Dedicated to Dad

So this will be a short blog post, dedicated to my father's side of the family, and to dear old dad in particular. Earlier in the semester I was considering what a posh area Kensington is, and was marvelling at the incredibly expensive-looking automobiles which are regularly parked.

First there's this beauty:

And further down the square is this one:

And further further down the square is this one:

And this is just a sampler plate. Beemers and Range Rovers and Ferraris and Porsches accent the ancient and awesome architecture with a more modern motif. Anyway, the point is that everything about this area is really expensive and ritzy. And then, gliding into view like a well-loved street-hot-dog-man hawking his sausages in Beverly Hills, my vision is graced with this familiar sight:

For those of you who may not be aware, this is a Volvo station wagon that's at least as old as I am. My family is a dedicated Volvo family (really just my Dad and my uncle, but I like to think imagine it as a grand family tradition). These cars are incredibly durable, withstanding the brunt of the ages like no other vehicle I know (and, being of course the car expert that I am, I'm undoubtedly qualified to speak on such issues). Our car, a 1993 Volvo 740, has approximately 350,000 miles on it (which is almost to the moon and back--this is one of my favorite statistics) and can still get 27 mpg on the highway. We've had it for a long long long long time, it's the car that I learned to drive on, and I have come to identify the boxy silhouette, admittedly rather derpy, with home. I love that car. And to see it, very out of place amongst the silver spoon swag wagons of the over-rich, gives my heart a little lift every time it comes into view.

I love you, Dad.