January 1967. Same Interstate, but going west,
this time. My wife needs the car in Toronto, and I have to take a lot of things
back to Pittsburgh, so I rented a car. I am at the wheel of a brand new Dodge
Polara. She’s a delight : quiet, powerful, comfortable, the sort of car that
makes you feel (quite wrongly, of course) that nothing wrong could possibly
happen.
It’s starting to snow : very small flakes.
Soon, the whole lugubrious landscape turns white : a distinct improvement. The
Polara is by design an extremely quiet car, but on a thin layer of snow, she
becomes completely silent. I so enjoy the silence that it would be a crime, I
feel, to turn on the radio. I glide, I hover, I levitate. It’s absolutely
exhilarating, especially as I am almost alone on the highway. I drive by the
diner where I stopped before, and I can’t help wondering what happened to the
pathetic bride and groom and their guests. I do wish them well.
The magic disappears as I branch off to get on to Interstate
79. Two and a half hours to Pittsburgh… Back to normality, so to speak.
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