When We All Agree to Shut Up for Five Minutes

Every couple of years, I have a near-religious experience during my commute. This oh-so-rare moment in morning madness is precipitated by everyone on the bus or metro car (and I'm talking 30-50 people here) agreeing that it is far too early in the morning to:

• talk to each other
• talk on our cell phones
• tote around any infants or children that make noise
• turn up our iPods to "broadcast mode" (even though I'm sure everyone wants to hear more of The Mountain Goats and This American Life...they just don't know it yet.)
• laugh, cry, fart, curse or otherwise do anything other than sit quietly and get where we are going

These bizarrely silent moments are always unexpected, never last very long (5 minutes tops), and when you think about it, completely amazing. Fifty people! Being absolutely quiet in a public space without being told to.

It floors me. And it renews my faith in humanity. Maybe the sentiment is over the top, but I'm not kidding. This kind of thing can't be orchestrated. And it happened to me this morning.

Good stuff.

How to Wake Your Dead Car

Whether you've got Irish blood coursing through your veins or not, I recommend a traditional (or non-traditional) wake to help ease one's passing into car-lessness.

What you need:

An Irish bar
An open tab
Indulgent friends
Money for the jukebox
A photo of your recently-deceased car (optional)

What you do:

Gather in said Irish bar. Order drinks of choice (beer and whiskey recommended). Play music that you used to listen to in your car.

Toast your car again and again. Reminisce on all the good times had in your car. Tell the story about the great sex had in your car. About the punk cop who busted you having sex in your car. Tell the one about getting stuck in the mountains. Or the mud. Or the one about getting locked out of your house and having to sleep in your car. Whatever your stories are, tell them. Toast them.

Make your friends tell stories. Talk about how much you will miss your car. It's okay. No political correctness here. Just let it out. You loved your car. You will miss your car. You will be reducing your carbon footprint, sure. But for now, its okay to just get piss drunk and feel shitty about your dead car.

Go home. Wake up, hungover, but happier to be car-free.

I Resolve to Give Up My Car. No, Really

It's been months since I decided to give up my car. I cancelled my insurance. I decided to donate the car to my local public radio station. (It's not worth selling. Besides, I don’t want to know who's driving my car around. It would be too sad. Really, it's better this way.)

Months later, my car is still parked two blocks from my house, collecting dust, bird crap and the wrath of my neighbors, who no doubt think that I've abandoned the sad ol' girl, since someone reported it to the city. Crap.

But now it’s the New Year. 2007. My car-free year. It's time to dig up my title (I'm sure it’s in my files. Or a box. Or my desk drawer. Oh dear.), clean out six years worth of on-the-road essentials, and lighten my proverbial load.

Among the inconceivable amount of paraphernalia I pulled out from Cecelia's various nooks and crannies at 10:30 last night were:

• Bungee cords (yes!)
  
• One red shoe (I've been looking for that...)
  
• One beekeeping textbook (so I can have sweet sweet honey and candles when the world goes all to hell and we will survive only by the number of post-Apocalyptic skills we've been able to acquire. Next on the list: knitting.)
  
• A long lost head lamp
  
• Two sheets of Barbie stickers (which I'm keeping, or course.)
  
• Photo of Dinosaur National Park (which prompted 25 minutes of road trip nostalgia)
  
• Two bazillion pens
  
• World geography trivia game
  
• Maps of: Virginia, Maine, Wyoming, Portland, Or., and the continent of Africa (Ummm?)
  

Anyway. It's done. As soon as I find that title, Cecelia will officially be out of my life.

And why has this taken me so long? Well, judging by the wave of melancholy and regret that gripped me when I took off my hideous red Hawaiian print seat covers, it’s probably because I am still deeply attached to this rusty blue hunk of metal and fabric. Four months after preparing myself to give it away, several successful months of commuting on foot, and I'm still in mourning. Weird.

New Year's Resolution #43: Stop procrastinating.

New Year's Resolution #44: Stop getting attached to carbon-emitting inanimate objects. Or, for that matter, inanimate objects with wheels (said the girl who is still mourning the loss of a bicycle stolen two years ago. What a terrible Buddhist I would make, all this clinging.)