"This vintage car one is a piece of art. Awesome job. Thanks for making me see the beauty in vehicles!"
HOW did he react?
He laughed. Said thank you. showed me pictures of his other pieces and was down for some explaining.
HOW did I feel?
Yesterday, 10 PM:
Here's what I think about cars: Nothing. I don't care. They mean about as much to me as fridges do- I like when they work. I appreciate if they are environmental friendly. Spending another thought on them is a waste of time to me. Talk numbers and names I will zoom out even if try to focus. My spontaneous list of car companies contains 11 brands. One parent living near Detroit, one in Germany doesn't change the fact that I'm in love with my bike and haven't got a license yet. If someone calls: "Look! A Porsche!", I'll be glad if I recognize the vehicle he's talking about. I definitely won't know which one he means if he says: "Look! A beautiful car!". In my world there are no beautiful cars. There are just cars.
Yesterday, 11.30 PM:
I went over to a friend's house. She had house guests from Scotland. I asked what brought them to Andernach. They said: "Our car!". "Oh, Rosa!", my friend's eyes widened, "Come here!". She took my hand and dragged me into the garage. She switched the lights on.
"Woahh!" I cried.
A vehicle was standing in front of me- not just any vehicle. This car was the epitome of aesthetic. It was of a deep sea blue and told a story of a decades long devotion. There were cute details all over it: The logo, a small globe, appearing on hub caps, flash lights and the stick. The mirrors, slightly tarnished. That classy dashboard, the wooden steering wheel, the unique handles... It smelled of oil and leather. I thought of sunny afternoons, hair clothes, pomade and red lipstick.
Turned out Scotsman Andrew fixes those cars. All by himself. It takes ages to get all the parts. Not to speak of putting them together. Or getting them to work again once they break down on the road. Judy, his wife and owner of the car, will remain seated if that happens. And knit. Or hate the rain if the top is down and Andrew lies under the car, trying to find out what is wrong. But eventually he gets the auto back on the road. Every time. He says that with excitement in his eyes.
I asked him what it was that kept him going. He said: "It's driving the car for the first time. And realizing: It works! It really does!" His voice pitched a little higher and his smile grew bigger. "After all these months or even years of effort- finally this thing moves. Actually, no. It doesn't just move... Driving a vintage car is not moving a vehicle. It is a whole different world. Try it and you'll know what I mean. Also, I get lost in the process. It's not like I constantly have the aim in front of me. It's the getting there, the going itself that keeps me going. I just love doing it." His passion spoke from his gestures and his looking for words. Combined with his friendliness and his natural laugh it turned our conversation into the most pleasant moment.
Yesterday, 11.55 PM: Edit.
Here's what I think about cars: The vintage ones are marvelous. Time to finally get a license!