That’s what it felt like to be sitting in the balcony car at the end of the passenger train as we click-clacked our way through South Africa’s Great Karoo, sipping chilled cocktails. But I wasn’t in a children’s storybook; my pop-up was straight out of an Agatha Christie novel. All that was missing was a chalk body outline on the floor and Inspector Hercule Poirot. Continue reading
My sister’s first car was a peach Volaré. It had faux Corinthian leather seats and, when you turned on the a/c, white smoke puffed out of the vents. We referred to this malfunction as the “papal election”.
Do you remember your first car? Did you name it?