Remember when gas was over $ 4.00 a gallon, and then the price had dropped? Didn’t you feel like you had just won the lottery? What were you going to do with all that extra cash? Windfalls like this could inspire you to do something reckless, like jump into your SUV, drive to the grocery store, and not reuse your plastic bags. Or perhaps you’d commute to work and not hover just above the energy-conserving 55 mph (traffic permitting you to actually get to 55 mph first, of course). Or, it could inspire a road trip – the all-American summertime tradition.
Growing up in the States in the 70’s and 80’s, we usually had summers free for traveling to visit old friends, since my father taught college mathematics. The six of us would squeeze into the miniature Mazda station wagon meant for five. The sixth person would sometimes ride in the back, slightly hunched to accommodate the low roof, crammed in with all of our belongings in the little hatchback. Here I’m showing my age, because in that day the use of seat belts was left to the individual’s discretion, and the individual rarely shows good discretion. For example, when my father had bought our first “new” new car, a spacious olive-green Ford LTD, we (and most of the neighborhood’s kids) rode standing up in the back, because we were so excited and the roof was so high.
Both my parents were heavy-set then, although my father, at age 75, now walks up to 12 miles a day to stay fit. All the young drivers fought to drive, as that coveted position was the only spot in the car that was squish-proof. Two people shared the front passenger bucket seat and its single seat belt. We sat like conjoined twins who shared one wide pelvis, our bottoms making the letter U. If night driving was involved, we either inoculated each other with chewing gum so as not to kill our twin with that foul sticky morning breath or we each stared intently in opposite directions, just as a matter of courtesy. If you rode squished between the parents in the backseat, you also had to bear the heat, since there were only vents for the front seats. Come to think of it, I don’t think that little white Mazda had air conditioning.
Whatever other discomforts we suffered, we never experienced even ten seconds of hunger, nor did we lust as we passed billboards proclaiming the gospel of the Golden Arches or Colonel Sanders’ hospitality along the way. My mother is an excellent cook, and she always prepared complete Indian meals and snacks for the way, as she still does when my parents travel. They typically consisted of “nimki” (the closest equivalent snack would be pita chips), bhunjia (spicy potatoes or cauliflower) that is eaten wrapped in a puri (fried bread). These were all lovingly packed into those empty margarine tubs that no true Indian can ever bear to throw away. Those little white square napkins that sandwiched the stack of puris were oil soaked and turned translucent yellow upon contact. It was best to avoid the first and last puri; they suffered traces of napkin that adhered like an edible form of Velcro®.
I still love long road trips, and possibly due to my scarred upbringing (just kidding, Mom and Dad), I love to grab the driver’s spot. It is the most relaxing way to spend hours and hours, provided there is no stressful driving like being lost or negotiating your way with maniacal drivers through New York City. It's also nice to give my commuting husband a break, I think. Perhaps you think I am a wonderful and selfless person for doing almost all of the driving on long road trips, and if you do, let me know the next time you see me, and I’ll see if I don’t have a quarter or a stick of gum with which to thank you.
But my motivation is entirely selfish. By being the driver, I can avoid all the other uncomfortable places in our eight passenger all-seatbelts-are-loaded Suburban. If I sit in the front passenger seat, it is because I am too tired to drive. I then tend to doze in fits and starts, and am usually awakened as we are approaching a bifurcation in the road, with my husband urgently hissing, “I-76...do I take East or West!” Being in the front passenger seat requires me to be just as focused on the road if any navigation is required, only I don’t have control of the vehicle.
Not controlling the vehicles leaves me in the delicate position of choosing between our safety and nagging my husband. Eyeing the eleven cars piled impatiently behind him in the leftmost lane, I say, “Honey, I think the speed limit here is 65.” (This means the minimum speed everyone is driving is 70 mph, everyone except my husband, who is diligently doing 58 mph.) I have to be very tactful in releasing how much I know, because, being the scientist, he always claims that my readings, made with a surreptitious neck crane and eye strain, are fraught with parallax error and are wholly unreliable. That’s when I say we have to rely on other indicators, such as cars bunching up behind us, then whizzing by us to the right and cutting dramatically back in front of us. “Didn’t you say we have to take an exit on the left?” he’ll remind me. “Yes, but that’s not for another five miles.” So he acquiesces and moves over to the right.
