Canadians are the most optimistic people in the world. We believe that year 41 will bring hope for the Leafs. We believe in world peace. We buy convertibles ignoring completely that summer lasts only a few months.

So in April when Mitsubishi suggested testing the new Eclipse Spyder, I jumped at the chance. It was only when I looked out the window that I realized it was STILL SNOWING.

Undaunted, the lovely Corinne and I pointed the Spyder south — if you can’t provide summer to the convertible, take the ragtop to the summer. The adventure turned out to be both a great road trip and a superb demo of what a truly enjoyable touring car can do for you. Note that I referred to this cutie as a touring car — it’s sporty looking and has enough guts under the hood to fly on the Interstate and accelerate when it needs to, but this is too comfortable to be a sports car. The ride is soooo nice, the formed coddling seats are far too loving for hardcore sports car fiends. Its weight tells the tale — at 1,675 kg, it’s just heavier than a 4.0-litre Mustang drop top and well longer and larger than either a Miata or a Solstice. In my view, that makes it just the car for this journey. The Spyder invites “chick car” but that’s not quite the whole story. It’s a leisure lover’s ride, male or female.

From chilly Toronto we headed down I-79 to Pittsburgh where it started to rain. Make that pour — the Canadian mind blocks out late April but you may recall the nastiness that snowed out Cleveland’s first five home games and nearly cancelled the Boston Marathon. We huddled inside the Spyder with the roof up and fine stereo on, chewing up the flooded Penn Turnpike heading for South Carolina. The ice blue of the gauges is quite perky and somehow created a sense of confidence — I must check with some colour analyst to see if this is real or imagined. The turnpike truck traffic doesn’t have much patience with snowbirds so we were pleased to have solid traction and enough torque in the six-speed to stay out of trouble. More rain the next day but the compass on the dash console said “S” and the temperature readout incremented upward as we gracefully whizzed by Washington then through Virginia and North Carolina.

Being cooped up in a convertible is the acid test of its accommodation, but thanks to those seats and surprising cabin space, the road was a pleasure, even in the rain. The interior is conservative grey without being too dull, the dash curve svelte and ergonomic. The small rear window reminds you that you’re in a convertible, but after a few hundred miles (yes, they still have those in the good ol’ USA) we were wearing the car like a comfy sneaker.

In Conway, S.C., the sun came out and the top came down. That first whirr of the power top is my nominee for Spring Sound of the Year, beating out the robin’s cheerful tweet by a wide margin. Snap the snaps, push the button and it is inside the hard tonneau in a heartbeat. Then the world opens up and the car is huge.

Conway is a fine down-south place for that summer transition. The picturesque small city on the Waccamaw River is not far from Myrtle Beach but totally unlike that touristy strip. The history dates back forever; the whole eastern US and especially the southeast appears to revel in replaying the Revolution and the Civil War. Perhaps more appealingly, Conway is locked in 1973 with small June Cleaver streets and a brisk arts community. The Abrams Department store remains the shop where your grandma bought her tea towels and that Sunday dress with warm, personal staff that flies in the face of modernity (i.e Wal-Mart).

We checked into the delightful Cypress Inn, a unique B&B that combines brand-newness with genteel mansion charm and a warm welcome. Dinner is at the Sidewheeler on the banks of the Waccamaw where the shrimp and grits strums a banjo tune on the tummy served with melt-you southern hospitality.

The Spyder is now the road trip queen, ferrying us to barbecue lunches, postcard marinas and swap scenes and especially along Hwy. 17, the old-school four-laner that coasts down the seaboard.

It seems somehow trivial to get excited about bridge engineering, but the gateway entrance to Charleston, S.C., the Cooper River Bridge, is one fine structure. I briefly theorized a helicopter shot of the Eclipse crossing the bridge, but quickly got distracted by the thoughts of more barbecue. Our destination was Sticky Fingers, where owner Chad Waldorf has graced his rib palace with a portrait of Charleston TV maniac/hero Stephen Colbert. Chad bought the portrait right off the Colbert Report set with a huge charity donation and it now is the pride of his yummy restaurant.

Chad introduced us to Julian Buxton, author of Ghosts of Charleston, who also once dated the woman who married Colbert — I guess it’s a small town. Julian shared just the tip of the history of spectacular Charleston as we wandered through it’s breathtaking colonial waterfront area slipping back into Revolutionary times via his stories that include George Washington’s church pew, British galleons and ghosts of various descriptions. This place brings America alive, perhaps even more than Boston.

The history is a fine backdrop to a thoroughly sophisticated tourist city. We dined in the contemporary splendour of a 150-year old former bank transformed into a three-level stunner, the Oak Steakhouse. The southern hospitality, even in this power trendy hotspot, is so genuine that even chef Brett McKee’s transplanted Brooklyn accent has soft edges. The southern influence makes the food sing.

By now, we really need that gentle but firm ride of the Spyder.

The route south continues to Savannah, the true southern belle, where we roll into the Thunderbird, a 1970s’ motel that captures our car’s mood. The T-bird looks like a roadside classic but is equipped with deluxe touches like a fabulous huge bed. That’s the Eclipse story — it’s a traditional-looking open roadster but it treats you right. Like the easy-up soft top and heated seats: you get all the pleasure without the futzing of yore.

It doesn’t get much better than Savannah for charm. Huge living oaks with cascading Spanish moss. Revolutionary times mansions where Washington slept (with whom, we wonder — apparently he got around) and all the history you can cram into a tour pass. Think Quebec City with the top down and a huge helping of Paula Deen’s splendid chicken and collard greens.

What a fine experience this summer quest turned out to be and what a fine friendly place America is. At a West Virginia yard sale on the way home, the ladies cheered as we powered the top down. We loaded up with cookbooks, pralines and more addressing the notion of touring in a small car. You have to be judicious, but two suitcases, several bags and lots of junk along the way fit in with ease. When we transferred the contents to the back of a Honda Element, we were shocked at how much we had stuffed into the Spyder.

Is the Eclipse Spyder a sport machine? Not in the hardcore sense. But a well-mannered summer cruiser to explore highways and backroads with class? Sure thing, y’all.

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