We woke up early after a late night. My stomach was uneasy; my mind restive. It was our first outing in the 82 Volkswagon Westfalia we purchased the day before from Yaz, a short, hairy, Iranian man in his late sixties. He owned it for 20 years. Of the 80,000 miles on the odometer, he was responsible for 72,000. Before he handed me over the keys, his wife cried; his teary-eyed grandkids watched from the garage.
"You aren't going to get any speeding tickets in this," he said.
On the way home to San Diego, from Yaz' house in Orange County, California, the diesel engine was nothing like the one in my previous car, an 84 Chevy El Camino. There were hills, rather gradual inclines, I wasn't aware of until my trip back. Through Camp Pendleton I cruised at 55.
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