OPENING ACT
Live & Loud

“This had better be worth it”, I mumbled to myself as I dragged my weary and aching body across the terminal floor of the Seville International Airport after 28 gruelling hours of air travel. To add insult to injury, the airline had lost my luggage. This is not uncommon in Seville, it is something that occurs every hour on the hour and twice during lunch breaks. As a matter of fact, the chain smoking Iberia airline officer was so confident that they had lost our luggage that he announced his presence through a mouthful of thick white smoke, and identified himself to the group of passengers huddled around the conveyor belt as the one to talk to, even before the carousel had stopped spinning.

The rolling hills of Spain, with its mild Mediterranean breeze and gentle light, may very well be the most spectacular backdrop to launch one of the world's most desirable cabriolets, but the pains of this journey were threatening the magnificence of the destination. Nevertheless, I pressed on. For you, my dear reader. Ahem. Cue violins.

I had developed pains in muscles I never knew I had, which now included whiplash from craning my neck at the awesome sight of a row of top-down Porsches parked neatly against the contrasting mustard and terracotta wall of our hotel. What a sight. It was as if the first rays of sunshine started to filter through this dreary trip, rubbing soothing balm deep into my automotive soul. I felt refreshed, validated, almost like I had gotten the better half of the bargain here.

There are certain visual icons in this world of aspiration. I should know – as a kid, I bought the poster. It hung with more prominence on my bedroom wall than my Farrah Fawcett and Starsky & Hutch glossys which were mounted on wood. This is one of those universally understood sex symbols that transcends age, sex, creed, religion or language. This time, however, it was me in the driver's seat, not that blonde dude you always see in the ads. Driving it, you begin to feel the weight of the stares as you roll past; people tend to glide their eyes over the car and then fixate on you, the driver. They want to know who it is that drives a Porsche. And how do they become that. Such is the mystique that surrounds such a thrilling sports car. It is both flattering and unsettling at the same time, the latter perhaps due to the fact that I know I'm simply an imposter behind the wheel.

They say that life begins at 40, and for the 6th generation of the fabled 911, forty years on, one could reasonably argue that those four decades have all led to Porsche building their finest 911 to date. It is, from where I'm standing, painfully beautiful. As the delicate hue of the Andalusian light dances across the muscular curves of its slender waist, it sends a powerful visual message. The dynamic stance from the rear, which would be most people's view of it as it blasts past, plays with that light, exaggerating its already wider width. Like the coupe, the increased girth allows ample space above the rear axle for wheels up to 19 inches, and a set of 295/30 pair of rubber shoes. You would think that anything this good looking would need to carry a separate license for it.

The Porsche staff chartered out a 250 kilometer round trip route through some of the most breathtaking mountain roads, just for us to play on. I strapped myself into the six speed manual, 355 hp Carrera S, and headed for the hills. Paired up with a journalist from Macau that didn't know how to drive, I couldn't help but think that things just seemed to be on the up and up. More fun for me, I grinned. I twisted the key and depressed the clutch to activate the ignition and the needle on the prominent tachometer display snapped up to attention. Where as some cars growl on idle, this one barks. Sharp, clean, angry barks with every stab of the throttle. And you're fully aware that there is enough bite to back it up, too.

What is surprising is, despite its intimidating resume and mind numbing figures, it is as easy to drive down to the mall as your average Toyota Corolla. But the parallel ends there. Some of its vital statistics include a 4.9 second ride to a hundred, 400 nm of torque and 355 horsepower delivered straight to those big fat rear wheels.

This topless beauty takes barely twenty seconds to undress, and amazingly, can be activated at speeds of up to 50 km/h. Why wait, Porsche says. But I didn't drag you this far down the story just to tell you what it looks like – I'm sure you've cemented your own opinion on that long before I lost my luggage. If you're a healthy red blooded enthusiast, you'll want to know what it drives like. So did I.

First things first, make sure there are no witnesses.

Dial in about 6 thousand rpm, then pop the clutch in first gear with the traction control disabled, and you'll end up lighting up the rear end and leaving enough thick white clouds behind you for the Surgeon General to issue a warning. Assuming you're not sideways, bury the short silver stubby lever into second and hang on for dear life as the squat rear end fishtails its way over the tortured asphalt grappling to find enough traction to harness all that mechanical muscle. If you still have enough road ahead, shift just on 7,000 rpm and jab it into third. The back wheels chirp and you're only a breath away from hitting the boxer engine's sweet spot. Fourth gear at 7,200 rpm on a slightly cambered sweeper is devastating. By now you have doubled the national speed limit of every developed country and there's still two gears to go. White knuckled and sweating bullets, find fifth, sixth and start worrying about how you'll ever manage to get that grin wiped off your face. You'll be smiling so much you honestly think your face will crack. Just squeeze it a little more and kiss its top speed of 293 km/h and congratulate yourself. You have arrived. You're breathing the exclusive air of super car territory. And, ironically, it is now where you find yourself breathless.