Sometimes it can be difficult to avoid renting a car. This is particularly true in California, the birthplace of the freeway traffic jam. It is ironic that one cannot access the natural splendors of the American West without driving a carbon-spouting fossil fuel guzzler through a few hundred miles of former natural splendor on ribbons of asphalt surrounded by fields of shopping malls.
It is no secret that I am not fond of driving. It goes back to a genuine and deep-rooted hatred of cars, which I consider to be the foremost culprit in the demise of civilization. Despite this, my first job in Australia was with a company that serviced automotive manufacturers – mostly Ford. What can I say? I needed a job.
After two years, I couldn’t stand it anymore, and quit. The CFO called me from Detroit to talk me out of it. I gave him all the usual “It’s not you, it’s me” reasons. He chewed up and spit back every excuse. Finally I said “Listen Fred, the truth is, I don’t like cars. I don’t like people who like cars. I’m not even very fond of people who like people who like cars.”
“Oh” said Fred. There was a pregnant pause. “Maybe its best that you quit then.” Continue reading 22. Managing Yosemite
All morning the Common Folk waited and ate and drank and sweat in the blazing sun, discussing grandpa’s hernia operation and Aunt Annie’s new husband (she could have done better), while picking their favourite for the upcoming contest. 