Baby, Can I Drive Your Car?

Last night, Lord Kissington, my father, my stepmother, and I had dinner at a private club, where we were the guests of a good friend of my father’s. The dinner was delightful, and the club was really lovely. The ridiculous amount of flatware on the table gave me a chance to show off my fine table manners (sadly eating dinner off the coffee table while watching TV doesn’t really give me much room to show off on a regular basis). But the really memorable part of the evening came at the very end, when our hostess’ friend gave us a ride home. In his 1959 Rolls Royce. I have to say up front that I am not remotely interested in cars. I am a city person. I walk everywhere. I see cars as something to get you from A to B, and I figure you are better off driving a heap of junk because then it’s less likely that it will get stolen or broken into (both are inevitable in DC). But riding in this car was rather exciting. It seemed so decadent, keeping a huge vintage car in the city. I can’t even imagine how bad the gas mileage would be. It was huge and leathery, and the back seats had picnic trays that you could pull down to have a snack. It looked something like this, only in silver. It was pretty awesome.