I took my Beetle to a supermarket a little farther than usual.
Nothing stylish about it. Just an ordinary shopping trip.
Well, ordinary—except for the car.
It always stands out a little.
Like it’s quietly wandered out of the Showa era.
Whenever I park, I catch people glancing at it.
I pretend not to notice.
Lately, I wear sunglasses even on cloudy days—just to make pretending easier.
But to be honest, it’s a bit tiring.
The other day, I parked in a multi-level garage, and a young female staff member came over.
“Such a cute car. What’s it called?”
“It’s a Beetle,” I said. “A Volkswagen.”
She smiled and said, “Oh, I see.”
Getting noticed by a young woman like that—it felt like a little boost of energy for the day.
In the peak of summer, I sometimes think I could use a second car. One with real air-conditioning.
But if I ever did buy one, the Beetle would turn into a “hobby car.”
It’d be washed, polished, and taken out on weekends—like some collector’s item.
And I get it. That’s one way to love a car.
But to me, it’s still just a car. A car should be driven.
I want to keep using it as my everyday ride for as long as I can.
Of course, there are a few days each year when it’s just too hot to bear.
On those days, I’ll take the train. No rush. No sweat. Just a quiet trip to wherever I need to go.
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