In a small town, everyone knows everyone else’s business. But in my sprawl town, everyone knows everyone else’s cars. Like so many SoCal communities, San Diego’s Carmel Valley was practically made for drivers, so I often cross paths with people I know in parking lots, at intersections, and on neighborhood streets.
The ability to quickly recognize a vehicle offers social advantages: You can be the first to wave or the first to look away. A familiar car parked illegally at a shopping center gives you instant insight into the driver’s ethics. A recognizable car in the parking lot at a sports complex acts like a beacon for arriving players: “Hey, that’s Connor’s dad’s car, so this must be the right place.”
On my street, cars tell me when in-laws, ex-spouses, and housekeepers are visiting. A strange vehicle elicits suspicion. A porch pirate, perhaps? But that unfamiliar car is sometimes a neighbor’s newly leased vehicle. I wave to car owners more frequently than I wave to car leasers, simply because owners usually drive the same car year after year, making it easy for me to associate them with a particular vehicle.
Leasers have to put in extra effort to remind neighbors like me which car is theirs. They can do this by parking in their driveway or washing their car at home.
If a leased car has tinted windows, my brain needs about 3 years to link the car and driver so that I can begin to wave. Without tint? About 2 years. Unfortunately, 2 to 3 years is also the length of the average car lease. Just when I start to wave regularly, the driver leases a new car and the process begins anew.
One afternoon while driving home from work, my husband found himself following a white Toyota minivan through Carmel Valley, thinking that it was mine. When the driver turned onto our street and pulled into a driveway, my husband was sure it was me.
He parked at the curb and stepped out to kiss his wife—except the woman who emerged from the vehicle wasn’t his wife. That’s when he noticed it also wasn’t his house. He’d parked at Paula’s house, a couple of doors away. They looked at each other and laughed, and then he reparked his car.
Paula and I drove identical minivans at the time and our hair color is the same, so we were occasionally mistaken for each other. To avoid offending any of Paula’s friends who might mistake me for her, I’d wave to anyone who waved to me, even if that person was my husband waving to “Paula.”
So many of us in Southern California live in suburbs where our cars act as a primitive form of social media. Replacing an economy car with a minivan says, “Our family’s expanding.” Swapping a sensible car for something sporty sends news of a promotion, an empty nest, or perhaps the end of tuition payments.
Our cars help us identify one another and connect us in a way that digital media cannot. Want a real-life status update? Check your neighbor’s driveway.
