As Thanksgiving break nears, I am counting down the days until I can sit on the couch and have members of my family bring me things. However, earlier this semester my mom told me that the family would be spending the holiday at my grandfather’s house in Florida, which only means one thing: road trip.
Forced to eliminate flying as an option due to the size of our family and encouraged by romanticized tales of the open road, my parents have always been fans of the road trip. But before you begin to visualize a family piling into a Country Squire station wagon and singing show tunes, I must warn you that being in the car with my family is more like a passage from a Hunter S. Thompson novel (minus the suitcase full of ether) than a scene from Leave it to Beaver.
On every trip, we leave late and forget something. On one notable trip when I was much younger, we arrived only to find that all of the kids’ suitcases had been left at home. I vaguely remember wearing only an oversized T-shirt for most of the trip.
We never forget anything really important, though, like snacks. I don’t think my family has ever gone anywhere without a large selection of premium snacks. My dad once racked up $24 on his Exxon card on Bear Claws alone. After we load up the bags and make sure everyone is accounted for, we pile in the car and the odyssey begins.
By car, I actually mean van. My parents, being staunchly anti-minivan, opted for the conversion van, complete with luxury seats and a TV.
On most road trips, my dad drives approximately one block, at which point anxiety gets the best of my mom, and she insists on driving the remaining 500 miles. You have never really lived until you’ve rocketed down the Florida coast with my mom at the helm. She drives so fast that the speedometer strains against the glass like some cartoonish parody of a speeding car. My dad sits in the passenger seat managing simultaneously to maintain his white-knuckle grip on the armrest, comment on the astounding velocity of the van and occasionally read us selections from a biography of Churchill.
My sisters and I sit in the seats chosen by Taylor, my 10-year-old sister who, upon learning to talk, assumed a despotic rule over the family and is seemingly unable to be overthrown. Usually Erin, Molly and I are attempting to partake in car sleep, one of the best things about the road trip. We classify car sleep as less desirable than the much coveted bed sleep, but far superior to plane sleep or class sleep. It is anticipated weeks in advance and necessitates elaborate plans. We bring pillows and blankets and attempt to devise a way for three unusually tall girls to sleep comfortably in the back of a van on the verge of breaking the sound barrier. Taylor, however, is not very tolerant when we do not actively participate in the road trip fun, and forces us to play games she devises.
One of her favorites is car bingo. She gives each person a list of items to spot and whoever sees all of the things on their list wins. The last time I played, Taylor’s list consisted of a tree, grass, a Georgia license plate (keep in mind that we are starting in South Carolina and traveling to Florida) and the letter “e.” My list included a witch, a fox, a tornado and a fully decorated Christmas tree. I put up a valiant effort but was soundly defeated.
We celebrated Taylor’s victory by watching Mary-Kate and Ashley Go to Australia for the third time in a row. We had rented other movies for the trip, but Taylor couldn’t get enough of the twins. By the end of the trip, Erin and Molly had memorized most of the dialogue, and can to this day recite it on command.
This year’s trip is sure to end like all the others. As we near our Florida destination, my parents will feel the need to warn us about what kind of behavior is inappropriate in front of our relatives. We will be instructed to limit our vocabularies at the dinner table (under no circumstances are we to use the words “membrane,” “congeal” or “coagulate”), be kind to the multiple pets despite their attitudes toward us, and never, ever discuss my aunt’s age. When we pull into my grandfather’s neighborhood, we will start counting the mailboxes, because he lives in the 13th house on the right and no one in my family has ever taken the time to learn the address.
Most families would be breathing a sigh of relief at this point, glad to be out of the car and away from each other. But we will already be anticipating the ride back.
Bailey Somers is a sophomore in the School of Foreign Service and assistant news editor of The Georgetown Voice. She can say “nurse” and “air force” in German.
