When I was in third grade, my family took our first major road trip: the epic drive from Marinette, Wisconsin, all the way to Disney World. That was way before the days of 70 mph speed limits, so the trip had taken at least 24 hours. Our family truckster at the time was a large Chrysler New Yorker that was a hand-me-down from Grandma Drees. I was armed only with my personal pillow covered in a Strawberry Shortcake pillowcase. Since I had the shittiest seat in the car (backseat middle), I would have to contend with 24 hours of manspreading and assorted gross older brother shenanigans designed to bother me. In addition, Willie Nelson’s “On the Road Again” song was quite popular then, so every time we’d hop back into the car after a potty stop Dad would point out we were “On the road again, kids!”
It had been a long journey.
We’d managed to keep each other busy by playing the classic car games: the license plate game, the alphabet game, the what-I-would-do-if-I-won-the-lottery game. My brothers were particularly fond of the let’s-fart-on-Anne game. I was very thankful when we reached Tennessee, and they could distract themselves with all of the illegal fireworks stands.
Our first overnight stop had been at a bright orange Howard Johnson hotel with an attached restaurant. Dad was in heaven because they were offering all-you-can-eat fish, and let’s just say it got a little out of hand after awhile. Mom was tired of sitting around while Dad kept ordering more fish, so she eventually gave up and went back to the hotel room. Dad kept getting his money’s worth and ordering more coffee until he finally petered out around 9:00 or 10:00 p.m. Not surprisingly the combination of the caffeine and a full stomach didn’t make for a good night’s sleep. By 2:00 a.m. he couldn’t take the tossing and turning anymore; he woke up Mom and convinced her to hit the road again.
“Just don’t tell the kids what time it is … they’ll never know the difference,” he said in hushed tones. “They can sleep in the car, just get them ready. I’ll unplug the alarm clock so they can’t see the time.”
And that’s how we ended up hitting the road at 2:30 a.m.
Dad thought he was clever, but after about 30 minutes we caught him: He had forgotten about the clock in the car. After our initial incredulous whining, we eventually got over it and fell back asleep. We were rested and ready by the time we crossed the Florida border. It was there that we encountered the illustrious Florida Welcome Center where they were giving out free juice. We got into the long line and were greeted by someone whose job was to ask visitors “Orange or grapefruit?” all day long. The rest of the trip my brothers and I kept randomly asking each other, “Orange or grapefruit? Orange or grapefruit?” Until my parents snapped.
When we finally did make it to Disney World we were all in heaven. I especially loved the Magic Kingdom because it contained something called attractions, as opposed to just roller coasters. I’d never been much of a scary ride person, and at that point my only previous experience with amusement parks had been at a small family-friendly place in Green Bay called Bay Beach. Each ride there only cost 10 cents, and the scariest ride was a huge slide you would ride down while inside a burlap sack. In the summer the slide got so incredibly hot that you would get second-degree burns by merely grazing any part of the slide on the way down. Other than that, it seemed that the Scrambler and Tilt-a-Whirl were enough excitement for me.
Back at Magic Kingdom I could handle the “tame” coaster but steered clear of Space Mountain, something my brothers couldn’t get enough of. Fast-forward 30 years to when I was on my own family road trip to Disney World. We got stuck on the It’s a Small World ride for a good half-hour due to a mechanical failure, so we were all given FastPasses for any ride we wanted. (If you’re not familiar: The FastPass lets you skip the long line and go right to the front.) My family, of course, chose the one ride with the longest line: Space Mountain.
In a moment of weakness, I took one for the team and went on Space Mountain. I realize there are much faster and scarier rides out there, but since I’m so wimpy I screamed in horror throughout the entire ride. I felt like I was going to be launched out of that tiny unprotective car at every drop, twist, and turn. Sadly, that wasn’t the last time I would do something horrifying in the name of entertainment for my family. Once at a waterpark they all tricked me into going on a ride I never would have agreed to if I’d known what it entailed. When we got to the front of the line, I learned we all had to step on a giant scale to be weighed. Call me crazy, but any time the laws of physics have to be calculated right before I step inside a gigantic inner tube I get a tad bit nervous. Not to mention the kids kept trying to figure out how much I weighed based on our grand total.
“Now we know that Dad weighs about 210, and I’m 130 … and Karissa is …” Chase began before I swiftly cut him off at the … ahem, chase.
“Don’t even think about it, buddy,” I told him as I climbed into the inner tube of dread.
It turned out that that ride shot us all into a giant funnel, where we shot up the sides, making me feel like I was going to fall face down and plummet to my death. I now feel horrible for that time we made my mom go on the spinning teacups.
The other times that our family had gone back to Disney World we’d flown … but that didn’t mean there weren’t other road trips. Many times those trips had involved visiting my brother Peter who was working on his degree in professional golf management from Ferris State University. His studies had consisted of six months in the classroom, then six months working at a golf course. At first, he was in cooler-weather locations like the Chicago area. I’ll never forget when we dropped him off for that first internship. His “accommodations” during the internship had consisted of a run-down shack on the golf course grounds. He had been given a windowless room with stained carpeting, and he’d shared a bathroom with one of the drunken groundskeepers who liked to shoot off his gun after one too many. Mom was a bit stressed during that time.
Luckily a few years later Pete was able to land a more glamorous gig at a resort in Myrtle Beach. The plan was for my parents and me to road trip there, spend a few days with him, then cross over to Missouri to visit my brother Dan at his summer job, as well as some relatives in the St. Louis area.
That road trip was fantastic; not only did I have the entire back seat to myself, but I could occupy myself for hours with my Christopher Pike books. Plus, it was the first time I would be seeing the ocean, and that inspired me to purchase some ultra-cool Panama Jack tee shirts that would be the envy of all of my friends.
