When it comes to wheels, I’m a small car man. Always have been, always will be. Automotively speaking, I really do believe that small is beautiful. Not for everyone, of course, but unquestionably for me.
Psychiatrists may make of this what they will: I tend to prefer smaller to larger working spaces, tiny shops to grandiose showrooms, miniatures to giant replicas. Some months ago I was offered a (marginally) larger office here at THE WEEKLY STANDARD, but that would have meant abandoning my current premises, where it grows increasingly difficult to turn around. Widescreen TVs, cathedral ceilings, the Big Sky country of Montana–all leave me cold. Put me in a sleeping-car roomette to Rhode Island, or perhaps Delaware, with a transistor radio for company, and I’m happy.
All of which leads to: my new SmartCar. These radically diminutive, two-seat, three-cylinder bugs–manufactured by Daimler and ubiquitous in Europe–had me thinking envious thoughts when traveling in, say, Germany. So when I read last summer–while flying in a jumbo jet, by the way–that SmartCars were going to be marketed in the United States, I signed up online as soon as I could, paid the $99 registration fee, and awaited delivery.
After ten years of contentedly driving my 1998 Honda Civic Hatchback–the smallest car available at the time–around town, I had decided that it was time for something new. This was no reflection on the workmanlike Honda, which, as Hondas tend to do, keeps on going and going, mileage notwithstanding–and indeed, will now be driven by my son. But the Honda, for all its virtues, is a decidedly plain form of transportation, and having driven a few eccentric automobiles in my time, I thought I had earned the right, at my advanced age, to indulge myself.
Unfortunately, the Mini Cooper, an obvious alternative, had arrived in America when my Honda was still comparatively new. And Toyota, my alluring wife’s brand of choice, now produces a suitably microscopic two-door model called the Yaris. I confess that I was strongly tempted by the Yaris, especially when the SmartCar’s delivery to these shores was repeatedly delayed; but while the Yaris is, no doubt, a fine car, and small by any standard, it does not exactly turn heads when driven down the boulevard.
Well, having finally taken delivery of my SmartCar–white with black roof and trim–in late May, I can attest that it does, in fact, turn heads. And attracts small crowds in parking lots, inspires shouted questions at traffic lights, produces smiles on distracted faces, and gets pointed out routinely in the city and on the highway.
I drove a 1929 Model A Ford coupe (with rumble seat) in high school, and a 1967 Morris Minor (painted white) when I lived in Los Angeles and New England, so I am not unaccustomed to driving a car that attracts attention, even derision. But my SmartCar is in something of a category by itself. I don’t know how long the novelty will persist–they are still rare in these precincts–but it is an unusual intersection where I don’t provide information about gas mileage (approximately 44 mpg) or exchange grins and nods. If I sit by the window in my hometown Starbucks nearly every passerby will circle my SmartCar in the parking lot and peer inside. Taxi drivers are suddenly friendly and inquisitive; soccer moms in vans seem to find me amusing. Only cops tend to scowl.
I confess there are moments when it is mildly disconcerting to be zooming across, say, K Street in downtown Washington with hordes of pedestrians pointing at me and my car, smiling or laughing and nudging companions. If I am some distance from them I can see the word “SmartCar” forming on lips; if closer I will hear “There’s a SmartCar!” or “What’s that?” Of course, this appeals to whatever theatricality lurks in my soul, but it also makes me slightly self-conscious. One tends not to yawn or pick one’s nose under the circumstances.
As I say, at some point the spectacle will grow routine, and I may lapse gracefully back into anonymity. But in the meantime I have made one pertinent observation. I had asked the salesman what kind of person buys a SmartCar, and, somewhat to my surprise, he told me that “the demographic is men between 40 and 55 who want a toy.” I can attest to this: Older men ask a thousand questions and look wistful, while their wives look askance and inquire about safety. Yet not long ago my wife and I were cruising down the highway, and in a neighboring car, a hijab-clad matron in her sixties smiled broadly and gave me the thumbs-up sign.
“See?” I said. “Even Muslims like the SmartCar.”
PHILIP TERZIAN
