I LOOKED in every window. Through every screen I peered. Each
pane was a barren expanse bereft of logo, address, or birth place. Car windows used
to be bulletin boards of memories and journeys lived, recording sea-side trips and impromptu weekend jaunts. They were bearers of our journeys, aides memoire to the distance we have traveled.
A fading BMW E9 resides close
by. Its rear screen bears a garland of stickers of dormant counties from when a journey ended somewhere other than where you
departed, symbolizing the moment when your mind grew ever so
slightly broader. The rear screens of modern cars have no such story. Amnesic
windows stare blankly back, just the silent digits of the speedometer testament to roads traveled. So many years of motoring, and no memories. A mantelpiece with no photo frames.
The dearth of car stickers is a sad reflection of the relationship we now
have with the car. No longer do we name our cars or strew gee-gaws around. The phone has replaced the car as our companion; a Volvo a Labrador no more. The quiet pleasure of recording journeys with stickers gave soul to our machines. But in a market where cars are more likely leased than sold, how can we embrace something that is never truly ours.
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