The New Me

Part of the confusion I've felt upon returning to Oakland has been in trying to figure out who the hell I am now. I'm no longer a writer, or at least a professional writer. I'm not a foreigner in a strange land like I was in Brazil. And now, I drive a Miata.

This hot number is how I've been getting around for the past five weeks or so. It's my friend's ex-boyfriend's car, and no, it's not the kind of car I would have bought of my own volition. But my friend has very kindly lent it to me, and I'm enjoying the ride.

For example, I drove around the Berkeley hills with the top down a few weeks ago, when the sun was out and the sky was a brilliant blue, and I thought, "Yes, this is California!" Sure, it only fits one other person and has no room for anything other than two bags of groceries and has the kind of 1980s headlights that flip up like a Japanese pencil box's drawers.

But still, I'm Miata-man now. I've been thinking seriously about buying it from my friend.

This decision, however, isn't proving too popular with some people, and I've been having second thoughts. I've also found myself apologizing to people I meet for the first time when I pull up in the Miata, saying, "Ha ha, it's not my car, it's my friend's."

I'm sorry, Miata, for forsaking you. We were always a weird fit, even though I thought I could make it work once. I know I'm a Californian now, but buying the Miata might be rushing things.