Driving the 2015 Ferrari California T: The everyday supercar that's anything but

Driving a Ferrari is a bucket-list event — one of those milestones you'd fantasized about back when you could scarely doodle a sports car without trying to eat the red crayon. And after three days with the 2015 Ferrari California T, my list needs a rewrite.

Ferrari calls the updated California the “everyday Ferrari,” one that's not as hard-edged or audacious as the 458 Italia. To put that claim to the test, I spent my days it in as I would a daily driver, with some beach cruises and a requisite drive through the Malibu Canyons thrown into the mix.

Unfortunately, commuting to Yahoo's Santa Monica office from the San Fernando Valley meant slogging through America's largest roving parking lot, the 101. While in gridlocked traffic I realized the biggest downside of a turbo Ferrari (the first turbo since the F40): the noise, or lack thereof. An Aston Martin V-12 sounds operatic whether spitting and burbling at low rpms or bellowing at full throttle; at low rpms this 3.9-liter engine sounded bored, even anonymous with the white noise generated from the twin-turbo. If it weren't for the premium Beige Tradizione leather touches and console-mounted badges, I'd almost forget I'm in an Italian exotic and not a cushy tourer. On the flip side, the cabin felt serene with the hard top up, and it muted all the honks and screams you'd hear while crawling through Sunset Boulevard.

It's as livable as a $200,000 2+2 can be, even if those rear seats could barely fit a grade schooler. And surprisingly, the Ferrari didn't call attention to itself, in part due to the darker-hued Rosso California paint, and bodywork that's subtler than a Lamborghini Huracan or 458. I was even ignored while absurdly trying to load a screen door into the trunk in the heart of Hollywood, and never got asked at stoplights what I did for work, or how I liked the car. I appreciated that anonymity. Then again, I was in Los Angeles, the mecca for Ferraris and a place innoculated to supercars.

The California T is supposed to be more eco-savvy and efficient than its predecessor, getting 16 city /23 highway mpg (versus 13/19 for the California). But buying a Ferrari for fuel economy is like dating a supermodel for her shoe-shopping expertise, and I never got close to that number. I averaged 12 mpg and 180 miles on a full tank of gas, though the trip computer would show 20-22 mpg if I actually eased on the throttle on the interstate.

Restraint flew out the window when I took a detour from errand-running and got onto Mulholland Drive. Since it was a weekday, I practically had the road to myself as a personal playground for the California T. There, I realized it's a machine tuned to perfection, one that quashed the teething issues of the last California. The V-8's like a naturally aspirated engine on steroids, and it roared to life when stomping on the throttle, with a sonorous grunt characteristic of a Prancing Horse. The 553 hp was on immediate tap, with no low-end or high-end torque dead spots, or tip-in hesitation.

The damping is also sublime, and it deftly traversed rutted and mottled canyon roads with effortless grace. Firm, yet with a softness to the edges, it never bottomed out nor got sloppy in the transitions, thanks to the optional magnetic suspension and 11 percent stiffer springs from the previous Cali. While it was impossible to test its limits on the narrow (not to mention policed) roads with such brute power and mechanical grip, it felt confident and predictable; neutral but with a rear end that was more than happy to swing around. Sure, you only get flappy paddles this time around, but the seven-speed dual-clutch gearbox shifted smoother and quicker than you could ever hope to when rowing your own gears. Unless you're Kimi Raikkonen, it's more than enough as weekend toy.

Sadly, after half a week of beach cruises, canyon carving, and errand-running I had to give the California T back. It was a blast, a promising prelude of all the turbo Ferrari's to come. Owning one, though, is still a childhood fantasy.