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This story is from the 2001 Quadrille Ball.

A quadrille is a French country dance, with partners grouped into eights and a caller instructing them in the moves–rather like an American square dance. The Quadrille, in New York, is an annual ball benefiting a German society that grants scholarships to German graduate students.

We know several people who’ve participated in the Quadrille–the part of the evening where twenty couples dressed formally alike perform the formal Quadrille. It’s an honor to be invited to participate. Learning and practicing the dance takes five months. For the big night the men wear white tie and tails and the women wear white gowns, all alike. Their hair must be up, and they all wear tiaras. The attire, like the dance, is enforced with German rigidity.

This year, News reader Dan Katz’s girlfriend Katie was invited to dance. That meant Dan would attend, but for a large part of the night he’d be on his own in a ballroom full of strangers.

One person he would know was our mutual friend Elizabeth, whose family always has a table. A few weeks before the ball, Elizabeth’s father offered two seats at their table to Andrew and I. We decided not to tell Dan we’d be going.

A couple days before the ball Dan called and asked if wanted to get together for a drink on Saturday afternoon. He’d be in New York (he lives in Boston while Katie lives in New York), but Katie was busy all afternoon. “Sure,” I said, imagining the fun of asking him all about the ball he was going to.

That afternoon, after buying a new car, I took the bus into the city to meet Dan at Andrew’s. I slipped in and hid my garment bag, then we all went out for sushi. Andrew and I gleefully probed Dan about the ball. What was he wearing, what did the ticket cost, did he expect to have a good time . . . It seemed as if a big part of his justification for going was because he thought he’d never have a reason to wear white tie again. When he asked us what we were doing that evening, we hedged, and said we were thinking of renting a movie. Andrew even suggested that I would have to go get it because it was so cold out he wasn’t going back outside.

Parting from Dan we rushed home giggling to change into our own white tie attire.

At the Plaza we met Elizabeth and her husband Matt. Shortly after we had acquired our first glasses of champagne, Dan turned up:

“Okay, so how long have you guys known you were coming?”

The Cocktail hour ended and the guests, several hundred in all, were escorted by liveried pages (ballet students from Julliard) and West Point cadets up to the ballroom. Dan was seated with Katie’s brother and his girlfriend, but he found cadet at Katie’s table who was willing to trade. The dancers all sat together, and they were not allowed to dance before dinner, although the rest of us were.

The dance floor was quickly filled with whirling, dazzling guests. More amazing than the glamorous women were the men, all in tails, many wearing medals. Eventually dinner was served, and as dessert was being distributed the presentation began. First the cadets posted the colors and the band played the American and German national anthems. Then there were speeches, and finally the introduction of the dancers.

These formalities completed, the Quadrille itself takes approximately 12 and a half minutes. Afterwards, the dancers are finally allowed to come back and socialize and dance. Around midnight, a repeat of the quadrille was organized with any of the guests who wanted to participate. This, quickly degenerated, but was great fun.

The ball ended at 1 a.m. The post ball party was in the next ballroom over. Taking a bottle of wine and the centerpiece from our table, we staked out a new table near the swing band. The only challenge then was to keep on dancing, which we did right up until 3 a.m. While a certain more mature element left at one a.m., most of those who stayed for on were still going strong when we left.

Donna (Antonia) Holloway moved to Barcelona in the 1990s and plied her trade as a technical writer and on-line documentation specialist. We should all be so lucky as to manage to make ends meet living in a Mediterranean town! She sent this not long after moving there. She has since passed on, so we’re preserving this story on her behalf.

The last several weeks have been quite busy looking for work, I swear it work harder getting work than I do when I actually GET the work…all this being social and dashing here and there… is quite hard in fact for my little hermit self. I decided what I needed was a quiet day at the Med. and reminded myself that I really haven’t been since I have been here. On sunday I dash down on my bike, meet a friend, take a brisk walk, but really, just to be a sand lizard, I haven’t.

So, Wednesday I jump out of bed (having been quite deligent in the work hunting-gathering thing on Tuesday) and got my beach toys together. Umbrella, little lunch and drink, towel, sheet, oil, book (English), Spanish verb book, walkman. I was ready for the day.

Now, what bus was I suppose to take? My flatmate suggested the 41 and that meant a brief hike of 8 blocks–downhill–no problem. Off I go. The bus was hot, but not too bad–because it goes through the town–it takes about 40min to get to the water. Well, actually it doesn’t get to the water. It stopped in a parking lot and the sign said “fini.” opps. What happed to the beach? Lucky for me, a family, mom, dad, baby, grandparents had got on the bus early and I followed them off–trying to look worldly.

