The God of Driving

Informationen zum Autor Amy Fine Collins Klappentext As a top correspondent for Vanity Fair magazine, Amy Fine Collins leads a glamorous life, a charmed whirlwind of gala parties, couture clothing, and five-star travel. In Manhattan, where she is whisked around in taxis and limousines, she has been able to disregard her long-standing fear of driving, a legacy handed down from her accident-plagued family. But when the brilliant and determined Amy finally decides to confront her driving phobia, she does not foresee how far from her elegant turf this resolution will take her.A mysterious, good-looking Turk named Attila is dispatched to her doorstep in a dual-brake Acura, and in him Amy discovers not only a superhumanly skilled instructor but also a wise, patient, and capable man who, inexplicably and irresistibly, over the course of their yearlong lessons, begins to transform and transport her.Both a compelling portrait of an elusive, charismatic hero and an inspiring adventure story, The God of Driving recounts the evolving relationship of Amy and Attila as they zoom in and out of urban interstates and country byways, as close to home as Park Avenue and as far away as Hamburg -- in muscle cars, turbocharged Bentleys, and hang-on-for-your-life motorcycles. And while Attila is completely changing her life, Amy is entirely remaking his, prompting him to uncover -- and redeem -- his shadowy past. Vibrant and funny, The God of Driving is an offbeat, romantic odyssey -- a true-life tale of unlikely soul mates who bump into each other at the crossroads of high gears and high style.Chapter One: It Shouldn't Happen to Us This is the recurrent nightmare: I am inside my father's Morris Minor convertible, scarcely filling the driver's seat, and the oyster gray automobile is hurtling, helter-skelter, down a steep hill. My hands can neither hold the steering wheel nor grasp the stick shift, and my feet dangle uselessly, high above the pedals. The car is going so fast I am unable to see anything through the windows except a rushing, murky blur, a whizzing smudge of motion. The dream has no beginning or end, just movement and terror. The nocturnal scenario is now unreeling in broad daylight, in actual time and real space -- with a few crucial changes of location. This time I'm seated inside a different vehicle, a '92 Acura Integra. My legs are more than long enough to reach the pedals, but for all the control my right foot possesses, it could be kicking right through the windshield. There is no high hill here, but the car might as well be rocketing skyward, upside down, so disoriented is my sense of vertical and horizontal, right and left, earth and atmosphere. And this time I can see, with too much clarity, what's outside the window: a throbbing digital traffic sign, skipping white and yellow lines, a curving cement retaining wall, and a looming suspension bridge, maybe a thousand feet ahead. And all of them are angled fiercely, about to collide and converge on me like the falling planes of a Cubist painting. The driving instructor in the passenger seat beside me grabs the wheel and guides the car away from a hulking SUV in the adjacent lane. Saved. The dream begins to ebb away. For my entire adult life I had no use for automobiles, and no ability to drive them. Unlike most Americans, I never drove to work -- in my case, the Vanity Fair offices on the twenty-second floor of 4 Times Square in New York City. Every morning I commuted, instead, from my silver-and-pink bedroom, on upper Park Avenue, to a large black-and-gold desk in my adjacent dressing room. The clothes in the closets opposite this ornate desk (formerly the property of Hugh Hefner) were part of my working life too. All were custom-made by Geoffrey Beene -- he was my fashion mentor, I was his muse. Fifteen years before, I had donated my previous wardrobe of Giglis and Alaïas to one of my cha...

Autorentext

Amy Fine Collins

Klappentext

As a top correspondent for Vanity Fair magazine, Amy Fine Collins leads a glamorous life, a charmed whirlwind of gala parties, couture clothing, and five-star travel. In Manhattan, where she is whisked around in taxis and limousines, she has been able to disregard her long-standing fear of driving, a legacy handed down from her accident-plagued family. But when the brilliant and determined Amy finally decides to confront her driving phobia, she does not foresee how far from her elegant turf this resolution will take her.

A mysterious, good-looking Turk named Attila is dispatched to her doorstep in a dual-brake Acura, and in him Amy discovers not only a superhumanly skilled instructor but also a wise, patient, and capable man who, inexplicably and irresistibly, over the course of their yearlong lessons, begins to transform and transport her.

Both a compelling portrait of an elusive, charismatic hero and an inspiring adventure story, The God of Driving recounts the evolving relationship of Amy and Attila as they zoom in and out of urban interstates and country byways, as close to home as Park Avenue and as far away as Hamburg -- in muscle cars, turbocharged Bentleys, and hang-on-for-your-life motorcycles. And while Attila is completely changing her life, Amy is entirely remaking his, prompting him to uncover -- and redeem -- his shadowy past. Vibrant and funny, The God of Driving is an offbeat, romantic odyssey -- a true-life tale of unlikely soul mates who bump into each other at the crossroads of high gears and high style.

Leseprobe
Chapter One: It Shouldn't Happen to Us

This is the recurrent nightmare:

I am inside my father's Morris Minor convertible, scarcely filling the driver's seat, and the oyster gray automobile is hurtling, helter-skelter, down a steep hill.

My hands can neither hold the steering wheel nor grasp the stick shift, and my feet dangle uselessly, high above the pedals. The car is going so fast I am unable to see anything through the windows except a rushing, murky blur, a whizzing smudge of motion.

The dream has no beginning or end, just movement and terror.

The nocturnal scenario is now unreeling in broad daylight, in actual time and real space -- with a few crucial changes of location. This time I'm seated inside a different vehicle, a '92 Acura Integra. My legs are more than long enough to reach the pedals, but for all the control my right foot possesses, it could be kicking right through the windshield. There is no high hill here, but the car might as well be rocketing skyward, upside down, so disoriented is my sense of vertical and horizontal, right and left, earth and atmosphere. And this time I can see, with too much clarity, what's outside the window: a throbbing digital traffic sign, skipping white and yellow lines, a curving cement retaining wall, and a looming suspension bridge, maybe a thousand feet ahead. And all of them are angled fiercely, about to collide and converge on me like the falling planes of a Cubist painting.

The driving instructor in the passenger seat beside me grabs the wheel and guides the car away from a hulking SUV in the adjacent lane.

Saved. The dream begins to ebb away.

For my entire adult life I had no use for automobiles, and no ability to drive them. Unlike most Americans, I never drove to work -- in my case, the Vanity Fair offices on the twenty-second floor of 4 Times Square in New York City. Every morning I commuted, instead, from my silver-and-pink bedroom, on upper Park Avenue, to a large black-and-gold desk in my adjacent dressing room. The clothes in the closets opposite this ornate desk (formerly the property of Hugh Hefner) were part of my working life too. All were custom-made by Geoffrey Beene -- he was my fashion mentor, I was his muse. Fifteen years before, I had donated my previous wardrobe of Giglis and Alaïas to one of my charities, the Metropolitan Museum's Costume Institute, and never looked back…