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When I think of scooter, I think of a well-dressed, gorgeous European man tooling around the Piazza on a vintage Vespa, his dark purple tie flapping in the wind. He may have an equally gorgeous, slim babe in a shift dress, dark sunglasses and chiffon covering her hair, riding on back. How chic, how sophisticated ... how un-Charlotte-like.
Back in Toronto, my husband rode a vintage Vespa. He loved the freedom of zipping through downtown traffic and the prestige of owning an Italian model, the epitome of cool in scooter-culture terms. His friends were envious. When we got ready to move to the United States, we discovered it was going to be a paperwork/logistical nightmare to get it across the border and regrettably sold it to another friend who was more than happy to take it off our hands.
Taking into account the cost of a car note, insurance, astronomical gas prices and downtown parking fees, we concluded that another scooter would do the trick. Free parking, next-to-free gas prices and no paperwork ... what more could we ask for?
I pictured my husband in his Banana Republic suit, driving through town, women stopping mid-sentence to check out the sexy machine ... Um, wrong. Apparently in this town, men (grown men more specifically) on scooters are thought to be losers with too many DUIs, who can no longer legally drive and have resorted to getting around on a "liquor-cycle," as they are otherwise and affectionately known.
The first clue should have been the snickers from his coworkers, men who drive manly cars like SUVs or anything with the word "magnum" in its description. Our neighbor across the street straight-out bust a gut when Kevin told him he bought a scooter. "You are legal to drive aren't you?" was his very next question. They just didn't seem to get it, and neither did we.
Thankfully, our other neighbor, Ms. Southern Hospitality, clued us in to its pseudonym. By this point, however, we had paid for the thing outright, and he had no recourse but to drive it back and forth every day. The Fellini-esqueness has been sucked right out of our European scooter fantasy. Now it's left with a My Name is Earl residue. Bummer.
Join In
My husband now had officemates to swap stories with and musicians he could call "hang daddies." I, on the other hand, still didn't have a collective.
I'm not much of a joiner anymore. As a kid, I was a member of the choir, the orchestra, Girl Scouts, the yearbook club, chess club, gaylord club ... you name it, I joined it. But I've struggled in finding a "club" to join in Charlotte. I thought about starting one in my back room, but I didn't think I'd have many takers. So instead, I bit the bullet and joined a women's group at our church. Yes, I broke down and joined.
One of the first things we were told about Charlotte is that people will ask us three very important questions: Where do you go to church? Which Y did you join? And ... I can't remember the third one. So, in joining, we have been able to come up with an answer to the all-important "Where do you go to church?" question. We attend a liberal-leaning, thinking man's church here in Charlotte, full of disgruntled churchgoers of other denominations and retired hippies, and couldn't be happier about it. Imagine: liberal and religion in the same sentence.
Our family lived in Toronto for just over six years and never once found a church to call home. We sure knew a bunch of hippies (I'm related to a few) but never an organized religion that made us feel like we joined a real community. Toronto is full of real communities, mostly based on ethnicity. If you're from a remote island off the South Pacific coast, chances are you'll find others like you in Toronto.
The first service we attended in Charlotte was not a regular service, which was really fantastic in retrospect. The leader of this group lives and breathes poetry and conducts "poetry services" once a season. This was one of them. Besides hearing thoughtful, beautiful stories from writers around the world, we listened to several sweet Beatles tunes (what screams "live and let live" hippie-dippie '60s more than "Let It Be"?) and witnessed the congregation waltz together out the door at the end. I was moved, to tears to be exact. My soul was touched.
