Last week we took a 7-hour road-trip with 2 hours notice. This kind of formula is alien to me. Before, I would’ve demanded a month of planning. I would’ve been Googling roadside attractions, Hampton Inn locations.
In those 2 hours between knowing about the journey and beginning it, I took the car for an oil change and found time to buy water wings at Wal-Mart (not for myself), while Rebecca spent her time packing up and finding baby-sitters for two nieces (they got the water wings – both sets identically pink and ruffled, because there sometimes just isn’t to subvert gender stereotypes) and packing up the two dogs that we were taking with us.
During the 7 hour journey, we passed an enormous, brilliantly lit crucifix, listened to some emotionally chilling talk radio, and passed through what I became convinced was the same strip of land a hundred times. Thank you, Illinois.
At the end of our journey, we picked up Rebecca’s mother, spent 10 minutes walking the dogs, and then took another 7-hour drive home.
This is the American car journey. It’s last-minute, it’s fickle, and it’s based on logic that does not stand up to any level of scrutiny. But when you’re here, you roll with it.
I roll, I roll a lot more than I suspect my American buddies give me credit for.
But this is taking some getting used to: