THE EUROWEENIE 106XR

I am an American. Not by birth, but by admiration and subsequently naturalization. This makes me more American than a native-born American because I chose to become one, it wasn’t just the happy accident of having the right parents. And, being an American, I love my car, which is also American. Forgive me, I should have said it was American. Now I live in Portugal and no longer drive American. Instead I own a Euroweenie 106 XR.
Back to America for some reference points. I arrived in the States from Britain over thirty years ago and have always driven American automobiles. It’s my way of being patriotic, of giving something back to my adopted country, even as the American car-makers bought up foreign companies and out-sourced everything.
Back in the seventies I briefly drove a Volkswagen Fastback (that’s a misnomer if ever there was one), but the engine fell out one day when I was turning left on Robertson Boulevard in west Los Angeles and that was that. Over the years I’ve owned Oldsmobiles, Pontiacs, Jeeps and Chevrolets. My last vehicle was a honking great Chevy Silverado extended-cab pickup truck with a manly V-8 motor that took me all over the country while gleefully sucking the world’s known oil reserves dry. Alas, it had to be sold when I left to live in Portugal. But at least it went to a friend.
Which naturally brings me to the Japanese, those fine makers of automobiles and samurai movies, and that leads on to how each country names its vehicles. I’ve been told Japan has cars called Daisy, Bluebell, and Serenity. And of course there is the Civic and also the Accord. All pleasant enough names, which undoubtedly reflects the Japanese character, while the Germans, naturally, rely on numbers. The Americans, a peace-loving people, opt for such monikers as Barracuda, Charger, or Buick Belligerent. I made the last one up, but you get the idea. Laugh all you like at the American names, though, but for real chuckles the Europeans have them beaten all ways up.
In my short time driving around Portugal I’ve encountered such names as: Kangoo, Sporty, Fabia, Partner, Caddy, Sunny, Leon, and my favorite of them all - Jumpy, smaller version of the Jumper. I swear to God I make none of this up. Maybe cruising around America, securely encased in tons of Detroit steel for thirty years has removed me from reality, but there is no way I can imagine going into a bar, winking at some babe and trying to impress her by casually mentioning I own a Jumpy. Maybe a Fabia. No, not even a Fabia. And the thought of what might happen if you put a Kangoo and Jumpy together in a dark garage overnight boggles the mind.
Of course all of this philosophizing is simply a way for me to avoid discussing my car, the Euroweenie 106 XR. When I came to Portugal I decided to buy a cheap car. Then, in a year or so, once I was settled, I would get something more substantial. Enter the Euroweenie 106 XR. It was made by Peugeot, which I think was once long ago a Belgian company, and if it’s not, we should mention poor little Belgium anyway because no one ever does. Belgium, a country renowned for...um, for being surrounded on all sides by France, the Netherlands, and I believe Pakistan.
They speak two languages in Belgium, French and Pantaloon, and so fiercely do the respective speakers hold to their native tongue that some wives cannot communicate with their husbands. Or want to. It’s such a divided country no one can agree on anything and so the Belgians drive down the middle of the road. But they do make fine chocolate and lovely lace. Their cars, however, are a different matter.
I bought the Euroweenie 106 XR used for 800 Euros, which at today’s exchange rate is about $40,000. How the mighty dollar hath fallen! The man who sold it to me, a friend of a friend, assured me it was a good reliable vehicle, “except sometimes the lights go up and down.” I thought he meant the Euroweenie rolled its eyes in disgust whenever I did something American while driving - such as talking on the cellphone, drinking coffee and reading the newspaper as I steered with my knees - but no, it was just his way of explaining that at times, usually when they were most desperately needed, the lights would go off. And stay off until they damn well wanted to come back on again.
My friend of a friend has taken the car to mechanics across Europe, but they all shrugged and said, “It’s a Peugeot Euroweenie 106 XR,” as if that explained everything. Which I guess it does. It does explain why Belgium no longer makes cars. I can only imagine the horrendous accidents that occurred as thousands of Belgians hammered down the highway (the middle of the highway, remember) then suddenly all went blind as the lights failed and they smashed into each other.
So I guess I should be grateful for the Euroweenie 106 XR because it’s probably the only one of its kind left alive. And at least it’s not a Jumpy. Or a Jumper.