Travels with Charlie

Florida to California. Wait, what?

The acclaimed author John Steinbeck wrote a book in 1962 called, “Travels with Charley: In Search of America,” chronicling his road trip across the country with his poodle Charley. Legendary for his uncanny depiction of twentieth century Americana, Steinbeck unknowingly set a bucket list adventure for all of us yankees: drive across this massive land while connecting with all sorts of people and places along the way.

I’m no Steinbeck and my Charlie is a Goldendoodle, but the thought of replicating his journey seemed fitting for an uncool dad who now routinely starts conversations with, “When I was a kid…” My wife Maegen and I drove across the country in a white Prius when we moved from California to Florida, but were young, naive and far too optimistic about life. Fast forward nearly ten years, and I’ve found the jaded, sleep-deprived curmudgeon I’ve always dreamed of becoming. Perfect for being trapped in a rolling box for days on end consuming nothing but Red Bulls and Flamin’ Hot Cheetos!

Our family planned on spending the holidays back in California, but Charlie and I are team, and I wasn’t going to crush egg nog and nap during college bowl games without him. I was able to rope my 69-year-old father into taking the adventure with us. But it really didn’t take much persuasion—what is it about old guys getting overly excited about long road trips? Is it the folded paper map skills that would make a cartographer jealous? Is it the lure of the open road that harkens back to their sepia tone youth on Route 66? Either way, I needed a partner and Charlie’s driving skills leave a lot to be desired.

We set out on a Monday morning, armed with a full tank of gas, dog treats and a legendary playlist crossing more genres than Miley Cyrus. Our strategy was simple: switch every three hours, snack up while we gas up, and driver has the call on the tunes. And the first few hours of any road trip are great—you’re excited, talkative and somewhat sane. It’s the other 40 hours or so that’s a bit more difficult. For respect out of your time (and mine), here’s a quick recap:

• 450 miles. Goodbye, Florida! Hello, Alabama! Somehow, Florida further lives up to it’s wacky label by having the tip of its panhandle in a whole other time zone! Cool, so we gained an hour?

• 525 miles. Sweet home…Mississippi. Damn, that little Alabama foot thing went by quick.

• 610 miles. Similarly, Mississippi took longer to say than to drive. I only knew ye.

• 875 miles. Louisiana living. Our first night on the road. All we wanted was a decent meal and all I could find on menus was something called boudin and cracklins. I’m not even sure how to say it, much less eat it.

• 1,250 miles. We cross into Texas and realize just how damn big that state is. And all you can think the whole time is, “Do these people have the internet? What do they do every day?” We sleep in Kerrville, Texas. Whataburger is the only place open. This is exactly as boring as it sounds.

• 1,750 miles. I can see Mexico! I can see New Mexico! But we’re still in Texas! The divergence of car dealerships, strip clubs, fast food chains and personal injury attorneys gives me appreciation for the simple things.

• 1,925 miles. Rolling through New Mexico into Arizona provides a new level of respect for cowboys. I can barely walk after three hours in a car. How could you possibly move after 100 miles on a thoroughbred?

• 1,975 miles. We’re given a much-needed break from indistinguishable hotel rooms and rest our eyes with extended family in a small town called Willcox. It’s 18 degrees. Charlie wants none of it and begins a request to transfer families.

• 2,275 miles. California. A part of me feels like a member of the Lewis and Clark expedition, pursuing manifest destiny for mankind. Then I see an In-N-Out Burger, and start to crave a double-double animal style with a chocolate shake. Ah, America!

• 2,550 miles. San Bernadino traffic turns into Pasadena traffic which turns into Glendale traffic. And I haven’t seen a single actor from Entourage. Thanks for nothing, L.A.

• 2,825 miles. We roll into Marina, a Central California hamlet recently converted from an U.S. Army post. Our surreal expedition concludes without fanfare, drama or posting bail.

It’s an anticlimactic end to an incredibly boring and fascinating journey, one everyone should experience simply for the story. It’s also a humbling perspective on the very small space we each inhabit in a very large world. Philosophical platitudes aside, the trip made me realize just how important every mile is, even if they each fly by with a blink of an eye. Kinda like being a dad. Before you know it, the odometer ticks past another milestone and they’re no longer babies.

…Wait, who’s going to drive this thing back to Florida!?