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I was once assigned to drive an 8.2-foot-long Smart Fortwo—about the size of a poufy sectional sofa—to a U.S. destination where the car was least likely ever to have been seen. Daimler AG nixed Nome, Alaska, saying something about no service and cloven-hoofed Smart-mauling impediments. So I opted for the Oklahoma Panhandle, ground zero for ground, by which I mean the Dirty Thirties Dust Bowl. When I arrived, the Panhandlers, once known as “pumpkin rollers,” were kind to me, apart from mocking a car that nearly lost a collision with one of their tumbleweeds. Forgive me, but the Okies all seemed to be awaiting the arrival of Nikita Khrushchev and the Hula-Hoop. So when I rolled through Slapout, Oklahoma, the Smart drew two of the town’s eight people into the street, where they emitted wet pig snorts, not to mention one cowboy who removed his hat to beat against his thigh, as if extinguishing a fire. READ MORE ››
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