My esteemed colleague and I were driving along King (for we drive and, yes, are as shatterers of worlds) and I found myself blurting out loud “Why is there a Citroën SM and why is there a Citroën DS?” In fact, there were seven Citroëns all in one place, including 2CVs and some late-model variety uncomfortably resembling a Lada Samara.
My eyes widened and I giggled and clapped my flat-outstretched hands like a schoolgirl. I made us stop the car. I took pictures until I ran out of juice. I talked to the SM owner. (“Whenever you show people a Citroën SM, they think The Longest Yard: ‘Don’t you take my Maserati!’ Except it isn’t a Maserati. It’s a Citroën; the engine is a Maserati.”) I watched various Eurotrash in too-tight and/or ruffled shirts and overlarge shades clutch their twee twine-handled shopping bags as they regarded these alien creatures.
Our philosophical question de la journée: If we know these things hike themselves up to drive away on their hydraulic suspensions, why do they have to hunch back down again once parked? The French showing off or something?