Outside a florist-cum-coffee shop in upstate New York, a row of vintage cars gleam in the sun. It's unseasonably warm for early October, so there's a veritable crowd of car enthusiasts snapping photos of Ferraris, Porsches, and a vintage Alfa Romeo. Patient girlfriends and wives roll their eyes, sipping on maple matcha lattes and eating pumpkin spice donuts.
And then there's me.
At my side, my right hand is twitching like I'm a wizard casting a spell. I'm hunched over, bending my head as I stare at a lime green Lamborghini, shouting, "WHAT MODEL CAR AM I LOOKING AT?" (The lot is quite loud, given that several car dads are revving like Dom …
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