Relay

Amanda Angel

Last week my sister went to Spain. On Sunday, Anna stepped onto an Iberia-bound plane at J.F.K. and strolled onto the cobblestone streets of Seville 12 hours later. There were hugs and tears, good luck wishes, and e-mailing promises.

But behind my misty eyes I was secretly happy, even overjoyed. Anna in Seville means me in her black Saab 900 Turbo two-door convertible.

I've coveted convertibles ever since my Barbie rode in a pink Corvette with a soft top, while my mom carted me around in a Volvo station wagon. The Volvo's amazing turning radius just couldn't compete with the eye-popping sexiness of the Vette.

This obsession with convertibles extends through my other predilections. I don't think it is a coincidence that "The Graduate," starring an Alfa Romeo Duetto Spyder, and "Ferris Bueller's Day Off," with its 1961 Ferrari, top my list of favorite movies.

Everything on four wheels looks better with its top down: the P.T. Cruiser and the new Volkswagen Beetle are the best examples of this. The ragtop turns these otherwise dowdy automobiles into cute cars.

S.U.V.s and large luxury sedans don't do it for me; I'd take a used Mazda Miata over a Hummer any day of the week. Give me the sun on my face and the wind through my hair, and I'm in love.

So, as the older sister in my last semester of college, I became insanely jealous when my father arrived on campus with a Saab convertible for my freshman sister. Even though the Saab had a few years and 50,000 miles on my moderately pimped-out Dodge Neon (a spoiler, fog lights, and rims added much-needed spiffiness), it had the automatic roll-down top that makes me swoon.

Sure, the Neon is probably more dependable; it has better mileage and much better visibility. But its power windows have provided only Mickey the dog with an open-air experience.

The Saab's canvas top is itself a marvel of engineering. Once unlatched, its small motor takes control, stretching the front half of the top vertically in the air. Then it folds the canvas in a complicated origami pattern until it is tucked away beneath a black plastic cover behind the back seats. The ballet ends in a delicate beep, an audible curtsy to the driver.

What it lacks in newness it makes up for in personality. It's a 1996 and has a few bumps and bruises, a broken side mirror, a scratch on the bumper, faded coffee stains on the light tan leather interior, and a very fickle alarm that goes off if you try to open the car with a key. Anna explained these nuances to me with a lump in her throat, inducting me into her secret Saab sorority, membership previously one.

Anna used to be of the S.U.V. persuasion, dreaming of Jeeps and Explorers, four-wheel-drive and a high perch on the road, until she spent one summer in her Saab. Driving to the beach on the East End became as pleasurable as lying on the sand. She found the light: it was the sun overhead as she cruised with her top down. This car rocked her vehicular world. It's no wonder she thinks of hopping on the next flight to New York when she envisions me in the front bucket seat, readjusting the mirrors, and listening to one of my CDs in the 6-disc changer.

She won't, though, and I will drive around under the blue sky until my hands begin to freeze to the steering wheel and my ears turn into icicles. I only have nine and a half months until I relinquish the keys. The whirring of that little motor that lets in the sun will keep me warm.

Amanda Angel is a reporter at The Star.