Five things I love about my Fiat 500

It's been almost a year since I bought my little Fiat 500 Pop. I thought I'd list some of the things that I enjoy about my Italian hatchback since people often ask me about it on my daily travels.

1. It's tiny:  Big things come in small Italian cars. This little bugger can pretty much squeeze into any parking space (especially in car-congested South Beach and downtown Miami.)

But when you fold the backseats forward, the car is surprisingly roomy. The car has about the same exterior dimensions as the first Honda Civic hatchback from 1973 but my Fiat feels spacious inside.

It's  big enough to fit my father's wheelchair in the back.  I'm five-feet-10-inches tall and weigh about 170 pounds and three of my guy friends who are more or less the same height (okay, maybe an inch taller and thinner that me) fit comfortably in the car with me in the driver's seat.  On date night, my boyfriend and I usually take my car because it really fits anywhere.  To me, FIAT stands for FITS IN ALL TINY spaces.

2. Headturner:  Several times a week, curious admirers ask me about my copper colored 500 when I pull into a parking space or pull up to the Dunkin' Donuts drive-thru in Fort Lauderdale.  The car literally turns heads.  "Beautiful little car,'' one woman said as I hopped into the car outside Publix. "How is your Fiat treating you? I had one in college," a business man asked me as I parked at my work's parking garage in downtown Fort Lauderdale..


3. Gas-friendly:  I commute weekdays from Coral Gables to Fort Lauderdale, which is at least 70 miles a day, sometimes more depending on my assignments.  A full-tank costs me $21 and lasts me four and half days. I average about 300 miles on a full-tank what has 10 gallons.

4. Design:  I like to joke to people that I feel like I'm inside a beautifully-detailed Italian purse on four wheels.  The dashboard has beige, brown and orange accents. The seats are sewn in espresso brown material.  The steering wheel is a cream-hued leather.  The head rests are perfectly-shaped ovals. With its egg (or coffee bean) shape, the car sits high, tall.


5. Peppy engine:  The car has a 1.4 litre engine that hums at 101 horsepower. That doesn't sound like much but the engine is zippy, peppy. I can easily maneuver inbetween cars on Interstate 95 when I switch lanes although I have to punch the pedal and give it gas.

(that's me below sitting in the backseat.)

My first car: the 1982 Honda Accord

 It was my worst-best car. The second generation 1982 Honda Accord hatchback was my first car, a belated 17th-birthday gift from my parents in Miami Beach. The first time I saw it, the car was parked, with all its glorious small dents, in the driveway of our home. No one was around when my friend Kellyn and I discovered the car but as soon as we peeked through the window, I knew this was my car. It spoke to me. Sky-blue with a whoosh Accord logo written in italics on each side. The smallish hatchback looked sporty, cool, contemporary despite being 8 years old. Something about the word "Accord" sounded important, unique. I couldn't wait to drive it. I just had to figure how to drive a stick-shift. But after a few starts and stops, I nailed down how to switch gears without that annoying grinding noise and I hit the roads of Miami Beach. With its 75-horsepower engine, the car provided me a smooth ride with enough pep to speed down Pine Tree Drive or whip and weave on Interstate 95.
 A navy-blue velour material sheathed the seats that seemed to suck you in. The shag carpeting tickled my feet. The AC was icy cold blowing my curls of dark brown hair. Whenever I pulled away from a greenlight, the car carried an electronic hum, reminding me of a futuristic exhaust of a spaceship.

Although the car was heralded as one of the most reliable in the US, my used vehicle with some 70,000 miles, had some car quirks and I knew we I were going to have to work together if we were going to stay in this for the long haul.

When it rained, it literally poured inside the car. Sealant problems plagued my front-glass windshield. I used napkins to dab the wet spots that pooled on my dashboard but my uncle/godfather patched that up for me. Another time, when my high school lunch-bunch friends piled into the car, a rattling sound followed us as we left the school lot.

 The car dragged the muffler like the end of a Just-Marred chain of cans. We didn't make it to Burger King that afternoon and my dad gladly took care of the repair. Although I lived and hung out in Miami Beach, I had trouble leaving the 33140 area code. The car's temperature spindle would inch into the red zone if I ventured over the causeway to the Miami side or if I idled in traffic too long. I replaced the clunky radiator. When the car did work properly, it sparkled and I beamed just as brightly whenever I pulled into my driveway, my high school parking lot or at The Miami Herald building where I was an intern penning a weekly column titled "Friends and Neighbors." The Accord meant independence and I felt that spirit whenever I started the engine or paid for my own gas at the local Amoco station. This was my Accord and I could deal with all the minor auto warts I had inherited from the previous owners. The car liberated me. I felt like I was growing up, becoming a man. Too bad the Accord didn't last through high school. The car only survived two months in my hands. After making a McDonald's run with Kellyn on Thursday afternoon, I collided with a rental car driver and my Accord spun down NE 30th Street off Biscayne Boulevard like a dreidel. (No one was hurt but we still can't account for the missing medium chocolate shake that I had in my hands.)

Post-crash, the car sat lifeless, its rear folded in crushed like an accordion. I felt the same way. A tow truck dragged the car back home where an insurance adjuster eventually declared it a total loss. Until it was towed away to a car cemetery, I sat in the car each day, my fingers grazing my weathered steering wheel as I relished my short-lived adventures this vehicle gave me. Then it was gone. Over the years, I've seen clones of that light-blue Accord. When I lived in Cambridge, Massachusetts, I often saw an identical car (but with lots of rust) parked on side streets in Harvard Square. I was often tempted to leave a note for the owner to say "I used to own a car just like this high school. I am glad to see that it's still running for you." More recently, I saw another copy zoom by me in Miami's Little Havana. Whenever I see my Accord's double, it's as if a ghost from my past, my teen years, another time, dashes by. But I like to think that my old car may have been restored by someone and that it's out there somewhere in South Florida giving another owner the pleasure it gave me for those two sweet months.

That's me with my 1982 Honda Accord parked outside a friend's apartment building in South Beach. Check out the dents.

(The top two Honda images above were original magazine ads and brochures for my model.)