A nice Reliant automobile

I have a blindspot for cars.

Having grown up in a household not dependent on automobiles, and being a militant non-driver, I don't notice much about their details.  A not-quite boyfriend used to point out car after car to me, reciting the year and make, much to my bafflement.  When I married the Resident Fan Boy, he quietly reminded me at the reception to be sure to thank his parents for the fancy car they'd rented to bring us from the church.  I thought we'd ridden in the family car -- although the power-windows should have been a giveaway.  I had other things on my mind at the time.

However, for the couple of months, I have noticed the Plymouth Reliant parked out in front of our building.  For one thing, it's a peculiar colour, albeit it probably wouldn't have drawn a second glance decades ago.  Depending on the light, it appears to be a dark orange - or not-quite-scarlet or rusty brown, or even amber. Dark umber? Copper?

The shape is startling alien to a twenty-first century eye: long and angular.  I looked up the make on Wikipedia.  Some car nuts have made loooong detailed additions to the entry.  From what I can tell, as a militant non-car-driver/non-make-noticer, this one is from the early 1970s.  (They stopped making them altogether in 1976 or 1977.). The Resident Fan Boy remembers his sister's needing wheels to make it to student-teaching assignments, and acquiring an aged Reliant, which proved to be remarkably unreliable, breaking down until she gave up and replaced it.

Vintage cars are not an usual sight in Victoria, where the weather and general absence of road salt is kinder to older vehicles.  However, you usually don't see them parked casually on a reasonably busy thoroughfare. 

A couple of weeks ago, the car vanished as suddenly as it had appeared.  Never saw anybody climb into it, nor out of it.  Never saw anybody driving it, although it changed positions several times during its brief stay.

Maybe it's in my blindspot.

Taking direction, Pt 2

As we swing toward the equinox, I become aware of the darkness of the evening streets again. I'm walking Demeter home after celebrating the Resident Fan Boy's birthday.

It has been one of those twenty-first century family gatherings, with elder daughter watching the proceedings from our computer screen. Demeter jokingly offered her image the first slice of birthday cake. (And yes, younger daughter did manage, after half a dozen tries and several admonishments at me to stop hovering, to light the candles herself. To be fair, the match box is ancient; even I need an attempt or two to strike a light.)

A lady approaches Demeter and me, as we trundle with Demeter's walker past a cabinet left by the sidewalk.

If this were twenty years ago, she tells us with a Texas twang, she'd be picking this up and taking it home.

She falls into step with us, jovially assuring us she's not stalking us, but would like to ask if we've heard of the Beagle.

"The pub down in Cook Street Village?" I ask.

She's asking for directions, so I give her two sets for walking there, telling her it will take her about twenty minutes.

It's only after she has walked on and turned into a driveway where a car with California plates is parked, that it occurs to me that I'm talking to an American, and that means that it's unlikely she'll be walking.

A few summers ago, one of my American cousins came up from California for a visit, and because her son helps design haunted houses, we took them on one of the city's Ghostly Walks. They had rented a car for the visit, and I was mildly surprised when they didn't offer me a lift home. Later in the week, they came to visit me at my house-sit and were astonished that it was so close. They had assumed, when I told them that it took me about half an hour to get home, that I was referring to the driving time, and not a bus journey.

As Demeter and I make our slow way through the darkening streets of Fairfield, I comfort myself with the idea that our Texan lady is unlikely to drive into the ocean.