Blue cars.
He walked with a purpose
In his sneakers, down the street
He had many questions
Like children often do
— Dishwalla
***
When we told Nicolas this morning that we were going to go look at cars so that we could maybe buy one, he said we should look at the wheels.
Joe’s list included making sure he could comfortably fit his tall frame into the driver’s seat and mine included airbags (which aren’t necessarily standard here in a super cost-conscious market) but two-year-olds have their own priorities.
So as we piled into the “auto” (rickshaw) that we had called to take us to the dealerships, we promised we would pay close attention to the wheels.
I wasn’t particularly looking forward to the trip. Despite having spent a not-insignificant chunk of my advertising career working on automotive and motorcycle accounts, I’ve never enjoyed being on the buying side and have tried to avoid it at all costs. I couldn’t imagine that I’d like it any more here — especially if getting hawked at for everything from balloons at Connaught Place to brass trinkets and baskets outside our apartment’s gate was any indication of what the experience might be like — even if the manufacturer’s price here is a firm maximum (by law).
The first dealership surprised the hell out of me. Sure, it felt overly formal to be offered a seat and cold drinks while we waited for a salesman to let us kick some tires but it also felt nice to have him speak just as much to me as to Joe. And when our friendly salesguy suggested that “Ma’am should also sit in the driver’s seat, of course,” I was happy to oblige. Even more shocking? He showed us all three trimlines and suggested that maybe the most expensive had quite a few features we’d likely never use. We walked out agreeing that, all other things being equal, we’d be happy to spend our money there.
It seemed like the trip had gotten off to a good start.
That lasted about as long as the 5-minute walk from Dealership #1 to Dealership #2.
Nicolas was more than happy to accept another bottle of cold water but I grew leery as the salesdude started going in for paperwork and asking when we’d put in an order before we had even had a chance to see and sit in, let alone test drive, the next car on our list. I probably could have done without the schlep across the street to their service department so that we could check it out. And I had pretty much entirely ruled it out as Nicolas and I stood in the hot sun while Joe determined that his knees would be happier in something else. But I was really over it when we went back inside and got the high pressure pitch to put a deposit down all while we were getting stared at by everyone in the room. (The staring is a subject for another post but suffice it to say that it’s intense. Nicolas has taken to wearing a hat and sunglasses whenever we leave the house in some attempt to hide from the attention.)
Our second rickshaw of the day couldn’t have come soon enough.
As we piled in, I don’t know who was more excited that our next stop was a lunch break: me or Nicolas. We had promised pizza at “the place with the pillows” and he was all in. I was looking forward to the known quantity of a place we’d been to before and a break from a not-favorite activity (even if it did mean having to pick through crowds and firmly tell the shop-touters around Connaught Place to leave us alone).
By the time we had filled our bellies with fresh limes and pizzas loaded with veggies, Nicolas had perked up reasonably enough that we figured we could eke out one more showroom stop before he’d call our bluff. Was our day’s adventure really an adventure or just a boring task that he was getting dragged along on? We weren’t going to chance him figuring it out.
Joe suggested we hightail it to the last dealership on foot because it was a 12-minute walk versus an 8-minute ride. I’m sure the stares were warranted this time: Nicolas in his sunglasses and hat perched on Joe’s shoulders while I followed behind carrying a rather large pizza box filled with our leftovers.
And I’m also sure the last dealership didn’t entirely know what to do with us when we walked through the door somewhat sweaty from schlepping in the mid-day sun and dangerously close to our toddler’s nap time.
I could tell the younger salesguy was out of his element as we worked to cut through the formalities as quickly as possible and just sit in the cars we had on our list so that we could eliminate the ones that weren’t going to work. As Joe slide into the driver’s seat of the first model, I heard him ask if Joe even knew how to drive a stick. (I was too tired by that point to want to really blow the guy’s mind and say that I did too.) But he recovered quickly enough to figure out that the sit test really mattered to two tall (even by American standards) adults who already had done their research. And he was more than happy to oblige when we asked him to wrap up his spiel quickly, give us the brochures and price list, and let us get our very tired little boy home.
We didn’t walk away with a car today. (And likely wouldn’t have anyways since it’s almost certain that we’ll have to book one and wait for it to be delivered.) We did eliminate a few models we thought we’d love and get surprised by one that we hadn’t considered.
And now? More research and at least one more showroom visit to see the competitor of our surprise contender.
We’ll be sure to pay attention to the wheels.
Counting Blue Cars lyrics © Emi April Music Inc., Mono Rat Music. Songwriters: Rodney Browning / Scott Alexander / John Richards / George Pendergast III / Gregory Kolanek
