Volvo. A love story

When I was a young boy I loved my car. Because it reminded me of my dad. It was a Volvo 340. It was a reddish purple color,four door small saloon that had it's first night layover traveling from Rotterdam to Koper in Dachau. By mistake of my father and his friend. In 1986. Two newly made captains. That didn't know how to read a map. 

It was loaded with everything possible for me to be born in. It was packed by the Rotterdam's Port warehouse workers as a gift to my dad for my soon coming birth. 

Little did they know that the car they packed would make an impact on a person they only heard of.

It had a 4 speed manual gearshift. Rear wheel drive. No air-conditioning. 2 seatbelts. 1.4l petrol engine with cca 75 bhp. The engine was japanese. I think Isuzu made it. I didn't know until recently but I apparently had my first car accident in it. It lasted until 1996. At least with us. I cried the day my dad told me he's selling it. I was unconsolable for it leaving us. 

It is the reason why I am writing this story. Because I never gave it a name.

My dad took me to a car show in Belgrade in the late nineties and I saw xc70. All of my friends were fascinated by Ferraris, Porsches, Lamborghinis. I was fascinated by the first generation of xc70.

3 years ago my son was born. And Volvo is a part of my family. My son calls him Jagoš. We go together to feed Jagoš. We take care of him because he plays my son's favorite song whenever he wants. It's Made of by Viola Martinsson if anyone wants to listen to it. My son knows every button in it. He loves the power of it and how warm it is in the winter. And when we lie down to have a sleep he says good night to Jagoš. 

One day when I am gone I hope I will be remembered as by my son as I remember my dad. 

If for nothing else, for choosing a car that took care of my family above his image.