Are We There Yet?
Are We There Yet?
Backseat Bordeom And Simpler Times
Every time I slide into a hot car seat in summer, I’m pulled back to the road trips of my childhood. I close my eyes, and there I am — squished into the soft fabric backseat between overflowing bags, the whole summer stretched out before us, feeling as vast and endless as childhood itself. Like clockwork, every summer my mom, dad, brother and I would cram our tiny 2003 Toyota Corolla with as many bags as we could carry and set off for our annual roadtrip. We’d always plan to leave by 8 a.m., but noon would arrive before we even left the driveway. My dad needed to make one last walk around the house while my mom buzzed from room to room like a bee. My brother and I would sit exasperated in the backseat, until they finally joined us, the engine roaring to life and the house turning into a distant memory behind us. Sometimes we’d head for the Carolina coast. Four hours spent sucking on warm Capri Suns and listening to my parents argue over the crumpled paper map my mom kept spread across her lap, usually about the last missed exit. My brother and I used to race to see who could roll down their window the fastest just as the air began to smell of salt and sunscreen.
The ocean always had a way of announcing itself to us long before we ever saw it. We’d breathe in that faint ocean smell excitedly, bouncing in our seats and chattering to each other. More often, though, we’d leave the sweltering heat of the South behind and hit the road for western New York to visit my grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins. If the drive to the beach was long, this one felt like an eternity; five states and a 12-hour long drive that my parents in their infinite wisdom, or maybe just exhaustion, decided to split across two days. The real fun was at our destination, but the journey held its own mix of joy and boredom. I’d stare out the window and watch the world go by in a stream of blues and greens. Fields, farms and forests, all the fixings of small-town America would pass by in a blur. North Carolina and Virginia looked so alike that driving through them felt like time was standing still. Time always moves differently when you’re young — or maybe just when you’re stuck squished between bags, hot and sticky in the back seat. Every so often I’d poke my mom in the back. “Are we out of North Carolina yet?” I’d ask. “Not yet,” she’d reply with a knowing smile.
The highlight of the day was usually a stop for lunch at McDonald’s or Wendy’s, a rare treat. My brother and I would bring our plastic Happy Meal toys back with us, bickering over who got to play with which one. Heading from Virginia to West Virginia was where the trip got exciting. The forests would give way to the winding roads of the Blue Ridge Mountains, silent green giants rising on either side. On the most perilous stretches, we’d dare each other to look over the edge, craning our necks to glimpse the hazy world far below. There were only two tunnels along our route, but we’d wait for them excitedly like landmarks. Each swallowed us whole, headlights flashing along the walls and sounds echoing before we were spit back out into daylight. We’d stop at rest areas and trails, too. My favorite was always the overlook at New River Gorge Bridge. High above the massive bridge, the cars below always looked like miniature toys gliding into the distance. At day’s end, my parents would manage to find a hotel with a pool. Even after six hours on the road, my brother and I still found the energy to cannonball into the water. We’d play Marco Polo, pretend we were deep sea divers and practice our summersaults and handstands under the water. Afterwards, we’d wrap ourselves in towels and flip through cable channels, hoping there was something good to watch.
Pennsylvania was never as exciting as the mountains, so we’d make our own fun the following morning. We’d play the license plate game and “I Spy” until the only things left to guess were “blue sky” and “green fields.” Eventually, we’d sink back into silence, watching the world go by. The arrival of toll booths always meant New York. My brother and I would be buzzing with excitement. I could picture the trampoline at my grandparents’ house, the treehouse and the playground across the street. “We’re almost there!” my mom would call as the scenery grew more familiar and the anticipation reached a fever pitch. Looking back now, I cherish those memories from the not-so-distant past that feels like another world. Before school, work and life took over. Before everyone was glued to their phones and so caught up in “staying connected” that they forgot how to actually connect. I’m grateful for the places I saw, even if they were just stops on the way, and for the memories I made in moments of boredom. On those long stretches of highway, maybe more than anywhere else, we were forced to simply be. To be present. To be together. To exist in that fleeting moment between destination and journey. Those moments, like the road itself, twist and fade into memory, but they always lead me home.
