The European Connection
I’ve been to the UK a few times, technically for work. What you’re currently reading is part of that. At least, that’s what I’m telling the IRS. Thanks for that, by the way.
Several years ago, I rented a nifty little Vauxhall. Vauxhall is a British car company headquartered in Chilton, Bedfordshire. My little Vauxhall was the tiniest car they made. It had a standard transmission and a most remarkable personality.
Modern automobiles talk to you. I once read that a new-production car contains between 2,500 and 3,500 microchips. For an American driving in the UK on the wrong side of the road with weird street signs and ubiquitous sheep cluttering up the motorways, audible navigation aids are a lifesaver.
All the major machines in the Dabbs family get their own names, and that extends to rental cars. We named our little Vauxhall Victoria.
Victoria was the perfect woman. She was smart, patient, forgiving, and more than a wee bit sultry. She sounded like a Bond girl. Had I not been traveling with my wife, I might have developed an undue attachment to Victoria. That’s just as well. There’s no way she would have fit in my carry-on bag for the trip back home.
During this most recent trip, the rental car company issued us a spanking new VW Golf. Unlike Victoria, this Golf and I did not get along well. I named him Adolf.
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