The comment expresses the writer’s opinions.
When I was going to buy my first car, I had to have help from a friend. Not to check the technical aspects, he was at least as blank as me. Far more important than rust, wear and tear and the number of horsepower was the question of what impression one got of the person who owned such a car.
We weren’t that concerned about the car when it all came down to it. So were all the others. We were simply just looking for a car for people who weren’t interested in cars. Such a demanding project, it turned out, that we were almost giving up.
The first car the used car salesman showed us was an old Volvo. It was solid, but relatively affordable, could it be something?
A gray Volvo!? God, what did he think of us!? Didn’t he see who we were? Imagine offering two forward-looking and colorful young men with Alpine hats, mustaches and tweed jackets, who smoked cigarillos, such a petty-bourgeois means of advancement: the car for the set, those who never took any chances in life. Those who didn’t care about design and innovation.
He then had to realize that it was the adults who drove the Volvo, our teachers at the gymnasium, the doctors, the consultants and the auditors. Sensible people who wore hats and seat belts and had seat covers and car blankets so as not to wear out the interior.
Didn’t he have anything more continental?
Tommy Sørbø
Tommy Sørbø is an art historian, author and playwright. He has written several plays and a number of books on, among other things, art, aesthetics and social issues. Sørbø has worked with satire and humor on radio and TV, and is an active social debater, lecturer and tour guide.
The car for people like us
He showed us some public transport bubbles. But they also had this practicality and sense about them. And perhaps even worse; they were common. Very common. Could two unusual young men be seen in such an ordinary car? Maybe.
At least if those who saw us thought: “How strange that two such unusual young men are driving around such an ordinary car.” And then drew the following conclusion: “Yes, yes, they’ve always been a bit unusual now.” But how could they know in advance? No, we probably had to look further.
Look! An old Mercedes caught our interest. Although it was from the early 1950s, it still had an air of exclusivity and culture about it. A feeling of entering an upholstered lounge with armchairs, precious wood and generous ashtrays intended for fat cigars. An interior light years away from the pastel-coloured and optimistic, but alas so Americanized plastic-fantastic atmosphere in, for example, a Ford Taunus.
We slammed the car doors shut and stared at each other. Something so stylish! A deep rumble echoed through the used car shop. A drone that would surely make those around them turn around at the sound and wonder what kind of dignitaries were now visiting. Yes, this was the car for people like us.
It’s just too bad that a guy in my neighborhood, who had been in NS during the war, had the same type of car. Old rumors said that he was driving a German car, because he had not yet accepted defeat. And when I was little, I thought the Mercedes star on the radiator was some sort of swastika. No, we probably couldn’t be familiar with something like that.
“Here’s a fun car for you!”, finally declared the used car salesman, pointing to a Mini Morris.
My brought consultant nodded. He thought he knew that George Harrison had had a Mini Morris in some movie, and that it had even been decorated in psychedelic colors. Art that is. Modernism even. It couldn’t get any better, could it?
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Petty criminal youth with wedding cream licking
But then we looked at it inside: Bucket seats, sporty gear lever and sooty windows. Harry saw it held. Not to mention the noisy abarth plant, which got fifty horsepower to sound like five hundred. And who in that way announced to the whole world that here came a stupid car-interested youth who loves tinkering with engines, but has no idea who Friedrich Nietzsche is.
The two young men, who were not really interested in cars, went from one used car to another. But there was always something wrong: A DAF with an automatic transmission was laughable. We agreed that it was the car for single working women with thick glasses who couldn’t shift gears. And then that name, DAF! It could hardly get any better. And a Ford Anglia wasn’t much better. My friend’s parents had it.
An old dollar grin, a huge flake with lots of chrome looked tempting. Throughout my childhood I had dreamed of something like that. Preferably something newer, of course, but it was too expensive. My friend warned me. The car was an expression of American imperialism. I didn’t support the Vietnam War, did I? No, but I still liked it, I had to admit.
Yeah, well, but what about the raggars? They liked cars like that. That decided the case.
Not to mention that I wanted to be identified with petty criminal youths with wedding cream lips, who traveled around in packs and retinues to cause trouble. If I was going to make a fuss, it was to be done my way. Our way.
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Applies to not being seen in the wrong car
The Dadaists, Surrealists, Futurists and Anarchists had done strange things since the First World War, we had read about that in art books. Now our time had come. And then it was important not to be misunderstood. If we jumped out of an American and painted “All You Need is Love!” on the sidewalk, there was vandalism. We jumped out of a car that signaled culture, education, originality and learning, and painted “All you need is love!” was it art.
A car was a marker for what social ambitions we had in life. It gossiped about who we were. Or perhaps rather, about who we wanted to be. Therefore, it was important not to be seen in the wrong car.
In the end, we almost just had to say it like it was: Did the used car seller have a car for people who weren’t really interested in cars? Yes, he had. He showed us into the workshop. And there it was: A Citroën! It was admittedly not a Citroën 2 CV, which we had both dreamed of, but a Citroën Ami. But all the time it was French, strange and equipped with umbrella gears, as well as technical solutions that, according to the seller, were just to shake your head at, it was allowed to last.
On the test drive, we admittedly discovered that the suspension was crooked, and that a rear window was difficult to push back. But what did that matter, as long as my mate could almost swear that he had once seen a photo of the philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre in a similar car?
