1: Behind the wheel, I have the skills of a retarded rhinoceros.
2: My cars are schizophrenic and crazy shit happens to them. Hub caps vanish, windows shatter, bumpers dislodge, dents materialize. The indentations repeatedly look like they were caused by two four hundred pounders copulating on the hood/rear/front of my car.
When an English girl and I decided to road trip around New Zealand's south island, for the safety of myself and others, I suggested hitchhiking and renting bicycles. We rented a car.
When English Rose drove into the neighborhood to pick me up, neither of us could finagle how cars accessed the house's driveway. I muddled down four flights with my luggage to Norman the Nissan. English Rose had never driven an automatic. A few months prior, I had never driven on the other side of the road.
We picked up the third member of our posse and determined on a day-trip through, purportedly, one of the most beautifully scenic drives in the country: from Queenstown to Wanaka through the Cadrona Valley. We were told Cadrona Valley has green hills laced with orange and caramel tree leaves. The polished metal mirrored water of the two lakes reflect the cerulean sapphire spiraling sky. We saw solely grey sky and black clouds. It rained. The entire day and night.
When we terminated our day trip and returned to Queenstown for the night, we hid from the monsoon in Starbucks and called hostels so we could sleep somewhere other than a Nissan. None were available. It was spring break. English Rose texted a fellow Brit temporarily living in Queenstown. She harassed the Brit and his two flatemate's phones without responses before we decided to go to their house.
We went to the grocery store for the night's booze stock and the next day's lunch supplies. Norman almost had a seizure bellying it up the hill to the house. We hadn't received confirmation that we could stay, nobody was home, and none of the doors were unlocked. We checked. So, we sat in Norman while Noah's flood raged outside. Our dinner comprised ham and bread initially intended for the next day's lunch, and alcohol. English Rose and I engorged ourselves on New Zealand's finest: Country Medium White Wine. Not Chardonnay, Pinot Gris, Sauvignon Blanc, or Riesling. Medium White. When one of the flatmates appeared half a wine box later, English Rose dropped her phone on the sidewalk in a lagoon formed from the typhoon flooding from the sky. She blew her phone dry with a hairdryer.
When we returned Norm to Jucy a week and a half later, there was an inexplainable dent on the left front bumper, a mysterious windshield knick, and unaccountable paint loss.