What was that? Did he say College Park, or was that Airport? I panicked, just for a second. Should I hop off? Is this my stop? My stomach did a quick nervous flip.

I was in Atlanta, on the MARTA, the city’s admirable (for the most part) public transit system. I had just left the Hyatt downtown after speaking at a conference and was heading for the airport.

For once, I had enough time to not hurry to catch a flight, though the “Quick Checkout” kiosk in the Hyatt lobby did its inhuman best to delay and frustrate me. That kiosk is possibly worth a separate post, but back to the MARTA.

The train I hopped on was spacious and clean. I was reasonably sure I was heading the right way (south) and I was about 75% sure that the airport was the last stop. Still, I’d never ridden the MARTA, and there was no map evident within my sightlines.

“This is “Iripclssenson,” came the soft, bored, almost inaudible voice through the disembodied speakers. I keyed on the two other passengers with rolling overnight bags. I figured when they got off, we must be at the airport. Of course, the airport ended being the last stop, so it would have been hard for me to screw it up. But that didn’t keep me from experiencing a very emotional, anxiety-filled ride.

On Chicago’s century-old L trains, which I ride every day, there’s a Disney-fied, chipper voice that clearly states which stop we’re arriving at, and which stop is next. It’s a bit soulless maybe, and happy clarity doesn’t matter one way or the other to regular riders, who know their stops by heart.

But it keeps the adrenaline from pumping and heart rates from racing for the uninitiated.

We often react more powerfully to one product design over another, sometimes for reasons that have nothing to do with function, like here. If you look at the picture, your first thought is probably not, “wow, that looks like a really functional flash drive.”

It’s a great example of solid anthropomorphic design, which plays on our subconscious tendency to attribute human characteristics to inanimate objects. And some say it’s cute.

I miss my Mini.

I leased a Mini for a few years. It was a Cooper S (the “S” is for supercharged), silver with a contrasting black top and a sunroof. I ordered it with leather interior, a six-speed manual transmission, and the “John Cooper Works” upgrade, which tweaked the engine up a couple horsepower at the factory.

I built the car online, selecting each aspect of my creation carefully and whimsically at the same time. My Cooper S was built in England. I watched its progress on the Mini site, as it went from an order to a plethora of pieces coming together at the factory. Then I followed it (I call it “it,” but many of my fellow Mini owners named their cars) as it was loaded on a ship sent across the big pond, and slowly made its way to my dealer.

The car was not very sensible – or one might say rational – for where I lived, just outside Chicago: what with the more than occasional bumper-to-bumper traffic, my clutch leg would often get sore. Come to think of it, it wasn’t a very rational decision overall. The ride was firm-to-painful because of the super stiff suspension, and the backseat was a joke, especially if I tried to transport my wife and three kids at once.

But I didn’t care.

It was cool, sitting low on the pavement, unlike my neighbors’ assorted Honda Odysseys and Accords. And it was a blast to drive. With the six speed and the go-cart chassis and big round speedometer, I couldn’t help but whip around corners and in and out of freeway traffic with aplomb.

It wasn’t the fastest car around, or the most powerful, or the most comfortable, or the most spacious. It was just, for me, the right car.

Last year my son was getting his driver’s license, and I decided the Mini could get him in trouble with its unstated demand to be driven fast. I bought another hatchback – stylish but safe.

I can’t tell you what part of my subconscious the Mini tweaked, what particular feature makes a difference in the overall experience. But I can tell you this: I miss the Mini, and I’ll forget the car I’m now driving a week or two after I let it go.