If You Give a Girl a Car

Mount Fyffe on a foggy day—Kaikoura, NZ

The rain pelted against the windows as the woman handed me a yellow and white penguin mug and made her own espresso in a hazy blue cup. While sifting and steaming, she talked—of her husband, of her work, of passion, of service, and of her new dog, so very young. He jumped all over me at the doorway, reminding me again of my fondness for older, tamer dogs. The last dog of hers I met was a sweet old lab, who I walked to church for the Blessing of the Animals last year. She died a month or so later.

Now would be a good time to put on the slow moving and absolutely magical album, “Long Lost” by Lord Huron—an album that feels like a slow dance in a darkened bar on the edges of Ireland’s entranced shores. A soft smile and absolute trust, that’s what this album feels like. And that is what a cuppa offered on a wet and stormy day, on the cliffs high above Kaikoura’s cloudy banks, felt like. The house was filled to the brim, the carpet carved with familiar paths. And in the next room over, her husband sat in a rocker—working on shearwater bird research, no doubt.

I sat in that living room and noted the two pianos they owned—one upright in the living room, and a grand I had seen at the lower entrance. The husband quickly corrected me—they had four pianos. And while the woman had not recognized me from a year before, she connected me to music. We had sung and played at a memorial for the worst maritime incident in the community last year. She told her husband that music poured out of me. We chatted for an hour or so over our coffee and parted ways—I walked back to my sheltering Subaru and she and her husband and their energetic dog to the rainy cliffs.

While this story may be sweet and warming, moving to a new country is not all fun and games. There is the acquiring of the car, the new registration, the car passing the WOF regulation, the car insurance etc. Then you might check the oil and see that it is a quite black color and realize that you may indeed need to change it. It’s like the “If You Give a Mouse a Cookie” book where the requirements for living just keep tumbling on and on—which, of course, is a universal reality. There is also the search for a trustworthy mechanic so as not to get swindled. And as they explain things to you, your mind might go blank, with no Wi-Fi to confirm if what they’re saying is true and if there are magic words that would pass the secret code to lower the price and ask for only what you need.

And then you might go to your new job, excited about the prospect of finally making back the money that seems to be leaking out of you, and the owner might look a bit confused at what to do with you and then might finally tell you that they don’t actually need you till this weekend—and then only on a trial run—and could you perhaps provide some references? And you very well might wonder if you should simply go check out another place of work, just because you are so desperate for some work very soon. And then you will have to make an appointment with the bank to open an account, and you hope they accept the three documents you have, and you might wonder what the fees are for transferring into your home currency, and if it is worth it to get a new card. And what about interest? And they might say that the documents are actually not sufficient and more information must be provided.

So you might go to a café to process and write and try to decide how much money to spend on your car, and you might decide on a bowl of soup and the manager might charge more than the board, which disappoints you, but you head to your seat.

And there, a wood fired stove reminds you of home. This is the first heated place you’ve been in all day, but you still keep your coat on to store up some warmth. And then the manager might bring you some coins—dollars in this economy—apologizing for overcharging, and you smile gratefully. And the soup may come with garlic bread so beautifully toasted it hugs you on this rainy, chilly day. And afterwards you might find a telephone booth with free wifi to call your parents, seeking input about your car. And then perhaps a friend will go with you to the bank appointment—appointment one after another—and you do the math to figure you might get enough hours this week to pay for rent, for groceries, the car, and maybe a few sleeves of a wetsuit.

And maybe in the search of a car, a seller messages you directly with a car that appears right in all the ways, promising not to list it until you’ve seen it. Maybe there’s even a sunroof. And he might replace the radiator to get it in shipshape. And when he sees you for the test drive, the first time on the left side of the road, he might say he knows that this transition is hard. The logistics of a car, a job, and a place to live are difficult, and so he wants you to have this car. Maybe you feel the immense relief that breaks inside of you to have just one place of stability. 

And you might find a note on the counter at home that is inviting you over for tea—dinner—at the house at the top of the hill. The reverend signs her name, waiting for a reply. And maybe an older-than-middle-aged woman invites you to sing in a choir every Tuesday night, noting with a chuckle that she is among the younger participants. Maybe then you will find a new album to listen to that holds just the right melancholy sway on this dreary day. And maybe the child in the café high chair keeps twisting her head around to look at you, and the father says, “She has just decided you’re the best.”

And maybe you have a car.

And maybe you have a place to live.

And maybe you have warm clothes.

And maybe—not maybe, certainly—it is the unpredicted, unplanned kindness of others that makes this transition, this real life, a little smoother, a little softer, a little gentler.