I was about nine years old the first time I truly noticed a car—not just saw it, but felt it. My father pulled up in a burgundy Lincoln Mark IV with plush burgundy seats, and I remember thinking it looked more like a spaceship than something meant for the road. It wasn’t just the shape or the chrome or even the smell of that new car—it was the presence. That car had presence. And from that moment on, I was hooked.

As a teenager in Miami, I started going to car shows, sneaking into dealer lots, and reading every issue of Road & Track I could get my hands on. By the time I was old enough, I was buying and selling cars myself—Porsches, Ferraris, Rolls-Royces—focusing on the kinds of vehicles that made people stop and turn their heads. Not just machines, but rolling pieces of art.

What I love most about car culture isn’t just the horsepower or the speed—though I appreciate both—it’s the story behind each car. Every model has a lineage, every owner has a reason, and every drive is a chance to experience something greater than the sum of its parts. That’s what’s kept me in it all these years. And that’s why I still get excited when someone sends me a message about renting one of our cars. Because I remember that feeling—and I never lost it.