Born for the Boulevard
And so, this baller Roller is happiest when wafting along PCH or one of L.A.’s famous boulevards at a prudent pace. It is there that one notices the eerie, mausoleum-like quietude with which the Rolls-Royce glides along, as if in its own cone of silence. We’re moving, but is there a V-12 underhood? The top is down, but where are the wind and tumult? We see cracks and expansion joints, visible just beyond the famous Spirit of Ecstasy, but were they suddenly filled by the time our tires reached them? The Drophead Coupe feels as utterly disengaged from the road as its customers feel to the bourgeoisie, which is entirely appropriate, as there’s comfort in isolation.