Growing up in drought-ridden California, I was, for most of my childhood, robbed of the carwashing experience. Which is why I was so excited to discover that, all around downtown Los Angeles, there are do-it-yourself carwashing stations.

Perhaps these are mainstays elsewhere in the country, but I’d never before seen one myself. In short, toss eight quarters into the wall, and a giant red digital clock comes alive – four minutes, ticking down quickly. From the ceiling, attached to long blue hoses, hang a variety of attachments: power washer, foam-emitting mop, wax sprayer. And, while the seconds tick, one frantically rinses the car, soaps the car, rinses the car, waxes the car, then rinses it once more for good measure. Then it’s on to the drying station, where (with a blue uber-paper-towel, purchased for another seventy five cents) one dries down the entire car, with Miyage-pleasing circular strokes.

This evening, as a result, our black rented SUV sparkles, and I glow with the pleasure of falsely productive manual labor.