I have real misty nostalgia for a Volkswagon van. No, I’m not a tree-hugging hippie who trekked across America, singing Peter, Paul, and Mary songs and sleeping in my pop-up.
For me, the year I fell in love with Volkswagon was 1995 and my family was on our first international adventure. Friends in Germany had invited us for a visit, so we headed to the land of schnitzel and the Autobahn.
I’m not exactly sure what (the back seat of a sleek, black Mercedes, perhaps?) I imagined all NINE of us touring the Black Forest in, but it wasn’t a humongous, red, VW bus. Nevertheless, we loaded it up with hundreds of pounds of teenage girl luggage and off we went.
Every morning, my dad would say something subtle, like, “You know, I wouldn’t mind taking a turn on the Autobahn…” Our host, Udo, would just chuckle and hop in the driver’s seat. It was obvious that driving a van on the Autobahn was not a job for a mere American. Parking that monster surely wasn’t. We folded in side-view mirrors more than once to squeeze in places we didn’t belong. But my dad’s a persistent man and Udo was a generous guy and so, one morning, keys and manly words were exchanged. It was a very serious affair.
“It’s been a little while,” my dad confessed, revving the engine, “but I used to drive a stick shift all the time on the ranch…and you never really forget how to do it.”
On. The. Ranch.
My dad had been a suburban desk jockey for at least the last 25 years. “On the ranch” was a long, LONG time ago. And interestingly enough, even if you don’t actually forget, you can get pretty darn rusty. Also, it should be noted that a fine German engine and John Deere tractor don’t have very much in common.
At all.
“See, it’s just like riding a bike!” my dad announced happily as we lurched painfully onto the Autobahn.
We were clickety-clacking down one of the world’s most elegant roadways, our faces pressed against open windows, trying not to barf. Udo kept trying to offer useful tips (and muttering words I hadn’t learned in high school German) to keep my dad from grinding the engine to bits, but it wasn’t really helping. The only one who wasn’t thoroughly disgusted with the driving debacle was my new brother-in-law, who got a horrible case of the giggles. The rest of us were too busy trying to keep from getting whiplash.
Years later, we still laugh about that short jaunt my dad took down the Autobahn in ‘95. We tease my poor, motion-sick mom who finally ended the odyssey by saying something rather wifey through clenched teeth. But you know, I think my 16 year old self missed something important that August afternoon. I think I missed my dad’s midlife dreams coming true. While we mocked and gagged, my dad’s inner Wyoming-ranch-kid was driving THE people’s car on the world’s most famous highway. And THAT is something special.
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