It’s that time of the year again—the great migration to Monterey, California. The excitement and energy is in the air. People are detailing their beloved Duesenbergs, researching the multi-million-dollar cars that will be crossing the block and trying to predict who will win the Pebble Beach Concours d’Elegance. People wait all year for this event, and it never disappoints. It’s an entire week where reality ceases to exist. The one downside to Monterey Car Week is leaving when it’s over. When I come home from Pebble Beach, I just stare at my 1995 BMW 318i wondering if it will turn into […]
It’s that time of the year again—the great migration to Monterey, California. The excitement and energy is in the air. People are detailing their beloved Duesenbergs, researching the multi-million-dollar cars that will be crossing the block and trying to predict who will win the Pebble Beach Concours d’Elegance. People wait all year for this event, and it never disappoints. It’s an entire week where reality ceases to exist.
The one downside to Monterey Car Week is leaving when it’s over. When I come home from Pebble Beach, I just stare at my 1995 BMW 318i wondering if it will turn into a Gallardo like Cinderella’s pumpkin transforming into a coach. My whole sense of reality is off-kilter. I mean, every other 20-something girl at Concorso Italiano seems to own a Lamborghini or Ferrari or both — why shouldn’t I? My dad points out that he could paint a Ferrari stripe on my car, but for some reason, it just wouldn’t be the same. Luckily after about two days, the glittery effect of Monterey wears off, and the reality sets in that most girls my age don’t actually own an Italian supercar.
