno sapere delle mosche associate al tutto. Dovrebbero.
Dopo poche settimane, capii che avevo davvero bisogno di una macchina. Riuscii ad avere la mia prima macchina americana gratis attraverso un amico. Una Lincoln del 1974, una delle macchine piu' grandi construite mai in Nord America. Enorme oltre ogni immaginazione. Nel sedile anteriore ci stavano comodamente tre persone di taglia abbondate. Solida dagli sportelli al tetto. Il motore era la parte piu' impressionante. Dopo averlo fatto partire, spingendo sull pedale dell'acceleratore a folle, si poteva chiaramente percepire la macchina piegarsi lentamente a sinistra. E piu' si accelerava piu si piegava. Una conseguenza dell'immane momento meccanico del motore, come nel caso di un aereo a elica. La Lincoln 1974 era un monumento all'opulenza barocca e modernista dell'America degli anni settanta. Acciaio e benzina dureranno per sempre era la sua didascalia.
Ho speso solo alcuni mesi in Wisconsin, a poi mi sono mosso a ovest, come farebbe qualunque rispettabile avventuriero in cerca di fortuna in America. Li' presi la mia seconda macchina americana. Comprata per niente da una donna tedesca, pagata in contanti. La macchina era in forma perfetta, come ci si sarebbe aspettato considerando chi la vendeva. Un buon affare. In netto contrasto con la mia macchina precedente, si trattava di una delle macchine piu' piccole a percorrere le strade americane, una Cevy Sprint del 1984. Il riferimento a Orwell non era casuale. Una macchina progettata per le masse, in un epoca in cui la scarsita' di risorse e persino l'ambiente cominciavano ad avere un peso. Piccola, efficiente, economica. Spendevo decisamente meno in benzina, e potevo sentirmo meglio in termini di ambiente, anche se mi mancava il fascino puramente americano della Lincoln.
Il paragone rigoroso tra le due macchine colpisce. La Chevy aveva 3 cilindri, un motore di 933cc , e pesava 620kg. La Lincoln aveva 8 cilindri, un motore di 7.500cc e pesava 2.388kg. E corretto dire che in media ci volevano circa 6 Chevy per una Lincoln.
Potrei dire che le ho amate entrambe. Nella maniera in cui si puo' amare una attrice romantica e decadente con i suoi gesti plateali, o una segretaria efficiente dove non un solo gesto suggerisce spreco. Ma la memoria piu' forte che ancora conservo nel cuore e' legata alla Chevy. Avevo cominciato la mia guerra per una vita migliore in Califorina, come un cavaliere senza armatura a cavallo di una Chevy Sprint rossa. Quel pomeriggio stavo guidando sulla 80 ovest verso il Bay Bridge. Il sole splendeva, come capita spesso in quella terra benedetta. Ero ancora in uno stato ti euforia latente causato dal sole, dall'essere nel nuovo mondo, dal guidare a 110 km/h in una strada a cinque corsie, dannatamente vicino a tutte le altre macchine alla stessa velocita'. Guardavo la baia. Sulla sinistra Treasure Island, Alcatraz e il Golden Gate sullo sfondo. La bellezza di quella vista. La mia ricerca della felicita' era cominciata col piede giusto, o almeno cosi' sembrava. E poi accadde. D'un tratto la spalliera del mio sedile cedette, e in una frazione di secondo mi trovai steso orizzontalmente, a guardare il tetto della macchina dall'interno. Lo sterzo libero di girare in qualcunque direzione a suo piacimento, le mie mani puntate al cielo. Il mio cuore sobbalzo, e ricordo chiaramente pensare "questa e' la fine". Un triste finale. Come un cavaliere pronto per la guerra che muoia di un colpo di calore nella sua armatura prima di raggiungere il campo di battaglia. Patetico.
Ricordo che pensai alla Lincol 1974 nel preciso momento in cui andai giu'. Quando si e' mollati dalla fidanzata di fronte all'altare il primo pensiero e' per l'ultima ragazza che non ci avrebbe mollato per nulla al mondo. Pur con tutte le affermazioni poco corrette a livello ambientalistico e sociale, con le assurde pretese in termini di alimenti, con i patetici gesti grandiosi, la Lincoln non mi avrebbe mai abbandonato in maniera cosi' insensibile e ridicola. Eventualmente, riuscii a sopravvivere l'accaduto. Da allora, comunque, non sono riuscito piu' a fidarmi di nessuna macchina di piccola taglia. E ho il cuore debole per i relitti grandiosi e antiecologici di un'era pre-decandente con un cuore grande cosi'. Dopo tutto, l'amore vero non ha a che fare con efficienza.
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