At least, with the availability of Google Maps and Mapquest, navigation is not the pain it once was. I have childhood memories (when my father was the only driver in the house) of my father being lost, and refusing to pull over at any gas station and or consult the map himself. He would demand that my brother or sister, map spread desperately out in front of them, invoke some sixth sense and come up with the next navigational move. (Any kids reading this should understand that this was in ancient times; no one could whip out a cell phone to say they were lost and going to be late and be rewarded with instant help-you-out directions. You had to be convinced enough in your mind that you were a confirmed lost traveler so you could search for the nearest blue pay telephone and hope you had enough change to use it to make a long distance call. You couldn’t just whip out a credit card to pay for unexpected expenses, nor would anyone outside your area take a non-local check. You had to plan ahead with whatever cash you were going to need.)
When we wound up in some obviously residential part of town that we had never intended to be in, my father would finally stop and accost the next headbanded jogger. The man, sweating and flush-faced, would continue jogging in place while he gave directions, repeatedly, as he peered and pointed up the street we were to take to help us get out. My father would nod and repeat the instructions in his heavily accented English, his arm pointing this way and that out of the window. “So, sure, sir. Go laft, than laft, than a right. Right?” Like every child brought up in the West, we dutifully avoided eye contact with the jogger lest we die of embarrassment on the spot. As soon as my father cranked up the car window, he seemed to undergo instant amnesia, and would snap at us in Hindi to repeat what the jogger’s instructions had been. He hadn’t the slightest clue of which way to go.
Enough reminiscing; let me get back to the other places in our car to avoid on long trips. You never want to ride in the backmost seat, because, according to the three who are relegated to ride there, it is a squished and cramped existence with people hogging blankets and poking elbows. Also, some mysterious person seems to visit the back row and leave deposits of chewed gum to harden in the cup holders, because it isn’t any of my kids. Also, this mystery-person is prone to flatulence of a toxic nature. Furthermore, being “all the way in the back” cuts people off from intelligent, adult-like conversation, and they must revert to an animal-like language called “Squeaker Language,” which consists of squeaks, squawks, and shrieks, all at a very soothing, high-pitched level.
I cannot ride in the middle row as I did on the last hour of our last trip. The three-year-old, who is usually a happy car traveler in his car seat directly behind the driver’s seat, now spots me near him and begins weeping and crying and demanding that I sit next to him. Like most young children, this little lad suffers from an acute case of “momallergy.” Momallergy is a condition that makes a child who was previously playing quite happily look up, spot the mother trying to leave or just returning from some place, and makes him begin to cry hysterically. Watch at a childcare drop-off area, and you will see many momallergic kids. (Law enforcement people: don’t read the next sentence.) My fifteen-year-old daughter and I actually had to swap seats in some weird, contorted, Mobius-strip fashion while the car was in motion. His momallergy got so bad that he next demanded that I hold him. (Law enforcement people: do read this part.) Being a law-abiding citizen, I said no, and laid my head next to his in the car seat.
This landed me in the center of the middle row of seats. This is undoubtedly the worst seat in the whole car. It is called the Chief Forager’s position because all the snacks, fruits, drinks, and labeled sandwiches are kept at the feet of the car seat. Because of this, there is almost no legroom here. In addition to passing up and back all food items for all who are weary, tired, hungry, bored, or possibly sleepy at the wheel, the Chief Forager is also in charge of keeping the Young Master happily fed and occupied. Not only that, the Chief Forager is responsible for sending up and back whatever audiotape or CD we are all listening to in the car.
Listening to stories in the car - that is the chief reason that I love long road trips. It allows me to sit back, relax, put on my heated seat, and listen to a wonderful story – sometimes fiction, sometimes nonfiction. Our whole family is trapped and encapsulated together with no distractions, and we can all be absorbed in listening to some story we have checked out of the library. I won’t list them here because I’d hate to be accused of being longwinded. I can’t imagine a long car trip without a good, long story. There is absolutely nothing else to do, as long as I’m the one that’s driving. Too bad summer is almost over.
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