Word: sedans
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Dates: during 1980-1989
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Leaving El Arish behind, our hired Mercedes sedan speeds across the last sliver of Sinai territory, 28 miles wide, which Israel is to return to Egypt next year. The car cruises on through the rolling Israeli heartland and into the steep hills leading to Jerusalem. Soon the chunky stone fortifications of the Old City loom in the twilight. It has taken nine hours-and more than 30 years-to get there from Cairo...
...correspondent for the prestigious Milan daily Corriere della Sera, Walter Tobagi, 33, was widely known for his writing about Italian terrorism. Too widely known. As he left his home one morning last May, two young gunmen shot him to death, then fled in a waiting Peugeot sedan. Within hours, the notorious Red Brigades claimed responsibility for the murder in a long communiqué attacking the Italian press. The bulletin was signed by a newly created branch of the terrorist organization known as the March 28 Brigade, named for the date in 1980 when four Red Brigades members died...
...Outward Bound for driving. At the speeds required (70 to 80 m.p.h.), students at first have no sense of how to control the car-or whether they have it in control at all. Many Americans are defensive drivers, quite content to putt around in an underpowered, six-year-old sedan, carefully navigating the maniacal freeway traffic that surrounds many cities. And every sensible and safe reflex built up for that kind of driving must be violated in Scott's course...
...Waits' black '64 Thunderbird is parked in a used car lot, up against a graffiti-covered wall. That is, one imagines the T-Bird is black. Caked with an impenetrable layer of L.A. dirt, the broad-flanked sedan could be chartreuse for all anyone can tell. Inside floats a clutter of unmailed bills, unopened letters, wadded-up Kleenex, a portable AM radio (antenna broken), a cardboard box full of old, yellowing T-shirts, and a paperback wedged in the crevice where windshield meets dashboard. Its title, Invade My Privacy, is fading fast in the sun. The auto's left rear...
...saying a million cups is impossible? Every night--every morning, really--a young Boston Globe reporter climbs into a beat-up sedan and sets off from Morrissey Blvd., driving just driving, all over the city. Waiting for someone to get hopped up and shoot a friend, or angry and beat up a girlfriend, or tired of drinking coffee and rob a Seven Eleven. When it happens, someone calls on the walkie talkie to tell him, and he drives like hell, pulls out a notebook, makes sure the names are spelled right, and then turns it into a brief...