AMERICANWAY

THE LAST WORD A arena, the behemoth rules. A sea of yellow and green cabs — the same that brazenly cut me off when I'm driving my wimpy everyday vehicle — move out of my way in deference, as if a medieval bugler is perched high atop the vehicle through the open sunroof, blasting a royal herald of my arrival into Brooklyn. It hits me that I have been entrusted with a vehicle bearing a $79,290 sticker price. That en- courages me — when not driving — to stash the fine vehicle in a fortified garage overnight. For all the acclaim bestowed on its extensive subway system, however, New York is an under- rated driver's town. Yes, the alternate-side-parking shuffle forces you to race meter maids to your car when your side of the street is slated for cleaning. The city is a maelstrom of dinged fenders and ex- orbitant parking tickets, and the obsessive perusal of the Department of Transportation website is required in hopes of finding an obscure holiday. (Whaddya mean they ticket on Charlie Chaplin's birthday?!) Rush hour is Mad Max-style anarchy, and insurance premiums are priced as if your Co- rolla sports Fabergé hubcaps. But Sundays in the city make it all worthwhile. With restrictions lifted, free parking abounds. The relatively empty streets become fluid arteries of green-light bliss. You can park at the base of the Empire State Building, wonder what you're doing there and drive only 15 minutes to Jackson Heights in Queens for killer Indian curry. You can float up the Henry Hudson Parkway to the lush hills sur- rounding The Cloisters, a branch of the Metropoli- tan Museum of Art, in search of the perfect peak on which to gaze westward and pity New Jersey. You can — steel yourself, dear reader — drive to the supermarket. This is something akin to the moon landing in a city where residents regularly stagger onto subway trains with hands mangled by grocery bags. To celebrate my Sunday with a Michigan-en- gineered, Texas-built, eight-cylinder stampede of 420 horses imbued with sofalike seats, an inge- nious projector that beams my speed on the front window and a satellite radio station that plays only Bruce Springsteen, I head to Staten Island. New York City's least populous borough is a natural choice for a jaunt in this rig. It's an SUV village. Getting there via public transportation is an odyssey involving a boat. And more so than any other borough, Staten Island has space — sprawling parks, suburban-style homes and big trucks in every garage. The Escalade hums over the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge as if in pilgrimage to its motherland. My first stop is breakfast at a joint selling some- thing called a blueberry French toast bagel, further proof that Staten Island has cornered the regional market on America. Did I mention that my wife and dog are with me? That's because I forgot, with them being lost in some outer recess of the cavernous vehicle. We hike through the woodsy High Rock Park, an enjoy- able experience, though I spend much of it won- dering why I'm not smashing through the forest in three tons of steel rather than trudging through on foot. Afterward, we drive to a thing called a strip mall, which has a thing called a parking lot, and buy foodstuffs, wine and a shower-curtain liner. It is enchanting. The next night, I return the Escalade to a garage in Manhattan. I've gotten used to life in the vehicular 1 percent — the white-glove treatment by parking attendants, pedestrians' impressed whispers, knowing nods shared with drivers of other luxury SUVs. Reality sets in. After cleaning out the garbage I have accumulated during one glorious Sunday of masquerading as a luxury-automobile owner, I reluctantly turn in the SUV, open my wallet and make sure I have my MetroCard for the subway ride home. AFTER NOSHING AT a paella bar in the trendy neighborhood of Nolita in Lower Manhattan, I watch as a driver pulls up with my Cadillac Escalade. And no, I'm not just stringing together all of the fanciest words I know. The driver is my friend Luke, whose job it is to deliver new luxury vehicles to members of the media. He's played a pivotal role in the possibly ill-advised decision to give me free reign of the massive 2015 sport utility vehicle for a weekend. He hands me the key, which isn't even a key at all but a simple leather fob — something a classy Jetson might keep in his pocket. Luke looks ner- vous. "Don't do anything that will make me get fired," he mutters, tensely. I'm soon hurtling over the Manhattan Bridge, having flicked enough switches that a heater in my seat is warming my hindquarters while some magic in the steering wheel is chilling my fingers. Among New York City drivers, sticking to a lane is an abstract concept, so much so that the city often doesn't bother to repaint the stripes when they are rubbed from the road. In this chaotic Sunday Driver By Gus Ga rci a-Roberts ILLUSTR ATION BY ROLLIN McGR A IL 1 2 8 D EC E M B E R 2 01 4 A A .CO M/A M E R I C A NWAY

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