This, my friends, is most assuredly the end of an era. For the first time in 16 years, I don’t own a car. (Okay, technically, for a lot of those years I didn’t own a car per se. Rather various lenders owned cars on my behalf.) In some ways this presents new-found freedom. I’m free from car insurance and repairs, and the justifiable-violence inducing need to find street parking three to four times a week.
But in so many ways, a piece of my freedom is gone. Having a car at my disposal made me feel so liberated, as though at the drop of a hat I could pick up and go anywhere. Not that I went around dropping hats or gallivanting about willy-nilly. But it was nice to know I could. Last minute trips are still possible, but will require a bit of planning and logistics. And shared space.
Owning a car is somehow so very American, and yet not owning one is so very New York. My identity is shifting with every passing day.
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