Virmarie & Caracol
Model:
1962 Ragtop Beetle
Name:
Caracol is named for the place I am from in Puerto Rico.
Color:
The woman I bought it from was a major Detroit Lions fan. She named it Martha, after the woman who owned the team in the eighties, and had it painted the color of the Detroit Lions.
Mileage:
66,847
Motors:
New 1640
Owned since:
2021
Owners:
Maybe four. I bought it from a woman who had it for a few years, and she bought it from a man in Kentucky or Tennessee. I don’t know who the original owner was.
Location:
Texas
Favorite driving song:
I made a playlist called Lady Powah because that’s the sound she makes when I take off with her. I have to sing loud over her because she wants to sing louder than me. Her voice is much nicer than mine.
Caracol is new to me and my family. I was on the search for a Volkswagen for quite some time, and in all honesty, I was looking for a Bus. I wanted a Westfalia because I wanted to start camping and thought that would be the most comfortable way to do it. But my budget didn’t exactly match with that thought. And when my budget did match, it looked like so much work that I got pretty intimidated by it.
I joined a women’s Volkswagen group on Facebook and kept a lookout for anybody who was selling a Westfalia. I really wasn’t looking at the Beetles. Then a lady, pretty much in tears, wrote a post: “I’m moving up north and I can’t take my baby with me.” Lots of crying emojis. The second she put a picture of Caracol, I knew I had to see her, and I prayed that she lived close. She did. So I got in the car and got to see her and drive her around. She was a little bit weak because the engine was a 1400. I got under the car and there was hardly any rust, and I said, “I am buying her, I’ll be back tomorrow with the money.” I brought her home and ever since she has been . . . oh gosh, she’s been therapeutic. I’ll put it that way. When moments are tough, I just open the hood and I mess around and chase some bolts out or make her prettier. I’ve been through a lot in the last year, and she’s definitely been there for me.
When I was diagnosed with breast cancer last year, I was afraid I was going to have to get rid of her. I cried about it. It was all on my right side—I lost nerve function and it got pretty bad. I didn’t have use of my right arm, which is very important to drive her. But I worked on her. I thought, I’m going to get back behind the wheel. I would turn her on and just sit there and think, Don’t worry, we’re gonna get you out on the road soon.
Sometimes I feel like when life takes a turn, it’s time to get rid of stuff, but I felt that if I got rid of her, then I would start losing pieces of myself. I would have to go back to trying to figure out what was going to make me happy again. I held on to her, and in holding on, it helped me overcome obstacles. And with stick-shift therapy . . . it’s not a joke. I really did take therapy so that I could drive her because it was important for me to get behind the wheel again.
I just wanted to feel my hair blow, and when I did . . . it was the most beautiful day. I drove to Enchanted Rock. I opened up the rag, I had my music, I had my water. We drove for four or five hours, stopped in one spot for something to eat. Out there and back on ten gallons of gas. I literally just teared up and cried, I was so happy.
My dad always had Volkswagens. I love this one story he told me about when he was young: He had a ’72 gold Beetle Convertible, and he had a hot-dog cart that he could attach to the back because he sold hot dogs on the beach in Puerto Rico. When he joined the military, he thought he had to sell it, but he had a hard time letting it go. He didn’t trust anyone to purchase it—no one was good enough. Long story short: He ended up leaving it with his parents. The first thing he did when he returned was ask “Where is she? Where’s my car?” Sadly, they needed the money and sold it.
Soon he started looking for another Volkswagen. He probably took about a decade to find the right one—a 1957 oval-window Beetle. It was just a shell, and he fixed it up and named it El Bolillo. It was a nickname he called all his Buggies. While he was fixing it up, I was his shadow. I would ask, “Where are we going? To the parts store? OK, I’ll go with you.” Or we’d take a trip to the Mexican border because that was the only place to find a carburetor. I was always with him.
Well, young girls start changing into women, and slowly my father started kind of pushing me away. He would literally tell me to get into the kitchen with my mother. “Go learn how to cook.” I would go do the dishes half-assed and then go run back outside. I really thought that I was gonna get El Bolillo for my sweet sixteen, but he couldn’t do it. He said he felt it was too unsafe for someone as inexperienced as I was. It would have been irresponsible of him to give me a car to get stuck with, and then he also thought I was a wild teenager—but that’s another story for another time.
He did such a good job on El Bolillo. He even did the interior. He did everything to make El Bolillo a winner. After six years of working on her, he was ready to compete her. He started taking home trophies left and right. I saw the pride in that and thought, I kind of want that too. Life gets in the way—education, family life, children, blah blah blah. Fast-forward to the last couple of years, and I said, “You know what? I want a Volkswagen and I’m going to go get one.”
The first time I drove Caracol, I had the biggest smile on my face. And the first thing I asked was “Can I open the top?” And so I did. The lady was like, “I don’t know how old you are, but you all of a sudden look like an eighteen-year-old.” And that’s exactly how I felt. Remember when you got your first car? My first car was old, but I cleaned her up, and she was the best car I ever drove. I feel like my heart just starts to beat a different beat with Caracol. And I can hear everything. I love it because I can hear every little noise she makes, every little rattle. I feel like I’m back in high school.
I named her Caracol because I grew up in an area in Puerto Rico called Caracoles, and that’s where one of my grandmothers, who I adored, lived. Every time I think of seashells, I think of where I grew up. A little house on a very small tropical island. So for some reason while I was driving her, I thought of my grandmother and I’m like, Oh my God, I’ll name her Caracol.
Volkswagens have their own personality. Anybody who’s had a Volkswagen knows there’s something about the way they talk and walk, or drive. I know there is a story with her that started back in 1962, and I’m just adding on to it. I want that personality to beam, so you help it beam a little bit better and shine a little bit brighter. I’m not a person who speaks to inanimate objects, but every morning I say good morning to her, and I feel like she winks back at me, like Good morning, Mom, how are you? Did you sleep good? Are we riding today? I love the attention she gets. Anytime I go down a strip anywhere, everyone’s looking at her! I get the thumbs-up all the time. I’m very aware that she’s good-looking.
I take pride in her being unique. I love that she’s different. She’s a different color. She looks good on the inside and the outside. I’ve invested so much into her that I want her to be incomparable to anybody else. Where people are like “Wow, this one looks great. I’ve never seen one that looks like Caracol.”
Life happens, but don’t let go of pieces of yourself, because they’re reminders for you to fight for more and stick around longer and get through whatever therapy you’ve got to get through so that you can continue to be who you are here. Once we open our eyes and see what we’re capable of—I’m telling you.
