Machines age and cars do annoyingly so, to the point you realize calling for taxis would be cheaper than the petrol and mechanic bills, which is why that after a year of indecision I finally got myself a new car. While I’m glad to be finally getting rid of the 1995 Fiat Punto I had been driving for the last eleven years as it had become a vehicle of anxiety, I’m pretty wary of my new ride’s confort. The first time I drove my new car I felt as driving a pillow, not an Asian hatchback.

The Fiat Punto’s fuckedupness equated with a ‘raw’ driving experience, but I don’t mean this in the same way those Top Gear guys might. In retrospect, it makes me think that the soft suspension and good sound insulation of a new car make it a better ‘urban capsule’, as a friend of mine used to point out, than the rawness of a hardened suspension and squeaky noises. No wonder: new cars radiate their owners with smugness. It’s hard not to be a dick while driving a confortable couch. But still, being inside a protective cocoon that is somewhat distant from the streets underneath is a feeling that degrade as the car ages: it starts feeling less and less protective and more and more of a cart in direct contact with the asphalt. Like a very nice t-shirt that inevitably fades, an unconfortable car begets status anxiety, that might well trump the mechanical-failure anxiety.

I’m grateful for all the wisdom driving the Fiat gave me. Owning an old car was like having X-ray vision for superficiality. Here’s hoping I don’t lose it. And that the new car lasts as many years as the Punto in good working order.