While the Myrtle Beach trip had been a success, and Mom could sleep at night knowing that Peter was safe and sound, she still had to worry about her younger son.
Now I need to back up here and explain how Dan had found himself in Missouri. Apparently around springtime, a company had visited his college campus trying to recruit summer workers. That particular company sold encyclopedias and probably a few other types of books that are now mostly obsolete. Dan fell hard for the presentation; he only saw dollar signs and the opportunity to travel to exotic places (like St. Joseph, Missouri?).
Mom had tried in vain to tell Dan that it was all a bad idea, but it was no use. At one point, he simply sat my mom down, looked her in the eye, and said, “Mom, this is just something I have to do.”
As soon as his freshman year of college was finished he jetted off to Tennessee (you may know it from its extensive roadside fireworks stands, as well as all-you-can-eat fish at Howard Johnson). It was there he was brainwashed trained to be a traveling encyclopedia salesman.
What Dan hadn’t known was that he would be responsible for finding his own accommodations. According to the company, there would be plenty of people willing and able to let a stranger like him live at their house for free during the summer. He’d ended up sleeping in someone’s dungy basement. Back then there were no cell phones, so we only heard from him once a week or so, calling collect from a pay phone; he didn’t give us too many details about his job.
As soon as we’d arrived in St. Joseph and found Dan, he jumped into the car as if it was a life raft. It took him less than 30 seconds to tell us that he was quitting. He had lasted less than a month. As it turned out, (shockingly) walking the streets for 12 hours a day in sweltering heat trying to sell strangers encyclopedias was not the dream job he had envisioned.
In the end it all worked out anyhow. When we got back to Wisconsin, Dan got a summer job as a harbormaster at the local marina. Personally I like to think that he learned a few important life lessons. The first one being that your mom is always right. The second one is that if he hadn’t quit he would have missed out on one of the coolest life experiences ever: making a super-sweet lip-sync video to Madonna’s hit “Into the Groove” with me when we stopped in Wisconsin Dells on the way home.
Come to think of it, all of my family vacations had been fun when my brothers were around; despite their teasing when I was younger, we just genuinely enjoyed each other’s company. But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve also discovered that I enjoy some vacation time alone.
The first time I took a “big” vacation by myself was January 2014. Since my husband was working in education and didn’t have the time off, and none of my friends could make the trip, I decided to just book the trip on my own. It turned out to be incredible timing: While schools were closing in Wisconsin due to cold temperatures, I’d be enjoying 80s and sun in Fort Lauderdale.
When I would tell others about my upcoming plans, the conversation would often go like this:
“I can’t wait to get out of this cold weather; I’m going to Fort Lauderdale for an entire week!”
“Great!” random friend would say. “Whom are you going with?”
“No one,” I would reply. “I’m going by myself.”
Big look of surprise, pity, or confusion.
“Oh … really? Why?”
After explaining myself, I’d get one of three reactions. The first group undoubtedly walked away thinking I was a loser with no friends. The second group thought I was brave and cool, but they would never do such a thing themselves. But then the third group (and those were my favorite people) just got it.
“Yeah …” they would say while nodding. “Yeah … that is GENIUS. Tell me more.”
The truth was that if I absolutely had to take someone with me I’m sure I could have found someone … but after awhile I kind of called off my search on purpose. Because the more I thought about it the more I craved time all to myself.
I completely understand that many people would hate that idea but not me. For as long as I can remember I’ve known this about myself. I could spend hours and hours alone in my bedroom playing with my Barbies or reading books. My kindergarten report card had said “Anne should spend less time playing by herself and more time with other children.”
When I think about that report card today I think So where’s the problem? I hate being introvert shamed.
When I finally did leave on vacation, the interrogation continued, starting with the rental car guy.
“Do you have family here?”
“No.”
“Are you meeting friends here?”
“No.”
“Are you here for work?”
“No.”
He just could not get past the idea that I would be on vacation by myself, and he was really starting to annoy me.
(On a side note, I was this close to scoring $557 worth of travel vouchers from Southwest when they asked for volunteers to take the next flight three hours later. If they only needed one person, I was in! If they needed two, then they would take this other pair who also volunteered. They ended up needing two. The voucher went to a dad and son who separated from the wife and two other kids. Probably because they were all Screamy McFidgety. And I should know. I ended up sitting in front of them on the plane.)
But getting back to my vacation. That was prime time for me to do what I wanted, when I wanted. The solo TV viewing alone was worth it. No rednecks or shows about people trying to rustle up snakes/raccoons/fish/opossums/rare coins. I was, however, very open to publicity-hungry, extremely rich reality stars. For one week it would be strictly E!, Bravo, and my Netflix queue.
And then there was the sleeping. If I wanted to take a nap from 8 p.m. to 10 p.m., get up, eat some chips, rally, then watch a “Rich Kids of Beverly Hills” marathon until 2 a.m., I could do it. (If you haven’t already guessed, that happened. A lot.)
But there’s more! I had the bathroom to myself. I shopped at my own pace and only went into stores that I wanted to visit. I didn’t have to care about what anyone else was hungry for; besides, most of the time I was hungry for Chick-fil-A, and I wasn’t afraid to drive 30 minutes to get it. (And P.S.: Will someone please open a Chick-fil-A near me, already?)
I had no regrets about my solo vacation, and I would do it again a few years later. I’d still get an occasional odd look, and I still felt lonely at times. But then I’d think about Willie Nelson. And all-you-can-eat fish. And the freedom to travel. And then I’m just happy to be on the road again.