Car-Free in L.A.: What a Concept

I recently decided to give up driving. This wasn’t a hasty or impulsive decision, mind you. I’d spent years trying to drive less, or to completely abstain, only to find myself behind the wheel again thinking, “This time I can handle it.”

Deep down, through all the madness, I knew that some day I would find the strength to embrace the serenity of pedestrian life.

My friends were aghast. People here in Los Angeles, the most car-obsessed spot in the known universe, regard driving as one of their deeply instinctual smooth-muscle activities--right up there with being self-absorbed and going on stupid diets.

The minute I told them I wanted to sell my car and start walking to and from work, they acted as if I were going to live in a refrigerator box under the freeway. “Oh, you poor thing! Let me give you a thousand from my money market account so you can at least get a Camry!” “Do you need to crash with me for a while ‘til you get on your feet?” “You can’t walk to work! You’ll get raped!” Never mind the fact that I live in West Hollywood, which is extremely pedestrian-friendly, and that I work in Beverly Hills, which is even more so. Never mind also that I used to run three miles a day when I was young and skinny. I mean, good God. The distance to my office is less than a measly 5K race. If I can’t even walk that far, I should be just plain ol’ ashamed of myself.

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There were a number of factors that led me to this decision.

First, I’m convinced that God does not want me to drive. (I’m a big believer in God. I figure if he does exist, I’ve got a poolside cabana in heaven and all the atheists are going to roast in their condescending black turtlenecks. If he doesn’t exist--oh, well, the joke’s on me.) I’ve owned two cars since I moved to Los Angeles 10 years ago, and both have cost $2,000 to $3,000 a year in repairs. Now, that’s just plain crazy.

Most people I know have never, ever, taken their cars to a mechanic. They just change the oil at a Jiffy Lube every three months and eventually do a trade-in for a shiny new vehicle. Not me.

I had the complete absence of foresight to purchase a brand-new Volkswagen Fox GNP back in 1991, a couple of years before they discontinued them. Lucky me, I bought the only rotten car Volkswagen ever made. To make matters worse, I kept the damned thing for eight years. It was like a bad relationship. I thought, “If I just pay this last 1,300 bucks to redo the entire brake system, I know my car will somehow become the really, really good car it’s meant to be.” Even after I’d replaced nearly every single moving part (none of which were even mentioned in passing on my expensive extended warrantee) and after I’d smashed into the rear end of another car (OK, that was my fault), I still held on.

At one point I even tried meditating and visualizing my car as healthy and loving. That didn’t work. My radiator started leaking, and after I’d poured water into it, I found myself chugging and lurching toward a repair shop in Brentwood (my car always broke down in the high-price district) while my exhaust pipe belched white smoke. When I finally limped into the driveway of a friendly Shell station, the mechanic came running out, white-faced. It turned out I’d done the ultimate goofball-woman-driver thing: I’d poured 3 gallons of water into my oil reservoir. Well, how was I supposed to know? They don’t label anything in those silly VW engines.

Eight hundred dollars later my friends and family staged an intervention and demanded that I trade in my car.

Fat chance. Less than a week later I let myself get talked into a 1990 Lincoln Mark ASCII by a bulbous, enthusiastic man on Melrose Avenue who had just quit smoking that very same day. He was quite sweaty and nervous, and he let me know that he’d do just about anything to unload--er, sell--this car.

During the test drive I said extremely idiotic things like, “Well, the interior is really spacious and leathery, and the air-conditioning works great. It seems like an OK car!” while my soon-to-be-ex husband was sitting mute in the back seat. The schmuck. He was probably thinking about how to sneak out that night to see his girlfriend. So, truthfully, the second awful car was completely my ex-husband’s fault. He should have insisted that I get this one checked out by a mechanic. That way I could have known that the steering, the brakes, the transmission, the automatic locks, something called an oxygen sensor and the passenger-side window were all on the verge of expiring, and that just over a year later I’d be another $3,000 poorer.

Oh, and the water pump. That was another $450. Instead he sat idly by when I said, “I think 500 bucks is a great trade-in value for my Volkswagen, even though I bought it for $10,000 and with financing I ended up paying $14,000!” and, “Wow! You can finance it for me at 27%. That’s just wonderful!”

So God has told me in no uncertain terms that I am not meant to drive or own a car because I am just plain bad at it. I’m great with children, I have a facility with words and I can make a broccoli casserole that would melt in your mouth, but I, ladies and gentleman, am no driver.

So I’m going to sell my car and start hoofing it and getting around by taxicab. And don’t start preaching to me about how the cost of all those cab rides will add up until I’m flat broke. I mean, come on--little old ladies take cabs to and from the grocery store all the time, and they’re on fixed incomes. Right now my monthly car payment is 200 bucks, repairs average about 200 bucks, my insurance is 150 bucks and gas is about 80 bucks. That’s $630. My occasional cab schleps may cost a little something, but there’s no way in hell it’ll be 630 bucks a month.

I also have another, more spiritual motive for wanting to live car-free. It’s a great way to remove all the life-sapping clutter from my schedule. Just think about it. “Sorry. I can’t make it. I don’t have a car” is much more polite than saying, “Look, if you’re going to move to Thousand Oaks/work in Marina del Rey/join some wretched theater company in Toluca Lake, I absolutely cannot be your friend anymore.” Now, if someone chooses to settle in a city that’s out of my geographical range, I never have to lay eyes on them again. My friendship landscape has started to take on a nicely Zen appearance.

And, I know this is the craziest thing you’ve ever heard in your life, but I actually enjoy walking. Once I began my walks to and from work, my life took on a completely different tempo. I have nearly an hour to gear up for the work day ahead, and I have an hour to wind down from it at night. And I don’t do that ludicrous power-walking thing either. God forbid I should break a sweat. Instead I do a little gait I like to call the “antique store meander,” I stroll along the sidewalk taking in the sights, appreciating the flowers, stopping at an occasional coffeehouse or magazine stand, and greeting startled valet parking guys with a serene smile.

I get to study all the little shops along my route (“Trash With Class” is fabulous!) and catch a whiff of all the dinners being prepared by people in apartment buildings (which, from my observation, contain way too many of those glaring torchiers from Target). Sometimes I’ll catch sight of a rare, endangered thing--another walker.

You know, there’s an entire city full of people like me on the East Coast. It’s called Manhattan. I lived there car-free for three years so I know it can be done. And perhaps if there were fewer cars, we “Angelenos” (I hate that term; it sounds like we all worship Angelyne) could get a little farther in our battle against the brown, icky stuff that wraps our skyline.

Anyway, everyone can make fun of me if they want. I’m a walker. And just because my friends are forcing me to go look at cars in El Monte this weekend does not mean I’m going to fall off the wagon and become a car owner again. Although I hear they have a great leasing deal on the 2000 Tercel and they’ll throw in the 25 CD changer and the moon roof at no extra charge.

Claudette Powell is a public relations professional, freelance writer and stand-up comedian.

“So God has told me in no uncertain terms that I am not meant to drive or own a car because I am just plain bad at it. I’m great with children, I have a facility with words and I can make a broccoli casserole that would melt in your mouth, but I, ladies and gentleman, am no driver.”