The Passenger Seat

Today’s guest author is The Blue Car

Hello everyone. I’m back!

Susan is taking a break for Thanksgiving weekend, and I know you’re all on the edge of your seats wondering what’s happening with me, so I’m writing today’s essay. And I have so much to share!

First, I am thrilled to be out on the roads this time of year. By the end of November, I’m usually stuck in the cold, dark garage in Vermont with that ugly car cover over me (it isn’t even designer…just plain tan…ugh). I’m so glad no one sees me like that. But Susan isn’t putting me in storage this year, and I am reveling in the cold air on the Boston roads as she drives me around in her pink coat and gloves. It’s a whole new world, and I am so happy.

I also have trip news! I just got the date I must be at the car-shipper’s warehouse near the Port Newark Container Terminal in New Jersey. I can’t believe it! Susan has been talking about this trip for soooo long that I honestly wondered if it would ever happen. I haven’t said anything to her, of course. I mean, if all of you have been reading these essays week after week and not one of you has said, “Enough already, just go on the damn trip, Susan,” how could I be the bad guy? But I do have patience. And I trust her. When she says she’s doing something (and that I’ll be coming along), it always happens.

And now? It’s really, really close! We’re heading to the warehouse on January 5th, and that’s just five weeks away. I hope I haven’t blown the surprise by telling you. But just in case…please keep this between you and me until she says something.

I didn’t intend this essay to be all about me, but I do have one more thing to tell you (I promise).

I am a teensy-weensy bit nervous. Well…maybe more than teensy-weensy. Maybe more like Ich sitze auf glühenden Kohlen nervous—which translates to “I’m sitting on hot coals” anxious. This trip isn’t like the last one we did together. On that cross-country adventure, there was no water involved. Oh, we had heavy rain and a few rivers to cross by bridge, but not ocean kind of water.

I can’t remember the last time I was on a big ship. The whole world was new to me in 1970, and so many things have happened since then that it’s all a blur. I do vaguely recall being seasick, but Susan tells me not to worry. She says I hadn’t been out on any travels before getting on that ship, and now I have almost 56 years of autocross, drivers-ed track days, and winding country roads behind me. She insists I’m used to movement now and the Atlantic crossing will be easy. Do you think she’s right? Or is she just trying to make me feel better?

And I’m worried about something else that’s a little embarrassing.

I’ve seen a map. The Atlantic Ocean is enormous. Did you know that? And…I can’t swim. Should that make me nervous? I’m too ashamed to tell Susan. She thinks I can do anything. And it does seem unbelievable that I can’t swim, right? I do so many things so well that this must have been a rare oversight by the Porsche engineers in the late 1960s. They were probably distracted. The Beatles, the Rolling Stones, the Supremes. The Apollo 11 moon landing. The first flight of the Concorde. And maybe most distracting of all, Sesame Street was launched. But I would never blame Elmo or the Cookie Monster for this one character flaw.

Still…I wonder what will happen if something goes horribly wrong. Susan just gave me a set of winter-rated tires (my first!) so we can drive in Germany in February and March. Perhaps they’ll act like a personal flotation device in an emergency?

Okay…I’m not going to think about this.

Now that I’ve confessed all that, I hope you won’t think poorly of me when I tell you that on Tuesday morning, when she tried to start me, I kept stalling. And stalling. And stalling. I think I may be overexcited from anticipation and slightly uncomfortable from sitting on those metaphorical hot coals. I tried to apologize. She was patient, but it was going so badly that after fifteen minutes, when she finally got me started, she drove me straight to Jerry, my mechanic. She said she knows me so well (which is true) that she could hear something wasn’t quite right. So, Jerry will be looking me over after the holiday, and I guess I’ll have to confide in him about my nerves so he can clear things up before January.

And honestly? I have plenty of time in his garage this weekend to write, and lots of other Porsches to talk to. So, it’s not all bad.

It’s remarkable how well Susan knows me. The slightest change in my idle, a shift in engine noise—she notices everything. But I’ll brag a little here: I know her just as well as she knows me. We’ve been together for a long time. She’s written about how she thinks I was jealous of her during our early days together (okay, maybe a little) and how I always broke down on her, but those times are over.

And knowing her the way I do, I feel comfortable telling you something she won’t tell you herself. This upcoming trip through Europe is going to be pretty much like the U.S trip and I have been thinking a lot about that empty passenger seat.

Two years ago, she did that cross-country trip alone (except for me, of course). We visited a few friends along the way and stayed with her brother at the end in New York. But this trip? We have fewer planned friend stops, though we do have that fabulous Porsche Club event in Sweden to look forward to.

And as usual, the passenger seat will be vacant. And I’m getting a little tired of this. Whether it’s a quick drive around town or a once-in-a-lifetime adventure, it’s always empty.

