Car Shopping: BMW, Infiniti, Volvo, Audi, Lexus

Choices! What Car Would You Choose?

Car dealerships are busy places. Sometimes we had to work to find a parking space!

Car shopping is fun if you approach it the right way. I mean, we need a new car since my son Max totaled our old one, right? My husband Mike chose the last few cars we’ve driven. Now it’s my turn to choose. And that’s pretty exciting to me.

I know I want a convertible. I know I want a car with some muscle under the hood. I know I want a four seater (even if it’s a faux 4-seater!). I know I want an automatic transmission. Beyond that? I’m open to the possibilities. Sky’s the limit. Well, actually, we have a budget so the budget’s the limit. But I have choices and I’m testing them all. And I’m having fun doing it.

The following opinions are mine and mine alone. Mike has been really great about climbing into the back seat of whatever I’m test driving and zipping his lips tight shut. The salesman and I chatter as I zoom down the highways and side roads of northern NJ.

Here’s what I think, in no particular car order, about the vehicles I drove this past weekend.

Infiniti G37 Convertible: This is one hot car. Full disclosure: This was my second time driving the G37 and it didn’t disappoint. It has a beefy vroom emanating from its twin exhaust pipes. It’s really aerodynamic (think swoopy). The dashboard is gorgeous. The on-board computer and screen are large, well lit and easy to read. It has a cool graphics-assisted parking thingy (cameras in front and back of car’s exterior) so I don’t even have to turn my head to parallel park. All I have to do is pretend I’m playing a videogame: I watch the on-board screen and line up the lines. Air-cooled seats! Who knew?! A Bose stereo system with speakers embedded in the headrests puts me over the top on this vehicle. Ooohhhh. I would definitely receive speeding tickets as well as admiring glances if I drive this car.

Fast and gorgeous.

Do I love it?

Yes.

BMW 335i Convertible: This is a good-looking car in a little car way. I climbed inside and was immediately disappointed, though. Based on the design, I could hardly see out the front windshield, never mind see out the back. It’s even more closed in than my daughter Tory’s VW Bug Sunny. The dashboard is nothing special either; it would be right at home in my Honda Pilot. I’d never driven a BMW before and I can truly say that I haven’t missed a thing. Not. One. Thing.  The ‘check engine’ light was on in the test car I drove. Grrr. You know how I feel about check engine lights! This car has a big price tag and I don’t think I’d get enough in return to warrant paying it.

I wasn't impressed.

Do I love it?

No.

Volvo C70 Convertible: The Volvo surprised me. I hadn’t driven one in many years so I was really pleased with the way it handled, hugging the turns. Years earlier I’d driven a Volvo and swore I was driving a brick with four wheels! Generally, the Volvo is a very comfortable car to drive. The dashboard is no nonsense and the instrumentation is easy to figure out. It’s a solid car, but not really sexy, if you know what I mean. Yes, it’s a convertible, but it doesn’t have anything else going for it. And it comes in so few colors.

Altogether a nice car.

Do I love it?

No.

Audi A5 Convertible: This car is the only one I drove with the ‘rag top’ look of a traditional convertible. In fact, parts of the roof are solid and the center section, well padded and soundproofed, is the ‘rag’ part. This means the trunk space is more than 2 cubic feet large too; it actually has useable trunk space with the roof up or down! I climbed in and snuggled into the driver’s seat. Mmmmm. It has all-wheel drive, which you really notice when you’re hugging a turn, accelerating out of one, or, I’d guess, driving in bad weather conditions. Simply put, the car drives like a dream.  It’s turbocharged so it takes off fast and stays fast, until I eased back on the gas pedal. It, like the Infiniti, has air-cooled seats too! This car seems to be a perfect mix of luxury and speed.

Really, really nice vehicle.

Do I love it?

Yes.

Lexus IS 350 Convertible: A week ago I test drove the Lexus. The best thing about the car was our salesperson. He was a charmer. The car? Not so much.

VW Bug with a Bug?

Is It Fatal or Just Really Annoying. . .and Costly?

Take a look at her. Yeah. Take a good look at Sunny, my daughter Tory’s beloved VW Bug.

Sunny the VW Bug looks very sweet, but is she?

Cute, isn’t she? Like a little chick, all yellow and innocent looking.

Right.

She’s trouble, just a whole lotta trouble. Her new name, at least in my mind, is Cloudy.

Sunny/Cloudy has been sick since the day we brought her home and no amount of checkups have resolved her illness(es). We get one thing fixed and another thing breaks down.

Did you know that a VW Bug can turn on the check engine light for more than 200 different ailments?

