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A spy in the house of luxe

Well, children, come the revolution, you might just want to take refuge in the waiting room at a Volvo dealership.

All these economy car years, I've been going to correspondingly cheap garages, where the waiting rooms are furnished with hard chairs whose vinyl seats are patched with electrical tape and reek of old cigarette smoke and burned coffee from a neglected coffeemaker hunching in the corner. An old television blares hour after hour of the People's Court and gradually loses its grip on vertical hold. Little tables hold stacks of picked over newspapers and automotive magazines with dates going back to the past millennium.

Since we got the Volvo last fall, I've continued to go to these places, but for some repairs I go to the dealer. This morning was one such occasion and so at 7:30 I found myself sitting in a cushy, electrical tape-free, vinyl chair in a waiting room from another planet.

This waiting room smelled like it was cleaned regularly, with cleaning products.

This waiting room had a row of carrels with telephones and computers with free internet access. (I neglected to check for wireless.)

This waiting room had a plasma television hanging on the wall and showing CNN.

This waiting room had the current day's Wall Street Journal and the local paper. The magazines didn't have that ruffled look that magazines tend to get after a couple years.

This waiting room had a snack counter with two coffee pod machines, a full selection of coffees and teas, a refrigerator full of soft drinks and bottled water, and a wicker basket of Pop Tarts.

When I got home (they have drivers take you to your office or home), I told Oz all about it. He suggested that we go there and hang out for a while. Next time we're at that end of town and we want to take a little break, we may just do that.

321 words | July 19, 2005 08:07 PM | Real true story