About five minutes after we pulled away from the Detroit airport rental lot in our brand-spanking-new Chrysler minivan, an entire box of Cheerios had magically stuck itself to one of the rear captain chairs, a Coke had spilled itself on the carpet and something sticky and breathing had manifested itself beneath the car seat. We could hear it grumbling -- something about brains, I think.
Despite the magnet-like ability to attract crap and goo and sticky unknown substances to every surface, the minivan was by far the most comfortable vehicle I had ever driven with child.
There was a DVD thingy that hung down from the roof. Two captains chairs in the back that meant no stooping to position a child into a car seat. Two rear doors that magically opened themselves with a push of a button. An onboard computer and so many cup holders that I honestly considered renting a keg for the four-hour ride.
While minivans have for the longest time have received nothing but scorn from me -- even John Travolta couldn't make them cool in "Get Shorty" -- when we got home and heard the throaty rumble of our own German sedan, I wasn't impressed anymore.
I twisted my back and performed a new yoga move to get my wriggling daughter into the car seat and it was over -- my relationship with luxury. My heart was miles away, half a country really, wondering what had become of that brand new machine that looked like a box on wheels, smelled like rotten bananas, collected more crap than a cat lady and drove like a parental dream.
