This weekend we were in San Francisco, showing my old friend Chris around the town when my intense fear of driving up those hills reared it's head once again (*this fear started when I tried to drive up the back of Lombard Street with a Jetta full of parents and realized, too late, that my clutch and tires were shot as I almost hit the Range Rover behind me). We got stuck on a trolley track and the car red-lined in first gear but went about 2 miles an hour. After that, there was a strong burning smell and I knew it was time to head to the shop even though I'd just gotten my poor car back not 3 weeks ago after she'd recovered from some serious damage caused by Road Debris.

I reserved a rental car and dropped off my dear friend, George the Passat. Rumor has it that replacing the clutch will cost at least $1400, but I still haven't heard anything for sure. I was issued a fine rental car, the Corolla, the most generic of cars. Driving it's tinny self, I was feeling pretty low so today I called and fenagled the upgrade to a new, pimpin Fly Ride, a 2002 Chevy Impala. Yes, it has bench seats, of course it has wood trim, naturally it bounces as you go over bumps and it's much better than the Corolla. I'm still missing George, but happier now.