So, they saved her. The gold metallic one. Born in 1969.
The next friday Alvaro drove me to the far north, to pick her up.

The way back was the first time in my life I drove an automatic transmission car. And the trip home was a 2,5 hours drive. So, yes, it was a bad trip. I bumped, rattled and jumped through the streets. Mechanically the car was ok, but I needed to get used to the 2 pedals, in stead of 3. I constantly kicked the wrong ones. And every mistake made me more nervous. The general opinion of real men was that automatic transmissions were for grannies. That were the little painful reactions on my ravings, I thoroughly tried to deny the last couple of months. But my driving style at that evening looked very granny.
Beside that, the springs in the seat had broken. I am tall, but I almost sat on the floor. Alvaro, who was driving behind me, said: “It looked like nobody was in the car. And then it moved like a jerking duck.” I was glad I hadn’t seen his constantly diabollical laugh in my rear mirror.
It was dark already, and cold and foggy, so while I was stretching my back as long as possible, at the same time I maniacally turned every exotic button on the dashboard trying to find the one to heat the windshield.

Seven months after that night, I slowly and carefully undressed her from all her shiny parts. I stripped the window trims, bumpers, light trims, door handles and hub caps and drove her to the sprayer. The metallic paint was so aged and faded, it was more a kind of matt beige powder. She needed to be sandpapered down to the naked metal and redone in new primer and fresh metallic. Also some dents should be beated and filled.
This job would take weeks. Actually, almost 3 months! Another summer without an ego-matching car!!! I’ve cried my eyes out.