Backseat Bordeom And Simpler Times
Every time I slide into a hot car seat in summer, I’m pulled back to the road trips of my childhood. I close my eyes, and there I am — squished into the soft fabric backseat between overflowing bags, the whole summer stretched out before us, feeling as vast and endless as childhood itself. Like clockwork, every summer my mom, dad, brother and I would cram our tiny 2003 Toyota Corolla with as many bags as we could carry and set off for our annual roadtrip. We’d always plan to leave by 8 a.m., but noon would arrive before we even left the driveway. My dad needed to make one last walk around the house while my mom buzzed from room to room like a bee. My brother and I would sit exasperated in the backseat, until they finally joined us, the engine roaring to life and the house turning into a distant memory behind us. Sometimes we’d head for the Carolina coast. Four hours spent sucking on warm Capri Suns and listening to my parents argue over the crumpled paper map my mom kept spread across her lap, usually about the last missed exit. My brother and I used to race to see who could roll down their window the fastest just as the air began to smell of salt and sunscreen.
The ocean always had a way of announcing itself to us long before we ever saw it. We’d breathe in that faint ocean smell excitedly, bouncing in our seats and chattering to each other. More often, though, we’d leave the sweltering heat of the South behind and hit the road for western New York to visit my grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins. If the drive to the beach was long, this one felt like an eternity; five states and a 12-hour long drive that my parents in their infinite wisdom, or maybe just exhaustion, decided to split across two days. The real fun was at our destination, but the journey held its own mix of joy and boredom. I’d stare out the window and watch the world go by in a stream of blues and greens. Fields, farms and forests, all the fixings of small-town America would pass by in a blur. North Carolina and Virginia looked so alike that driving through them felt like time was standing still. Time always moves differently when you’re young — or maybe just when you’re stuck squished between bags, hot and sticky in the back seat. Every so often I’d poke my mom in the back. “Are we out of North Carolina yet?” I’d ask. “Not yet,” she’d reply with a knowing smile.
The highlight of the day was usually a stop for lunch at McDonald’s or Wendy’s, a rare treat. My brother and I would bring our plastic Happy Meal toys back with us, bickering over who got to play with which one. Heading from Virginia to West Virginia was where the trip got exciting. The forests would give way to the winding roads of the Blue Ridge Mountains, silent green giants rising on either side. On the most perilous stretches, we’d dare each other to look over the edge, craning our necks to glimpse the hazy world far below. There were only two tunnels along our route, but we’d wait for them excitedly like landmarks. Each swallowed us whole, headlights flashing along the walls and sounds echoing before we were spit back out into daylight. We’d stop at rest areas and trails, too. My favorite was always the overlook at New River Gorge Bridge. High above the massive bridge, the cars below always looked like miniature toys gliding into the distance. At day’s end, my parents would manage to find a hotel with a pool. Even after six hours on the road, my brother and I still found the energy to cannonball into the water. We’d play Marco Polo, pretend we were deep sea divers and practice our summersaults and handstands under the water. Afterwards, we’d wrap ourselves in towels and flip through cable channels, hoping there was something good to watch.
Pennsylvania was never as exciting as the mountains, so we’d make our own fun the following morning. We’d play the license plate game and “I Spy” until the only things left to guess were “blue sky” and “green fields.” Eventually, we’d sink back into silence, watching the world go by. The arrival of toll booths always meant New York. My brother and I would be buzzing with excitement. I could picture the trampoline at my grandparents’ house, the treehouse and the playground across the street. “We’re almost there!” my mom would call as the scenery grew more familiar and the anticipation reached a fever pitch. Looking back now, I cherish those memories from the not-so-distant past that feels like another world. Before school, work and life took over. Before everyone was glued to their phones and so caught up in “staying connected” that they forgot how to actually connect. I’m grateful for the places I saw, even if they were just stops on the way, and for the memories I made in moments of boredom. On those long stretches of highway, maybe more than anywhere else, we were forced to simply be. To be present. To be together. To exist in that fleeting moment between destination and journey. Those moments, like the road itself, twist and fade into memory, but they always lead me home.
