When it comes to cars, I’m a fairly typical American. I like my car, I like to drive places — which is good, because Denver, Colorado, is not made for convenient public transport, nor easy walking). All I really want in a car is something that is relatively problem-free. That’s some of the reasons I own a Honda — change the oil of your vehicle every four months or so, and it’s going to last and last. Plus, my relatively affordable car is paid for, so that’s another bill I don’t have to worry about.
But I do have a love and a preference for one particular vehicle — it’s not secret, it just doesn’t come up that often in conversation. I adore Rolls Royces, and every time I see one, I grab the arm of any family or friend near by, point, and go, “Oooh, oooh, oooh, oooh.”
It was love at first sight. The long, sleek lines, the lovely Spirit of Ecstasy statuette, those two interlocking R’s, and what I hear is the quietest ride of any automobile, ever. Then, when I found out that each Rolls Royce car is made for one person only — the owner, the car became drool-worthy. Furthermore, I heard the story about a man whose Rolls broke down, so he sent the car back to the manufacturer to be repaired. Afterwards, he was never charged for repairs. He called the company to ask why he never received the bill, and was told, “A Rolls Royce does not break down.” I don’t know if this is a true story, or apocryphal, but I like its wonderful snobbery.
I can’t explain, rationally, why I love Rolls’ so much, any more than I can explain why listening to Mozart elevates my mood, or why watching other people fall down is always funny — I just love it.
I bought several books about Rolls Royces, reading about the history of the automobile, and staring blankly at the chassis, and generally thinking about which organ I would miss the least to sell so I could finance this dream (half of my liver, I think — it regenerates, and maybe I really don’t need BOTH lungs).
Then I grew up, got married, and had children. My priorities shifted. Reality had become unavoidable. I am solidly middle class (all right, maybe slightly shaky middle class) and where I live became more important than what I drive. Besides, where would I drive my Rolls Royce? The supermarket? The 2,000-mile round-trip from Denver to St. Louis to visit family over Spring Break? The YMCA? (Actually, there was a man who drove and parked his two-toned Rolls Royce to work out at my YMCA, so yeah, maybe there.) It’s not like I would ever go to the Met Gala, the Black & White Ball, or any other schmancy event that takes place in New York. Going to the symphony once or twice a year doesn’t count as worthy enough to buy a car that starts out at low $300,000. And, I have nothing to wear — I just re-read the beginning of that sentence, and it’s a sad state of affairs when the vehicle you drive dictates your outfits since you have nothing fancier than the stuff you wear to synagogue, and that’s not very fancy at all as we live in Colorado, where no one really dresses up. Of course, the super-rich actually don’t care about what they wear — they get into their luxury cars wearing torn yoga pants and moth-eaten cotton sweaters. I mean, I live in those clothes, but not being super rich, I would care. But I am getting way off topic.
Yesterday I was looking at the news, and that’s when I saw it — an article on the 2021 Ghost model Rolls Royce. Naturally, I clicked on it — and was transported to my teen-age crush years. There were words there no one uses in daily conversations, words like leatherwoodmetal. Words like “whisper” — apparently, the engineers found the ride TOO quiet, so they added a low hum they call a “whisper” that people found soothing and comforting. Personally, I would take away that “whisper” and add a Waterford clock, whose quiet ticking would be all the noise I require, but that’s just me.
This article wasn’t so much a news article but rather a 25-photograph ad for an automobile that never needs advertising. However, that’s all I needed to get lost in fantasies of driving such a magnificent beast. Honestly, if I did ever own one, I would worry constantly about every little scratch, I could never use anything but valet parking and become such a snob I would never drink water from the tap, ever again. It’s really best for everyone (especially me) that I stick with my good old reliable Honda.
But a girl still dreams…