Automated (Or, Bergman Never Meant It To Be This Way)

I went uptown today to see two amazing Museum exhibits (Morandi and Calder) with my friend Rob. We ended up taking a long walk to do some other art devotion (Assouline).

Along the way, a family of fancy tourists got uppity when a Volvo station wagon drove out of a parking deck. The youngest of them - a lovely young girl - ran into traffic to snap a photo of the exiting wagon.

Rob and I were amazed at the sudden burst of interest in the mundane sight of a beige Volvo making a wide right turn.

ME: That was fucking crazy. Who was in that wagon?

ROB: I have no idea.

We then turned to look again at the family ahead of us on the street. They were still engaged in a shameless display of eight shades of shits-and-giggles over the car sighting. The young girl who snapped the picture was jumping up and down with glee, showing her parents the image she'd captured.

ME: Jesus. Enough with the Volvo. What is wrong with them?

ROB: Oh...they're Swedish.

Now, I've certainly had my days abroad being considered the forever-provincial American (see also: T$ The Barbarian) but I never went apeshit seeing a Chevy.