For two weeks in April, the New York International Auto Show set up shop in Manhattan. In a city where the subway bench reigns over the driver's seat, this pocket of red-blooded Americana was a nation unto itself, an island within an island. As always, it was housed in the maligned Jacob Javits Convention Center -- an edifice squatting on the far western edge of the island and a sight more depressing than imposing -- and offered row upon row, floor upon floor of fuel-burnin', hood-slammin' vehicular pride.

I started my wanderings on the first floor, where production model Nissan Titans and Toyota Tundras with oversized tires gleamed in all their showroom glory, overshadowing smaller, more fuel-efficient models. Freed from the attention-grabbing ethanol cars and concept models upstairs (more on those later), they catered to the basest whims of the car customer -- size, horsepower, sweet rims. I was lucky enough to catch the "How to Load the Back of a Truck: Rules of the Load" information session, but missed out on the free hat. When the announcer asked, "Who's having fun? Anyone?" no one spoke up, and he didn't look too surprised.

I found the concept cars upstairs, all of them devoid of right angles -- a pre-req for any vaguely futuristic design, it seems. Seeing them on their giant rotating pedestals, I was reminded of kebabs at a falafel joint, but, unlike these cars, kebabs are conveniently available for purchase at a reasonable price. The Ford Airsteam, meant to evoke carefree trips to Yosemite with mom and dad, came complete with a lava lamp and all-red interior, a silver plated mash-up of clichés from various decades. Conscientiously placed beside the Hummers sat the Chevy Volt, which, by 2012, should promise 40 miles on one electric charge, or 640 miles with a tank of gas. Our host, happily rotating alongside her subject, couldn't offer a price, but promised that the "golden bowtie" on the hood (I eventually gleaned that she meant the famous Chevy logo) meant it wouldn't be out of reach. How did the crowd react to this promise of a green future for little green?

"Let's go to Bentleys," said a man to his wife. They voted with their feet.

Speaking of being out of reach, in strolling over to the elite brands -- Ferrari, Lamborghini, etc. -- I was deterred by waist-high glass pens, intended to keep the average Joes out among the domestics. A stern doorwoman at Aston Martin offered a kind explanation for the segregation: "Because we're an exclusive car company." Turns out to just get inside the pen, one needed an appointment or a deposit.

Of course, my visit was not a total wash. The BMWs and Saabs impressed, as did the $450,000 Mercedes SLR, certainly the last sports car one would ever need -- or for 99 percent of us, be able to afford. As I wasn't purchasing any of these fine specimens, a good minute of so in the cabin did wonders for the ego. As far as egos go, perhaps the Ford Shelby GT500 will revive the flagging company's self-esteem. (Something needs to.) Volvo had an eye-catching 1927 PV4 Jakob, something Al Capone's Swedish partner might have driven. And the New York State Troopers were seen happily recruiting fresh blood, with the aide of their black-and-purple Chevy Tahoe. But I wasn't looking for a career change. All in all, an eventful day, but after briefly giving some thought to braving Jeep's strange and pointless obstacle course, I was happy to be back on city streets.

Unfortunately, cabs were scarce there in the wastelands of the far west side, and bus service was sketchy, at best. If only I had taken a car ?

-- NICK MOSQUERA