So long, Franco

Franco. He was mine from July 2002 to November 2007.

We went through a lot together, me and him. He took me through the bayou of Louisiana, through the wasteland of western Texas and the great deserts of the Southwest to the shore of the Pacific Ocean — and back. He took me up the eastern coast to Washington, D.C., and, later, up to New England. We were victims of crime, and our stereo was stolen while he slept in my driveway in San Marco.

The car, bought from my grandmother, was nearly perfect, mechanically speaking. I heard Toyotas were reliable, but this was getting a little bizarre: He gave me 70,000 miles and asked little in return.

Unfortunately for him, I started using him less and less. Consider this: from September 2006 to November 2007, I put 6,000 miles on him — 1,500 of those were during the drive to Boston. Why? I started walking or bicycling everywhere while I lived in San Marco and, later, I moved to a great city that was rife with every car's worst nightmare: extensive and reliable public transportation. Some have asked me if it felt weird to not have a car after having one for 10 years, and I can honestly say it doesn't feel weird: I drove him twice since July, and one of those times was driving for driving's sake (I just wanted to see if he'd turn on).

It was time for him to go, and fortunately I sold him to a family friend and not just some non-rhotic-accented Bostonian.

My closest family friend — my second mother, by all accounts — Maria now owns Franco. She and my mom came up to Boston last weekend to visit and pick up Franco.


Maria and Mom in Harvard Yard. (Strangely, there were no cahs pahked there.)

They took their time heading south, stopping in New York in D.C., and I received word yesterday that they arrived Florida. I was told he ran great the whole time.

Damn straight he did, I thought.