Last week Manyu and I bought a new car. I dislike car shopping, but our old Subaru Outback had stalled on me one too many times (including twice in the past three months). Had we been a two-car family, I would have kept the car as our in-town transportation. Because we have only one car, it was time to get something more reliable.

The first stop on our car search was a return to the Subaru dealership. Jeff, the sales representative who’d sold us our Outback fifteen years ago, was still there. Manyu and I had gone to Subaru specifically to test drive a new Outback, but while walking across the lot to look at their inventory of Outbacks, I asked Jeff about the Subaru Crosstrek. He said, “Crosstreks are for urban adventurers. Is that who you are?”

Jeff’s words brought up a memory that I didn’t even know I had. It was about the first time I ever went car shopping. I was ten years old. I don’t remember why my mom and dad had brought me along, but they had. In retrospect, I realize that it was probably the first time in my parents’ lives that they were able to look for a car without making affordability their only consideration. At one point in our first day of shopping, we test drove a used Lincoln Continental. Even before we returned to the dealership, my dad said, “No, this is not who we are.” I had no idea what he was talking about. The car that my parents were planning to trade in was a ’57 DeSoto station wagon. Was that who we were? Were we a car so boring that even Chrysler stopped making it?

I have my suspicions as to why Jeff asked me whether I was an urban adventurer. He is an astute salesman, and he’s figured out my preferences in cars. In addition to the time we spent with him when we bought our Outback, I have met with him several other times when helping Chinese friends (i.e., those with limited English skills) buy cars. He knows that I want no car that blatantly declares the personality of the driver. No muscle car, no oversized pickup truck, no vehicle that shouts money. I can only guess what an urban adventurer is, but Jeff knew that I wouldn’t buy any vehicle that labels me. His comment about urban adventurers was a way for him to steer me away from that particular make of car.

Of course, small SUVs like my old Outback (and the Hyundai Tucson that Manyu and I ended up buying) have as much of a market niche as any other car. When I see someone driving an SUV, I think practicality over style and enough money to pay more than $40,000 for a car. I picture the driver filling the back of the hatchback with groceries. I see him or her tossing a canoe on the roof rack. The difference between SUVs and some other cars is that the SUV niche is broad enough that it does not define the exact character of the driver. Young adults drive SUVs, but so do old men not willing to admit that they should be driving Buicks. They are middle class cars, they are Middle America cars. With so many of them on the road, I can get lost in the crowd when I drive one.

I’d like to believe that I am too smart to be manipulated by clever marketing, but the fact of the matter is that the car designers, advertisers, and sales reps know exactly who I am – and they direct me straight to the car that is me. That’s okay. They are only taking me to where I want to go.

The Hyundai Tucson that Manyu and I bought is a fairly basic model. Still it has features I may never use. On the second day that we had the car, I set my iPhone on the vehicle’s console. Without any coaxing from me, the car started playing music from my Spotify playlist. I feel like my phone, my car, my tv, and my computer all talk to each other, but they don’t include me in the conversation.

When the temperature jumped from 60°F into the 80s last week, I moved my writing outdoors. I also changed my writing station from a pair of wobbly wooden tv trays to a more stable camping table that Clare got me for my birthday. Other than my neighbor’s daily racket with various pieces of lawn care machinery (I think he owns more gas-powered lawn tools than most professional groundskeepers), I hear only birds and the din of traffic from two blocks away. I feel set for a summer of enjoyable writing on my front porch.

Most early mornings so far have been cool, so I have been wearing a jacket when I write. My hands get a little bit cold, but I prefer being outside. Today I wondered if there is such a thing as writing gloves. There seems to be a specialty item for just about everything else, so why not gloves for writing? I googled it, and they do exist. They are thin woolen gloves with the thumb, index finger, and middle finger cut out. In the photographs, they look more like a fashion statement than a way to keep my hands warm. If they are functional, they are designed for writing with pen and paper, not a keyboard. That appeals to me, but how many others still write longhand in cold weather? Birdwatchers who keep field notes?  Meter readers? Do meter readers still exist?

I would not say that I write better when I write outdoors. The quality of the prose remains the same, and the quantity suffers. There are too many distractions. I watch the birds and the squirrels, I am more likely to write emails to friends, and I get up to check the progress of the seedlings in my garden. Once or twice a week I stop writing altogether when I realize that it is a good morning for a bicycle ride.

Last summer I did not write outside at all. My old and ailing dog was more comfortable indoors, and he always wanted to be by my side while I wrote. Jack is gone now, having lived eighteen good years, so now I am back on the porch.

Manyu has told me that I have become boring in my old age. I have to admit that spending the first two hours this morning sitting on my front porch writing about sitting on my front porch is not exactly seizing the day.