Was all this traffic love just a function of its overwhelming cuteness, what the Japanese call kawaii? Was I, heaven forbid, Hello Kitty on wheels? I decided to put the Smart to the test. I pulled up to the Exotic Auto Boutique, an aftermarket shop near the projects in Gowanus that traffics in 24-inch Lexani rims and DLS Ultimate amps. I asked Benny, the pencil-mustached manager, to take a look. Regarding me suspiciously, he came out to the street and cracked a smile. Soon everyone in the garage was on the sidewalk, gawking over the car. "Yo, you could put a couple twelves" — 12-inch speakers — "in the back," one kid said. "Those rims are three-lugs!" another exclaimed, clutching a Momo steering wheel in his hand. "I've never seen three-lugs." One guy called his girlfriend to come take a look. Another told me how a modded Smart (the Diablo) had bested a Ferrari F430 in a 400-meter sprint. "It had a motorcycle engine in the passenger seat," he said. "It's on YouTube."

I knew, rationally, that the Smart was the ideal car (if that's not an oxymoron these days) for New York, or any city. Like football, parking here is a game of inches, and in the Smart I was able to gobble up all those maimed parking spots, near hydrants and crosswalks and bus stops. Backed in perpendicular to the curb, the Smart could conquer even smaller spots; in New York, however, angle parking is illegal. So, too, is putting two Smarts in one metered space. "I'll ticket the second car," an NYPD traffic enforcement officer sternly warned me.

What I hadn't expected, however, was how much street cred I'd gain with the hardest of Brooklyn's hard core — "kustom kar kommandos," as filmmaker Kenneth Anger once described them. I took to the streets with a newfound swagger. On the curving Los Angeles-style Shore Road in Bay Ridge, I tried to impress the BMW 5 series that was following me by blazing out from a stop sign. Taking the bait, the Beemer passed me on the left (yes, against traffic) as I tapped furiously on the Smart's manumatic shift paddles like some sweaty teen on Xbox 360's Project Gotham Racing. I caught up to him at the next red light. But I was after a bigger prize. Size mattered — just not in the way you think — and in the wars of scale, I was, against all logic, the victor. I began seeking out the competition. That Nissan Versa parked at the corner? Hah, 169 inches! The Honda Fit? Not even close — 157 inches. I spied one of the N.Y.P.D.'s three-wheeled Cushman patrol scooters and pulled alongside the surprised officer. We compared lengths. The Smart was shorter.

By the end of my fling with the Smart, I'd revised my notions of automotive masculinity. What could be more macho, after all, than out-maneuvering delivery trucks on the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway? In a smaller car, the city became smaller. Our utterly nonthreatening stature seemed to bring simple joy. Being stuck in traffic — it is a car, at the end of the day — became a social opportunity. People opened up. They wanted to talk, to share their feelings. They sensed we were onto something big.