Now, please don’t take this the wrong way. I am loyal to her, and I love when she drives me. She’s interesting and fun and always up for an adventure. She can have a great time no matter who she’s with, and she meets people effortlessly when she travels solo. I couldn’t ask for a better companion.

But sometimes I wish there was someone else to spice things up. I don’t always get her jokes, and I’d love someone else around to take that pressure off me. I love listening to her talking to her phone voice notes with ideas for essays, but I can’t talk back. I’m a 1970s sports car, and as hard as it is to say this, I have my limits.

And truth be told (please don’t tell her I said this), I like another driver behind the wheel occasionally—like her sons—even if they don’t know me quite as well. And I hope her daughter will hurry up and learn manual because I’ve been waiting ages. It’s a bit like eating the same meal every day. Susan’s a skilled driver, but a little variety wouldn’t hurt. Someone who lets her look out the windows more, or take a nap, or leads us down roads she hasn’t thought of. She loves surprises, so I know she’d like that too.

When her son went to autocross with her last year and spun me out on a tight turn, she sat in the passenger seat laughing. I felt great. It’s fun to discover what I can do.

And believe me, I would welcome another car parked next to me sometimes—preferably not her self-righteous Subaru bragging about all its winter “action” while I sit in darkness. Help me out here, someone. Anyone.

I am so lucky she’s my partner in these adventures. And because I see her up close—when she’s in jeans doing errands or all dressed up for a night out—I know her better than anyone.

She sees the bright side of everything. When things go wrong and the rain is pouring and my defrosters don’t work, she stays calm and has a smile. I appreciate that; she never makes me feel guilty for my occasional aches and pains. She’s practical (there’s a toolkit and spare parts behind the seat), but she doesn’t hunt for trouble, and she knows that getting upset just makes things worse.

She’s a wonderful listener. She knows all my healthy sounds and can pick up the tiniest issue, and I’ve seen her be that way with people too. She asks questions. She doesn’t interrupt. She makes space.

And she’s seen a lot of shit in her life (that’s Scheiße in German). She has no time for drama now. She loves laughing and can be as silly as a child—joyful in a way that softens everyone around her.

She has quirks, of course. I’d be lying if I didn’t share a few. Most odd is her love of hardware stores. She gets as excited about hardware as she does about jewelry. Truly. She went to Paris and came back raving not about Cartier and Boucheron, but instead, went on and on about the do-it-yourself basement at BHV, the big department store. Who travels like that?

She loves snow with an almost ridiculous passion. I’ve only shared that joy a few times. But I hear her in the Vermont garage during storms—deliriously happy. That winter in 2015 when Boston got 110 inches of snow? She was out there at 5am with the snowblower whistling. Not a complaint from her, but from me? Well…maybe she spent too much time making snow forts, but who am I to judge?

She is spectacularly bad at video games. The kids refuse to play with her. For someone with terrible hand-eye coordination in that department, her driving reflexes are a marvel.

When she’s prepping for a dinner party or gathering, she’ll chatter away, excited to cook for people she loves. And she never complains of boredom. She always has a book to read, a project, or just a quiet walk.  She loves alone time but delights in groups too. She could be in Vermont alone for days on end and be happy—and then be in a crowd in Boston the next week and love it. I honestly envy it. I can only handle two people at a time, with maybe a dog or child as a bonus (though I do love a good crowd admiring my Albert Blue finish at car shows).

She sometimes buys wine because she likes the label but never chooses books that way. She can’t snap her fingers or do that cool New Yorker taxi whistle, but she spent years in community theater and might return to it someday. She would have to stay in one place for a while to do that. And maybe to find a traveling companion too. She shrugs whenever I suggest it, like it’s no big deal. That’s another thing about her…she’s adaptable.

Of course, anyone joining us will need to pack light. No heavy baggage. And he’ll need to appreciate my modest 120 horsepower (it’s the skill of the driver, not the size of the engine). Most of all, he’ll need to understand that life is precious—not fragile in a “don’t touch” way, but precious in the “enjoy every day deeply” way that keeps me on the road and Susan singing behind the wheel.

Oops. I should finish up now. Susan doesn’t usually write this so much, and I don’t want to upset you. I hope you had a good Thanksgiving if you were celebrating. She has much to be thankful for, and she knows it.

And maybe that’s the best thing about her. That, and her smile. And her light touch on my wheel of course.

Maybe I’ve said too much. I’ve probably embarrassed her enough for one holiday weekend; it’s time to sign off before she finds this draft in the glove box.

But I know what I know, even if I am only a car. And I know my passenger seat won’t stay empty forever—not if the right person loves a good road, laughs easily, travels light, and doesn’t mind a Porsche with opinions.

Oh—if you happen to know someone who looks like they belong in this seat? Send him our way.

I promise I’ll be on my best behavior.