Behemoth

The alamo rental car desk at San Francisco airport is a bad, confused place. We asked for an economy car and recieved this.




It has 13 seats and nowhere to put your bags or shopping. It is bigger than a hummer (I compared their lengths, urinal style, at a traffic light). I can't park it. I can barely get it to turn corners.

I tried to change it for a normal car. Alesh at the rental place was sad. "We have no car" he said, shuffling some papers behind his desk. He looked up, a man defeated by circumstances beyond his control. "Is difficult time for all of us" he offered.

A man in a hat shook his head, sighed and rolled his eyes at me as I slowly executed a 6 point turn ("parking star of David") in the middle of the dual carriageway as I tried to leave.

The car is a like a big stupid puppy: he annoys people with his clumsyness but I've kind of warmed to his oafish antics. I almost hope that this time they don't put him to sleep when we take him back to the pound after three days.