The “check engine” light, her way of telling us she’s feeling a little punk, has been “on” more days than it’s been “off” since we purchased her on February 20, 2010.

Then Sunny/Cloudy’s driver’s side door almost fell off.

I. Am. Not. Kidding.

Then her “check airbag” light turned on.

Betcha can't guess how many air bag sensors are in a VW Bug.

Then her rear passenger window refused to close unless my husband Mike gently and firmly forced it closed.

Would I recommend purchasing an auto from here? No. Not anymore.

We’ve returned Sunny/Cloudy to the used car dealership about four times to have her looked at/adjusted by their mechanic for the recurring “check engine” light (“no charge”), that is until our three-month warranty expired.

We’ve paid for parts and labor to give her a tune-up, replacing spark plugs, ignition wires, the ignition coil, and the mass air flow sensor ($300).

We’ve had the sheered-off bolt replaced on one of the two hinges that hold Sunny/Cloudy’s driver’s side door in place; according to the auto body shop we’ve used for years, the bolt was improperly screwed in, apparently the result of a previous repair done without benefit of VW-specific tools ($206). The auto body shop also found 2 of the 4 screws that hold the driver’s side window motor in place unscrewed and falling off (Note: Prior to purchasing Sunny, we asked that the malfunctioning driver’s side power window be fixed. Ahem.).

We’ve paid for parts and labor to have Sunny/Cloudy’s selenoid purged and her left front crash sensor replaced ($540).

And guess what?

Sunny/Cloudy’s “check engine” light turned on when Mike drove her Sunday morning, turned off when I drove her this afternoon, and turned on again when Tory drove her just a little bit ago.

Yellow car = lemon? What do you think?

Aftereffects

Mother Nature and St Patrick’s Day

My Italian friend Anna and her son Federico got to see the aftereffects of the Big Storm. We drove around town on Wednesday morning looking at the large trees that were toppled, bringing with them a myriad of electrical wires, light poles, and portions of homes. Take a look at the size of some of these trees.

Even though nothing remained of the upper part of the tree, you can see the size.

The tree took down another one and lifted the sidewalk.

Our street was closed for a day while cleanup crews took chainsaws to the large street tree that fell across the street and into a neighbor’s yard, effectively blocking any vehicle from passing. Thank goodness it didn’t hit their home. Unfortunately, other residents weren’t as lucky. One home was rocked right off its foundation by the impact of a tree. Others had trees crash right through roofs and windows. A PSE&G repair convoy – I counted seven trucks – passed us on its way to the next neighborhood still without power. We gave those tired looking men the thumb’s up.

Those repairmen looked tired.

After we checked out what remained of the downed trees, we hopped in the Pilot and headed for Manhattan, their departure point. Unfortunately for me, the driver, it’s one of the wildest days of the year in Manhattan: St. Patrick’s Day. Hoping to avoid the Midtown Manhattan traffic jams from road closures since the parade, the largest St. Patrick’s Day parade in the world, marches up 5^th Avenue, effectively closing cross streets from at least 44th Street to 86^th Street. Ugh. We decided to go through the Holland Tunnel and into lower Manhattan, thus avoiding a lot of parade traffic and seizing the opportunity for Federico, an avid skateboarder in Italy, to stop in a U.S. skateboard shop he saw on the Internet.

Much less crowed on both sides of the Hudson.

We popped out of the tunnel, no problem and wended our way around potholes, construction sites and road closures due to everything other than the parade and eventually arrived at the skate shop. While I parked illegally across the street and kept watch for the parking police, Anna and Federico hustled into the shop, only to emerge a few short minutes later.

Federico, clutching a piece of paper in his hand, said, “The shop has changed its name and moved. It is now called Blades and is located near Broadway and Bleeker. Can we go there?”

“Sure,” I replied as I tried to get my bearings and punched in the new destination on our beloved Tom Tom, the best GPS in my opinion.

Working my way through the traffic, pedestrian and vehicular, as well as the potholes, construction sites and road closures, we worked our way toward where Blades was supposed to be located. We found the intersection, but no shop. Basta!

Blades, NY, NY skate shop of Federico's dreams.

Trying again, although traffic of all sorts just kept getting crazier, we made one final pass down the one-way street. . .and I saw the shop! I zipped to the side of the street into yet-another illegal spot (along with at least a dozen other cars). Anna and Federico jumped out, hustled into the store and emerged in less than 15 minutes with a new deck (hot pink an Andy Warhol photo design on it) and ultra light-weight trucks. Federico was in heaven.

