In 2004, circling the spectacular south island of New Zealand, my baby cousin Shannon (eight years my junior and approximately zero years prepared for this chaos) and I were coughing along in a Japanese import that had clearly lived several previous lives. At the Christchurch car rental counter, a peppy young man delivered the news: “So sorry, mate! No automatics lift. Standard transmission okay?” Shannon shook her head doubtfully. I, sensing entertainment, nodded vigorously.
