The ergonomically state-of-the-art seat absorbs me like a big fat aunt or uncle giving a giant hug—soft and comfortable, yet sturdy to handle the sharp turns that come with driving such a world-class machine. I think about my old Porsche, what must have happened to it. I look quickly around the interior of L’s ride, marveling at the craftsmanship. The Shiny Titan Tex finishes. The perfectly treated leather. The chrome-finished steering paddles. The name of the model—Quattroporte GTS—in relief on the dashboard. I put the key in and turn the engine over. Boom. The engine roars to life. I touch the gas pedal. The engine puffs its chest a bit as if ready to breathe fire. I let the car warm up for a few seconds, taking in the even, purring sound of such high-level engineering. Twenty seconds later, I tap the paddle and shift the car into first gear. Slowly, I pull out onto the cobblestone streets of the Meatpacking District. I head uptown toward the Lincoln Tunnel. Conscious of the speed limit, I move through the well-lit tube running from Manhattan to New Jersey.