We headed uptown on the East Side. Revelers wearing green shiny hair, painted faces and green hats were weaving along the sidewalks and into the streets. Challenging doesn’t begin to describe the driving. When the traffic light turned green, I gunned the engine and leaped forward, hurtling up Third Avenue like the taxis and trucks that surrounded me. It was a race. Anna clutched her armrest. I assured her that I drove much better than her husband Giorgio does in Manhattan or Italy or anywhere, for that matter. She muttered something in Italian. I figured I was better off not asking for a translation.

In record time we arrived at their hotel. With big hugs and some tears all around I last saw them walking into the Intercontinental Hotel.

Friends Forever, even though she's a size zero.

Taking a deep breath, I jumped back into my Pilot and headed across town. Parade or no, I was taking the direct route home. NJ was waiting for me.

Riding Shotgun

Just Shoot Me Now

Did you know where that phrase originated before now?

I’ve begun riding shotgun, but not by choice. My daughter Tory is in the driver’s seat of her little yellow VW Beetle, whom (yes. It is a ‘whom,’ not a ‘what.’) she’s named ‘Sunny.’ She finished her required six hours of professional (paid, as required by the great state of NJ) on-the-road driving instruction on Monday. Now my husband Mike and I have to sit in the passenger seat while she drives us around. We have to do this for the next year. Until she turns 17 or I die of fright, whichever comes first.

Having been in a couple of auto accidents (not my fault, I might add) and living in NJ, where rules and laws are rarely followed, has made me a very nervous passenger, even when someone who is really competent is driving. I mean, my Mag 7 friend Ginger is a great driver. She hardly ever does anything that makes me clutch the armrest or stomp my foot onto an imaginary brake on my side of her shiny red Jeep. And with its kick-butt hemi she has always, always, always been able to outrun a swerving idiot who is texting down the road. So, okay, I will get in the passenger seat sometimes. But never by choice with a new driver, not even my daughter.

Nope.

I keep needing hits off my inhaler when no one is looking.

Tory has to learn to drive, and drive well, and I know I have to help her as I’ve helped her learn a myriad of other skills, but my asthma kicks in every single time I’ve gotten into Sunny and she’s already in the driver’s seat. Oh, don’t get me wrong.

She buckles up, turns the radio to low, adjusts her mirrors, releases the hand brake and all that just fine. Really.

She hasn’t ruined another boxwood as she’s discovered she can pretty much idle backwards and forwards to get out of the driveway.

She’s careful as she s l o w l y idles around corners and straightens the wheel so we haven’t hit the curbs toward which she always seems to be heading.

She never takes her eyes off the road as she zooms up to the rear end of a stopped car, hits the brake then eases up just enough on it so Sunny begins to idle toward the bumper in front of us.

She doesn’t act like driving an extremely steep, curvy road is an Xbox game challenge as Sunny weaves from side to side and sometimes over the solid yellow line into oncoming traffic.

No.

Tory tries really hard to do everything just right. And she’s getting better every day. It’s just that she’s a new driver. And I’m a bad passenger. Maybe this weekend my husband Mike will let her drive him around.

Sunny + Tory = Perfect Together

Food Shopping—A Life Altering Experience

We have four food stores in town: A&P, Shop Rite, Kings and Whole Foods (otherwise known as Whole Paycheck). I pretty much shop at Shop Rite because the vegetables and meat are usually good, it’s economical, clean, closest to our home, and the parking lot is large. Oh yeah. And it’s on the way to the bank so I get a twofer every Monday when I set out on my errand run.

Where I do the bulk of my food shopping.

Recently I pulled into the Shop Rite parking lot and two senior citizen transportation busses were already idling at the curb near the exit door. I carefully edged around the illegally parked vans, their drivers out and talking with each other, and managed not to hit Cart Man. He’s the guy whose job it is to travel the parking lot and gather up the abandoned shopping carts, hook them to the motorized trolley and drive them, using a remote control device, back to the front of the store where he lines them up to be used again and again. Cart Man takes his job very seriously.

Would you want to wrangle these for a living?

Driving past Cart Man, I arrived at my favorite row to park (I think fewer people park there since it’s farther from the entrance, and let’s face it, most of us are really lazy.). Signaling left, I started to turn, then hit my brakes. Hard. An elderly woman was pulling into an open parking space between two cars.

Creeping ahead she had slowly turned into the space, then crunched into the side door panel of the car parked on her far side. She must have felt the impact because she slowly back up, cut her wheel hard and took a second go at getting into the space. She hit the front fender of the same car. She reversed again then successfully managed to get into the space without hitting the car a third time. She got out of her car and walked into the store without even a backward glance at the car she had just hit twice.

