Today I took a ride in a 1963 Volkswagen Beetle. Fifty one years old. Coughing and gasping for air as we rattled down the bumpy road at full speed—that is 25 miles per hour. Squealing and shouting with every touch of the gas pedal. The axle, like an old mans spine, trying to bear all the weight forced upon it. Once in a while it just gave up. “I guess your time has come my old friend,” I thought but the driver, Franky, shouted “Lettas push!”. So we got out of the car and we pushed. We pushed. And pushed. CPR for an almost dead car. Trying to prolong its life. I felt pity, but also had a huge smile on my face. I just couldn’t imagine this happening in Germany. The car jerked and grunted and suddenly it was alive. Again. I wonder how many times it outsmarted death.