Let's Get This Show on the Road
California to Florida with tolls, tears and tantrums
I hope my kids come across these stories (blog? journal? memoir?) someday in the future when they’re flying the car, visiting friends in the metaverse or interacting with their robot coworker. “Dad could write?!” they would question. But intrigue will take over and they will dive into the everlasting memories of their youth.
Like the one where we drove 2,800 from California to Florida, and lived to tell about it.
It all started with Charlie and I when we took a holiday roadtrip, meeting mom and the kids at the airport on the other end. Despite the feeling of adventure and wanderlust, it took me a few days to realize that someone had to drive back. As I mentally prepared for the trek and gas station Twinkies, my wife suggested the whole family—one adult, one man child, two regular children, one big dog and one small dog (Coco is basically a small sack of fingerling potatoes that weighs less than a Chipotle burrito and fits under the airplane seat)—load up and take the trip. Worst case scenario? We cry and scream for 1,000 miles, all the girls fly out of west Texas, and the boys slink back home listening to live Dave Mathews Band concerts from 1999.
As we rolled out of rainy California, I was the proud dad, rugged and rustic even, helming my matriarchal ship across the nation’s terrain. Twelve minutes later: “Are we therrrrrre yet?” Oh my, this is going to suck.
Actually, we had a good plan. Stop every two hours, let the kids run around a remote gas station parking lot, and stuff them full of the most processed, over-sugared synthetic snacks they could find. iPads were limited to three hours a day (damn, that sounds like a lot when I write it down) and napping was mandatory. Or at least a period of absolute silence to regroup our sanity and conduct an adult conversation regarding something other than Blippi.
Our first day was solid. Rolling green and gold California hills, nonexistent traffic and limited tears led us to Palm Springs, a desert oasis and retro blast from the past. My kids thought we had made it Florida, setting a land speed record in the process, and my wife and I played along until they finally realized the Margaritaville hotel wasn’t our house. We ate and slept and left, and I have now reached my life quota for Jimmy Buffett songs.
New Mexico was next. It’s about as exciting as it sounds, but we did take a minor detour to stop by White Sands National Park. All in all, it’s one of the most unbelievable places on earth. The name says it all and pictures don’t do it justice, but the kids learned to sled and Charlie loped around the dunes with puppy-like exuberance. Despite the eight pounds of sand that will forever be trapped in the seats of our car, it was worth every minute. We stayed the night at an Airbnb in Alamogordo, known for being a missile testing ground for the U.S. Military and the world’s largest pistachio. ‘Nuff said.
Arizona and west Texas made me appreciate neighbors and grocery stores. I also quietly questioned if I would be eaten first if the car broke down. Morbid, I know, but always have a plan! We finally hit civilization in San Antonio, and we had the brilliant idea to force our kids to visit an 18th century building with no costumed mascots and Alamo-shaped ice cream sandwiches. As expected, cue the tantrums, and reroute to the world-famous Riverwalk. It took every inch of my strength to keep the girls from falling in to the whiskey-laden, bacteria-infested waterway. Thank goodness for open-container laws.
A night in Houston and the hotels are starting to blend together. We’ve collected room keys and mini shampoos, and I’ve seen every trick a child can do from one queen bed to another. We’ve lugged and lived out of suitcases for nearly a week, and I’m beginning to forget which clothes are clean. Our car looks like an overgrown storage unit and smells even worse. I’m even starting to fantasize about all the amenities of long-haul truck cabs. One final stop in Pensacola leads us to eastern standard time, and the realization that home is a half tank away.
We stumble out of the car, legs asleep and backs stiff. Empty Doritos bags and water bottles tumble onto the driveway behind us, and stable ground has never felt so good. The kids rediscover their favorite toys as I collapse into the couch. This road warrior feels battle beaten, and I never want to look at another mile marker again. But, alas, the dogs are running around and the kids have found a new energy. And despite my best efforts to manifest destiny on four wheels, I find a new appreciation for air travel, tray tables and overhead storage.
Since we’ve returned, more than a few people have expressed their respect and admiration for our successful journey. Though they secretly question our sanity, I know we’ll look back on this one day with laughs and nostalgic memories. For now, daddy needs a beer, a bath and his own bed. Here’s to the road less traveled.