I parked my car and hustled into Shop Rite. I saw the elderly woman ahead of me in the produce aisle, squeezing melons and looking like she didn’t have a care in the world. I followed her for a few aisles and realized (1) she couldn’t see worth a darn since she kept running her cart into both people and other carts as she made her way up and down aisle after aisle, and (2) she had no intention of seeking the owner of the car she hit. I tucked my cart into a corner and headed back out to the parking lot. I left a note on the car the elderly woman hit. I wouldn’t have been able to sleep if I hadn’t.

What was she thinking?

Have you had a similar experience? And what did you do? Talk to the person? Leave a note like me?

Trapped in Paradise – An Update from Home

Not My Favorite Hyatt Property

When Ginger and I left Hyatt Windward Point on Sunday morning we closed the condo door for the last time on the lukewarm water, dim lighting, slow drain in guest bathroom, tiny spiders running around on the kitchen countertops and funky WiFi.  We also left behind the uncomfortable queen-size mattress in the 2^nd bedroom, the rooster who crowed daily at dawn, the neighboring balcony that is so close to the master bedroom window you can take part in conversations that aren’t any of your business and tough-to-work main television clicker.

The morning was cold and we wheeled our suitcases and detritus down the long side of building 8 across the back side of building 8, along the zig zag sidewalk toward the next building and on toward the elevator, the nearest (get it?) elevator to our condo unit (yes, that elevator; see my January 8th post, “Trapped in Paradise”). We dodged the rainy puddles left from the previous day’s torrential rains as we wheeled along, talking about our upcoming breakfast at Camille’s.

Trapped in It on a Friday Then Broken Again Sunday Morning

We wheeled up in front of the elevator, pushed the “down” button and waited. The wind blew and the puddles at our feet rippled. Huddled into my jacket, I pressed the button again, but no elevator came. We waited some more, then finally gave up. The elevator was out of order, but without a sign to let us know. We bounced our wheelies and detritus down the three long flights of steps and wheeled, kinda breathless, into the lobby to check out.

At the front desk I handed in our two keys. The young woman working the desk printed out my receipt and asked how everything was.

I replied, “Well, the clicker for the main television in our unit isn’t working at all well. Someone must have lost the back to the clicker and then taped the batteries in with black electrical tape. It will need repaired before someone else checks in.”

The young woman lost her smile and replied, “Ok. Thank you for telling me.”

“Also,” I continued, “I was the one trapped in the elevator two days ago and I want to let you know that it isn’t working this morning either. My friend and I waited and waited, but it didn’t arrive on the third floor so we had to bounce our suitcases down the three flights.”

The young woman gave me a brief look and replied, “We already know the elevator isn’t working,” as she turned and walked away.

Management Could Have Put Another Note Like This on the Floor Near the Elevator, But Didn't

I have loved every Hyatt property I have ever stayed at. . .until now. This one made me grouchy.

Trapped in Paradise

Or at Least the Elevator

Today, temps finally, finally climbed to 70 degrees here in Key West so I went out for a walk then planned to join Ginger poolside. Our condo is on the third floor, right front corner of the resort. From our porch we have a great view of the Atlantic Ocean and the pool area. After changing into my suit I turned left out the condo door and headed toward the pool entrance on the rear of the building. I walked down the long open walkway along the full length of our building, turned left at the end and walked half the width of the building to the elevator and pushed the “down” button. Hearing the elevator grinding up to meet me, I shifted my tote bag from shoulder to shoulder as the doors opened to an empty car.

Trapped Like a Rat

The doors closed behind me and I pressed the “first floor” button. The elevator descended. And stopped. I didn’t notice at first, though, since I was daydreaming. When I noticed the stillness, I pressed the “open door” button, figuring the door just didn’t open. No response. I pressed the “first floor” button again. No light lit up. I pressed the “open door” button. No response. After doing this little routine for about a minute, I realized, for the very first time in my whole life, that I was trapped in an elevator, alone.

I pounded on the doors and yelled. No response. I pounded on the doors and yelled again. Not a peep from outside my 8’ x 8’ metal prison. I scrabbled in my tote bag and pulled out my cell phone. I always carry it (Are you listening here Mike? Mike?) and today I was very thankful to have it in my hot little hands.

I pulled up “most recent calls” and scrolled down to the first number with a Key West area code and dialed.

“Hello?” I asked when the phone was answered on the other end.

“Hello?” she replied.

“I’m stuck on the elevator. Can you send someone?” I asked.

“I can’t hear you. Can you repeat that?” she asked.

(louder) “I’m stuck on the elevator, elevator #3. Can you send someone?” I asked.

Silence.

I shouted into the phone, suddenly getting desperate.

Silence.

I hung up. And redialed using auto redial.

”HELLO!” I shouted into the phone. “I’M STUCK IN THE ELEVATOR. SEND HELP!!

“Who is this? a male voice asked.

“IT’S ME! I’M A GUEST HERE AT THE HYATT. SEND HELP. I’M TRAPPED IN THE ELEVATOR.”

“This isn’t the Hyatt and we don’t have an elevator,” he replied calmly.

Mortified, I hung up on who I am now convinced is one of the wait staff at Camille’s, the last place I guess I called down here in Key West.

Gotta admit, it's not my favorite Hyatt Resort

Taking a deep breath, I scrolled more carefully through “most recent calls,” knowing that the Hyatt’s number was one of the numbers stored considering I’d already called about the Wi Fi connections at least twice this week.

“Hyatt. This is ____. May I help you,” she asked in a sweet voice.

“I’M STUCK IN THE STUPID ELEVATOR AND CAN’T GET OUT. SEND HELP! I shouted, completely out of sorts.

After a brief silence she asked, “You, your stuck? Where?”

“IN ELEVATOR #3.”

“The elevator in building 3?” she asked, now sounding mildly concerned.

“NO. NO. ELEVATOR #3 IN BUILDING 8.”

“Oh. Okay. I’ll send someone over,” she replied sweetly and hung up.

I stood there. And stood there. Five minutes later, the elevator alarm started screaming in my ear and echoing around the car without me even having touched a button on the panel. I start to pound on the doors and yell for help since loud noise and I don’t get along at all well (just ask Max or Tory).

Seemingly from a great distance I heard a male voice ask, “Are you in there?”

“OF COURSE I AM. LET ME OUT!”

After more minutes of scraping and prying, the doors opened enough for me to clamber out. The first step was a doozy since the car landed about 14 inches below where it should have. I politely thanked the fellow who pried the doors open and stomped on toward the pool.

Hi, Ginger,” I said as I stomped big stomps up to her lounge chair. “I’ve been trapped in the elevator for the past 15 minutes.”

With that, Ginger looked up, removed her sunglasses, took a look at me and replied in that inimitable southern accent of hers, “Oh. My. God.”

I saw this message on the floor outside said elevator on the way back to the condo.

Getting Around in Paradise

My view every morning. Can you top this?

This visit to Key West is different; it’s different because we’re staying at a resort 4 miles from the Hog’s Breath and if you know me 4 miles is waaay too far away from the shrimp dip. Ginger and I figured out pretty quick that you can’t get into Old Town very fast walking

. . .no matter how fast you can walk.

Day or night, walking 4 miles is a hike.

So we tried the most common form of transportation, albeit in a different color, known to New Yorkers. One round trip cost us almost $40. And we are definitely not New Yorkers, in case those of you who don’t know us are wondering.

So we reassessed our options.

We could rent these; however, 4 miles is 4 miles and they don’t come equipped with headlights, at least the models I saw. Once it gets dark (and it gets really dark once you leave Duval St.), we would be fair game for anyone (make that everyone) driving drunk.

Slow and not good in the dark

We could rent one of these, but Ginger is pretty reluctant since she read up on them prior to agreeing to come with me to Key West. Apparently, the local paper here in Key West doesn’t even report the “tourist death on a motor scooter” news anymore since it’s so common. Okay, I can respect that (even though in my heart of hearts I really want to ride on a scooter down here. Max? Max? Are you listening?).

Drink + Drive = Dead ??

So that pretty much left us with one of these.

Okay, it's pretty pedestrian, but reliable.

Okay, okay. It’s a very common form of transportation, but it is reliable. And thanks to my wonderful husband (cue applause) we were able to rent one for $32 a day including tax. Have you discovered expedia.com’s “bid on a car” section yet? Mike has, much to my delight!

Tell me, what do you like to drive?

P.S. I told you I’d keep you up to date on dinner. Well, tonight we went to Seven Fish, corner of Elizabeth and Olivia.

Unbelievably good cuisine.

Everything, and I mean everything, is fresh made to order. You order it, the waiter walks into the kitchen, and the chef starts to chop and prep it. I started with a salsa of chopped shrimp, papaya, and mango served with crispy corn chips. Fresh, fresh, fresh. Next was the mixed grill with three skewers: one of tenderest chicken, one of grilled, tangy mixed veggies and the third of marinated shrimp, all served over a savory sticky rice. As my Italian girlfriend Anna says, “I have no words.” Ginger ended her meal with a key lime cheesecake that she said was a cake-like, perfectly balanced mixture of cheese and flavor.

photo courtesy Brent Thole, bartender and friendly fellow at 7 Fish