Arrived Thursday at House Swap #2 in Truro, the capital of
Cornwall, which to my eye is one of the most beautiful, magical places on
earth. Would that I had the writing gifts of a travel scribe like Bill Bryson
to do it justice.
This weekend I’ve been settling in and getting my bearings.
The house itself is very nice indeed – even has a dishwasher, clothes dryer and
Skye TV, which as we know are not standard over here. There have been the usual
hiccups with plumbing one has learned to expect – let’s call them “Adventures
in Toileting” – which I’ll mention later. But perhaps the most remarkable
feature is the car I received as part of the exchange.
When my exchange partner, Chris, asked a few months ago
whether I was OK with driving a “performance car,” I must admit I didn’t know
what he meant. Since my pedestrian Hondas have always served me in good stead,
I haven’t seen any need to venture into anything more luxurious. Put key in,
step on gas, go. So long as the thing has automatic transmission, wheels and
air conditioning, that’s the extent of my driving requirements.
Well, due to issues with Chris’s insurance, he couldn’t let
me drive his modest Ford Focus, which would have been fine with me. Instead
(beat me, whip me), I have to drive his wife’s practically new Audi convertible
– the one that gives whole new meaning to the word “automobile.”
I don’t mind saying that at first I was a little bit
intimidated. I mean, here’s a serious piece of German engineering with SIX
forward gears and more horses under the hood than I’ve ever handled. The
dashboard would rival that of a Boeing jet. Even adjusting the seat is no small
feat, especially for a hefty Brunhilda like me to feel comfortable and fully in
control of all that horsepower.
Finally squeezed into the cockpit, I had to face the clutch. Oh, dear. The clutch, brake and
accelerator are about as close together as hangars on a sales rack at TJMaxx.
Or imagine a fork, knife and spoon lined up next to a plate on your dining
table. Then imagine pressing down the fork and knife at the same time – with
your feet – without disturbing the spoon.
Some of you might know the Fats Waller song from the
Broadway show, “Ain’t Misbehavin’,” called “Your Feets Too Big.” Well,
depending on her shoes (which are definitely giant-sized), Brunhilda’s feet are
too big for this driving machine! If she punches in the clutch, her left foot
tends to stomp on the brake at the same
time. And her right foot seems to cover both the brake and the accelerator.
This pedal ballet is not cool. Adjustment in footwear was required.
OK, clad in different shoes, provided with a tutorial at
the Audi dealer on the electronics, and with a firm resolve, Brunhilda was
finally ready to tackle the highway. I had found my way to and from the grocery
store and the movies OK. I had even located several of the six gears on those in-town
journeys. But the real test was going to be on what the Brits call a “dual
carriageway,” which to us is simply a four-lane road. Many stretches have no
speed limit. Let’s see what these Germans call a “performance car.”
I am not a weenie. I’ve got German immigrants’ blood in my
veins. I can do this. I can do this.
OMG, OMG, OMG! It took less than a mile before I found my
American mojo. Just a wee tap on the gas pedal and WHOOSH! Off I tore like a
hormone-crazed teenager!
THIS is driving, folks! I was evermore sailing down the
highway before I could even blink, and it felt like I was standing still. See a
Mercedes coming up on my rear? Oh, no you don’t, buddy; eat my dust! Dale Jr.,
you have nothing on me, pal!
It took me a few minutes to calm down and become a sane person
again, and I reached my destination – a choral concert in Plymouth about 50
miles away – safely, at a reasonable speed and without incident. But boy, oh
boy, that baby provides one sweet ride.
And I have it for two whole weeks!
Still waiting for the weather to cooperate so I can put the
top down. I may wet my pants.
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