I envisioned a Great American Road Trip. Fate had other ideas.
By Caren Lissner
As America lurched toward its 250th birthday, I resolved to take my teens on a once-in-a-lifetime road trip last summer. We’d travel from New Jersey all the way to south Texas. It promised something for everyone. Our destination would reunite me with an old Penn friend. The journey would also address my kids’ constant complaint: that we went to the “same states” every year—Massachusetts, Vermont, and Maine. Never mind that technically, while touring the Haskell Free Library and Opera House in Vermont, we had set foot in Canada, since the building straddles the Quebec line. I even have photos of us standing with one foot on each side of the black tape marking the border. That counts as international travel, right?
Maybe, during our road trip, we’d learn something about the state of our union.
I excitedly unveiled our itinerary last spring, planning stops in Virginia, West Virginia, Tennessee, and Arkansas before entering the Lone Star State. We’d celebrate America’s upcoming birthday and take in new scenery. Since I’m of a certain age, I recall the Bicentennial celebration in ’76, when the Tall Ships floated into New York Harbor and everyone seemed happy and proud. I probably only thought that because I was in kindergarten and didn’t know much of the world beyond the lyrics to “Disco Duck,” but it was a joyful feeling.
I told the kids we’d party like it was 1976.
“Why can’t we fly,” said Older Kid, more a statement than a question.
“Who wants to be like everybody else?” I cheerfully asked.
Well, teenagers do.
I remembered the times my kids had been satisfied, as toddlers, with simple adventures: hopping on a commuter train to see a new playground, or discovering a new pizza joint. If only we could stay as easily intrigued as when we’re young.
I had another reason to see the USA in my Chevrolet (or whatever Hertz was willing to rent me). It seemed wise to steer clear of the traumatized air traffic controllers and radar outages at Newark Airport.
I began plotting our dream trip. I have a rule: Travel should not be work (unless you’re traveling for work). Ambition has its place, and it isnot on a family holiday. But I violated my own rule from the start.
The web told me the drive would take 26 hours. I figured we’d split it into three days each way. The longest trek would be Day One, reaching Tennessee in 12.5 hours. So I loaded suitcases and snacks into the rental car the night before, and mixed coffee grounds with water to turn into cold brew by morning. My high-caffeine Mason jar would keep me alert.
At 5:30 a.m., under clear skies, we rolled out of town. We made a few pit stops and reached West Virginia by noon. So far, so good. But then I stepped out of the car. And the leg cramps hit.
This had never happened before. I’d read that air travelers could get ill if they sat too long. But driving to West Virginia? I shook out my legs, drank water, waited to feel better, and looked up “economy class syndrome” on my phone. Clearly I needed more breaks.
Then it was onward to Tennessee.
A second wrinkle emerged. Those internet drive times are calculated assuming one will maintain the speed limit the entire time. But I was not going to drive 60 or 70 miles per hour on unfamiliar Southern roads. And we were slowed by rain showers, traffic jams, and—distressingly short of Nashville—darkness.
Around 8 p.m., I watched the sun sink behind the Smoky Mountains and felt scared. We were doing 65 amid a slew of trucks, without the bright lights I was used to in New Jersey. I could round a bend and turn the car into a 4,000-pound tangle of disaster.
I couldn’t stop thinking about my late mother’s advice regarding driving at night, which was, “Don’t drive at night.”
My legs hurt. I didn’t tell my kids. They sounded frustrated enough. One wanted me to put on Taylor Swift; the other wanted Kendrick Lamar. They wanted to swim at the hotel, not wait another four hours to get there.
As the sky darkened, I slid behind every 18-wheeler on Route 40, assuming they had experience. Red taillights showed me the way.
We reached the hotel in Nashville around midnight—an embarrassing 16 hours after we’d left. My legs hurt and I could barely walk into our room. The kids went right to sleep.
I didn’t.
Apparently, chasing a cold brew with hours and hours of Dunkin’ coffees is an excellent way to stave off shuteye.
I sat up in bed, trying to fall asleep.
At 1 a.m., I recalled articles about how driving with no sleep was as dangerous as driving drunk.
At 2 a.m., I beat myself up over taking this trip instead of getting tickets to see “Weird Al” Yankovic, who was coming to New York the following weekend.
At 3 a.m., I told myself that if I could fall asleep by 4 a.m., I’d sleep until 11 or 12 and we’d be good to go.
I knew I should put the kids first. It was safer to stay an extra night at the hotel in Nashville. So we did.
But did I really want to continue?
I had only taken a little over a week off from work, so it wasn’t like we could slow down and enjoy the road. As soon as we reached Texas, we’d have to drive home. Could we stand five more days like this?
I called my friend, apologized profusely, and told her how much I detested changing plans and putting people out. She understood. “Do something cool in Nashville,” she suggested.
I broke the news to the kids.
“We’re not going to Texas?” Older Kid asked, disappointed.
“But we got to see a library in Canada, remember?”
Instead we toured the Country Music Hall of Fame and Museum, which had a Taylor Swift exhibit, so I pleased one teen. Then they wanted to visit the mall. After arguing about where to eat, we chose the Cheesecake Factory. Younger Kid noticed something in her salad that looked like wax. The manager came out, agreed it was wax, and said generously, “We won’t charge you for the salad.”
To salvage the trip, I booked a night at an Airbnb on a farm in Virginia, complete with farm animals. In the dark, I couldn’t find it, and headed farther and farther up a mountain with no space to turn around. I realized my mom was right. There were miles of roads with no shoulder, and deer kept appearing in my headlights. (They looked a lot like me.)
I finally managed to find the farm. Come morning, we woke to roosters, goats, and a cow. It was July 4. Happy birthday, America!
Now: Country roads, take us home to the New Jersey Turnpike.
Heading back on Independence Day, we passed two crashes, then a skeleton of a car that was engulfed in flames. Two people stood beside it on a narrow median, looking forlorn. It amazed me how many stretches of road lacked a safe place to stop.
After bickering over where to eat lunch, we pulled into an IHOP. There was one car in the parking lot. I was sure it was closed.
It turned out they were open. A Fourth of July miracle! We were the only customers.
We gorged on pancakes and salads (sans wax), and the waitress kept bringing us water. I felt bad that she had to work on the holiday. She looked a bit down. I wondered if she wished she were anywhere else. I left a large cash tip and thanked her for serving us on a holiday. Perhaps that taught the kids a lesson that we hadn’t found elsewhere on the road.
We made it home just after midnight. As we dressed for bed, I read a text from my friend. The July 4 fireworks had been canceled, she said. She linked to a release about flash flood warnings and heavy rains that had already soaked the event grounds. To me, it seemed an overreaction. I’d followed the forecasts, which called for sunshine. It would be a few more days before we all learned how deadly the storms in Texashad been, as news of the July 4 tragedy at Camp Mystic spread. It was just luck that we’d turned around.
After our retreat, I worried that our botched trip would eclipse my kids’ memories of family vacations we’d taken when they were younger—especially an overnight sleeper car on a train to visit grandparents, a favorite. But the important thing was, we’d made it home in one piece.
And I did buy those tickets to see Weird Al.
This summer, I’ve planned for us to sit by a hotel pool in New England. It’s only a five-hour drive, but we’ll be taking the train.
Caren Lissner C’93 is working on a memoir, How We Became Homeless. Her nerdy first novel, Carrie Pilby, was turned into a movie. Find more of her writing at carenlissner.com.