Cross the big street, through the Mcdonald’s (honest) and then… water! Clear, beautiful, salty water. Little beaches broken by the jetti’s. I got there about 11 a.m. and already the sand was littered with people, kids, umbrellas… but not yet toe-to-toe, I sighed and hoped it would not get too much more crowded.

Got myself settled and was a happy little hermit. Dunked myself in aquamarine water, tasted the salt. The morning was so bloody hot, not a whif of a breeze, the cool water felt great. I noticed when I came out of the water the old lady and old man next to me–they had beach chairs, were chatting comfortably with the people on the next patch of sand. Then I notice the little grandmotherly type had no top on. just boobs and bottoms. Just chatting away to the strangers one towel away. Made me grin… a total Mediterranean experience. As I was settling in to my mystery novel, I glanced up, just one contented puppy… as I noticed the little grandfather type get up and kiss his little women–ah, how sweet. then he slowly moved to the water… he was wearing a thong — a little strip of nothing.. the man was older than my dad (no offence dad, but I couldn’t help but chuckle and wish brother was here… old grandfatherly types look kind of free and well, very strange in a thong-type swimsuit.

In a flash, I pretty much decided the beach folks were much more interesting than the mystery novel. I looked around. From toddlers to grandparents, people were swimming, sunning, playing tag ball, without tops and little bottoms. All bodies, fat, skinny, just right, and super models. I thought, how do these people face each other the next day at work? Clearly, my Roman Catholic upbringing was showing. I swim topless or more in the lake at home, but Mr. South doesn’t have the eyesight to see across the lake anymore… and I don’t think his horse grazing in the field is terribly impressed either. I wondered how long it would take me to find the courage and invisibleness to shed my top. I had to be home by 6 p.m.–my flatmate was teaching me to cook a curry/rice dish…

The beach got progessively more crowded. People in Barcelona (BCN) are so darn used to having no space, being totally social and accepting of crowds, they just plunk their towel right next to you–I mean, you can get stepped on when they get up. The wind started, the tide changed. The windsurfers came out, you could see the sailboats going to and from the marina. Almost like Zuma beach in LA–except for the topless part. The water is very salty — and was surprised how clear it was — I could see past my toes and down to the sand. My flatmate (Shiela) says it is a bit dirty on the weekends. I don’t see how you could get in on the weekends–way too many people.

I noticed a very pretty woman sunbathing to the right of me…just touching the water line. One of those nice, all over tans, thought hummm… perhaps I should move my towel closer to the older fat women chat group even futher to the right. Their boobs hung down to their string bikini line and the funny thing was — they often put their top on while sitting under their umbrella, but when they went into the water, they left their tops on their chairs.

When I saw the hunky lifeguard, I decided that Baywatch just shoot their series here. About mid-to-late 30’s and to die for cute. I couldn’t tell what his purpose in life was (other to make me grin and wish I’d be faithful about going to the gym). He strolled along the beach, checking out the horizon–the windsurfers were way to far out for him to swim too–occasionally I saw the red rescue avon (rubber raft) zip out to collect one. There are no lifeguard stands so I have no idea where they hide until they are needed. But I truely wish I had better Spanish so I could flirt properly. Actually, he was one of the few that actually had a real swimsuit on–and of course that lifeguard t-shirt that clearly implies “I have been going to the gym since I was in the womb.”

The beach crowd thins out as the wind kicks up and 1 p.m. rolls around. People head home to take comida (lunch) and for small amount of time my mystery novel is more interesting than the beach crowd. However very soon I was once again entertained by the the new sun worshippers. A gaggle of teens plopped down beside me… and as with teenagers all over the world, they run in packs and very soon I felt like I was inside a high school play yard. Screeching, boys pulling the girls into the water–girls squeelling “no, no” All over me… Very friendly people these Barcelonans. I wondered if it was genetic that girls–regardless of where they grow up–learn how to flirt and shriek and squeal. some of the girls soon took off their tops and I thought gee I wonder how they see the boys in school and not blush. But the afternoon was warming up quite nicely–it was now bloody hot–and I was spending as much time in the salty Med as I was on the beach sheet.

The European flavor and heat and feeling totally invisible I decided to shed my top. So lovely to swim free. It was not too long before my internal nagging convinced me that it was now about 4 p.m. and people I know could be wandering down to the shore. I can’t help it, I know I would feel wierd if someone I had just had an interview with came strolling by and said “hola, Antonia, dia buena.” I just don’t know if I could carry on a conversation with a total stranger with my boobs dancing free in the air. Ahh, sometimes it is good to feel free. The water was grand, the surf provided a nice rhythemic pounding, the children cried when mommy forced them off the beach, husbands came down in search of their families, the teens played on. Not a single boom box appeared and blessedly–no rap music at all. Beat the hell out of Zuma beach.

