I Had Asked Her to Give Me Three Years

Mitsu, Lila and I, early 2021.

As usual, the sky was still dark when twelve paws enthusiastically woke me up. For a moment, in between two worlds, I didn’t remember. Then slowly, I did.

Mitsu.

Mitsu has been my faithful, comfortable, spacious, forgiving, strong, and ultra-reliable companion, since a few weeks after we arrived.

She is the first car I ever drove in Mexico. She has been with me through countless adventures, water crossings, places in the jungle where I wasn’t sure cars could go, flooded country roads, mountain passes, the cobblestones of the village, and paved city streets too.

She has moved all my stuff from the tiny cabin to my house and she has helped me move many friends’ things too. Plants, animals, she has always said yes. She has been my overnight shelter when the thunder got too loud to sleep in a tent and she has transported many construction materials in the months when Casa Sama was being built.

She never once complained, hesitated nor left me stranded. I satisfied her hunger for ample amounts of motor oil and got help fixing her occasional popped tires. Last year she got a new suspension and a hard protective roof. She still has her pink striped seat covers.
When I first got her, I asked her to please stay with me for three years. It felt like an eternity stretching in front of us.

Last March, aware that we were passing the three-year mark I got bold and asked her for a seven-year extension.

Two nights ago, with zero warning and in the most gentle way possible, she told me that she couldn’t give me that. That she was done. Mitsu had kept her commitment and now it was time for her to retire. She took care of me until the last minute, giving me her news before I started driving into the jungle at night, and during one of the only times when a girlfriend was following me home after an afternoon together in the city.

It was so smooth, so sweet.

An odd noise, a knowing of sorts. The transmission was acting strangely. I pulled into the last gas station before the huge trees and the dark curvy roads, made sure she would be safe overnight, and then climbed into my friend’s car to get home.

Yesterday morning I made my way back to her where a tow truck was meeting us. We put her on the back, and I took this beautiful photo. So very her. Festive, strong, and looking pretty Mexican for a car who was born in New York. Perfect.

Back through the jungle I left her into my mechanic’s hands. I went home and waited for a diagnosis.

At 5 pm he texted me. “It’s the transmission," he confirmed.

I went over there.

Of course, I immediately talked about replacing the transmission. He advised me against it. “The motor is at the end of its life,” he said. He had been telling me this for a good while and I hadn’t wanted to believe him. I didn’t believe him but also… anytime I thought of going on a long road trip, my intuition made some noise of its own. Yes, she had never let me down. But also, I knew I shouldn’t push it.

And I did want to go on road trips.

Underneath the sadness, something felt right. Gentle was the word that kept coming back.

We drove her home and here she sits.

And now what?

I don’t know how to buy a car. Also, I don’t have a lot of money to do so.
Could I just … not have a car?

Not having a car feels scary. I have never not had a car, as an adult. Having a car means Freedom to me. And god knows I love Freedom. Also, whereas it would be possible - although inconvenient - to be without a car if I lived in the village, living in the country this way feels much scarier, especially with the rain coming. I want to be able to make my way to the vet quickly if needed. I want to be able to cross the rivers without wading through them each time. I want, I want. I want my car to magically be well. Because at least with her, I know what’s wrong. A new-to-me car? It’s trickier.

So, as I woke up to this new reality, and while it is not comfortable, there is a whole lot of gratitude that goes along with it. Also, a trust that something good is coming.

Nothing lasts. No one lasts.

Letting go is an art form, one that takes so much practice to do painlessly. We forget, we want to forget. We say things like “forever,” or “seven more years,” and the words feel so good. We say: “See you in the morning,” and “I’ll be there.” And we may, or we may not.
I think one part surrender, one part awareness, and one part joy may be the perfect cocktail.

Now I am thinking about gear shifting, about going from one speed to the next, one car to the other, smoothly. About reducing the grinding and enhancing the flow. Enjoying the ride. Inviting, receiving.

Because even though Mitsu is retiring from the gear-shifting business, I am not.

This life…