I’m not very good at driving. In fact, I don’t have a driver’s license at all. If I had, I’d be in trouble. I really don’t get how you can drive a car that’s not a vintage Rolls-Royce. There really is no other car. That one made me jump out of the tram in Zurich on Bürkliplatz, a station I had never got off at before, I can’t remember where I wanted to go on that day, I forgot about time and place, I was drawn to irresistible beauty, to my soul mate, my other half with a motor, suddenly in front of me, out of the blue, there it was, to quote Ezra Pound, that car in the crowd, like a petal on a wet black bough. But I had seen this face before, a long time ago, I must have been twenty at the time, in Paris, at night, I was visiting friends, we were walking through the streets to get home after dancing at Les Bains-Douches, and there it was, at a street corner, parked as if its driver had no sense of geometry at all, like a baguette cut diamond jumping out of its setting, I was mesmerized, standing still in contemplation, getting left behind, not minding it, my mind was making itself at home in this car, I still am, although I still don’t have a driver’s license, nor a Rolls-Royce of my own, only an appropriate vintage coat to throw on its back seat.