Finally, body and soul tanned and rested, I gathered my toys and headed for the bus. Traffic in BCN is like 285 in Atlanta on a Friday night — getting through town is a pain. Didn’t get much of the mystery novel read, but had a lovely day, felt that I could now say truthfully–I had been to the Med. Read my mystery novel all the way home on the bus and walked up hill for 8 blocks.

Some days are just better than others.

This story about the only vehicle I’ve ever bought new is from 2000

If you live in the New York area, next time you’re out on the road take a look around. Count the Subarus. Pull into a suburban parking lot. What’s next to you? Or across the row? They’re everywhere. How had I not noticed before?

The Suzuki Samurai known as the Ronin joined us in the fall of 1986, replacing Landspeeder, the 1974 orange Fiat Spyder that was totaled on the San Diego freeway. Fourteen years and 220,000 miles took their toll on the little mini-jeep, body and soul. In 1987 he carried me, Argus, and Dick LeFevre across the country (well, Dick got out, sore and stiff, in Chicago). During his life in New York he was vandalized, stolen and recovered, towed for illegal parking (bad car!) and had a new (used) engine installed.

In the winter of 1998 it cost $3000 to bring him up to safety standards. He made one last drive to Nag’s Head in July of 1999, but by the fall I was unwilling to take him as far as western Massachusettes. As the 2000 inspection approached I suspected more repair would be necessary, and they would not be worth making.

I starting paying attention to cars. I surfed the net. I watched the traffic. Eventually I started visiting car lots. I wanted a used Volvo, but the prices were prohibitive. In my web comparison shopping I usually included a Subaru. I’d looked at them at the auto show a while back and thought they were a cost-effective choice.

On yet another freezing day in February I set out to visit the car dealers in Westchester county. I got into the Ronin and his battery was dead. Now if that isn’t a sign, nothing is.

At the first dealership, a Ford/Subaru/Mazda lot, I came across the green Subaru Impreza Outback. I had a mental list of desired features, but only a souped up Miata with a magic trunk could meet all those requirements. The Impreza had the space combined with a relatively small size. It had luxuries like power steering and ABS brakes and power windows. And air bags. So it wasn’t a convertable, nor did it have a sunroof, and it didn’t have a full-size tire or a cd player.

The price was more than I’d wanted to spend, but reasonable for what I was getting (I later comparison shopped and was assured of this). The dealer would throw in a 12/12 warranty. And he’d give me $100 trade in on the poor old Ronin. Yes, they did actually get to see the Ronin before making this offer. [My brother had some thoughts on trade-in vs. sell yourself. — Ed]

By the following weekend I was driving the Suburu, and noticing all the other people on the road doing the same thing.

This story of my conversion to a Volvo driver is from the spring of 2002.

Both the loan and the extended warranty for the Subaru were for two years. I paid off the loan early, and started thinking about my next generation of automobile. When I bought the Subaru I vowed not to keep it for years until it had no resale value. At six years old with 80,000 miles it still had some value. But I was just toying with the idea of moving on.

Then I saw the commercial that changed everything. There on the TV screen was a shiny new Volvo, my desire of two years past, and what’s more, it was a convertible. “Volvo makes a convertible?” I shouted to the birds. They were equally surprised. The Internet quickly showed me that the automobile, which Volvo had only started making in 1998, was not very available. Various auto web sites indicated all of three used models available at dealerships within a 100 mile radius. The most notable was a blue on in Westport, becuase the price was a little lower than the others.

I told myself not to be impulsive. I told myself that the Subaru was still quite servicable. I reminded myself that I didn’t want to drive it into the ground. I reminded myself of my decades-long desire for another convertible (still missing the Landspeeder).

I picked a Saturday to go to Westport (about 40 miles east) to see it.

And I bought it.

Sure, when the salesman opened the door to reveal the suede interior, I thought “I can’t buy such a car — it has a suede interior, for God’s sakes!”

When I played with the electric seat adjustments, seat heaters, and 3-cd player (not yet knowing of the 6-disc cartridge in the trunk), I thought “This car is over the top. Ten speaker surround sound — can I possibly?”

When I parked and pressed the button to lower the top, it was all over. I simply had to have it. Fortunately, Volvo finance was agreeable, and I picked her up a week later.

And if you think there are a lot of Subarus on the road around here, start watching for Volvos!