There’s always this idea that traveling on the open road is a transformative and liberating activity. Where you find out about yourself. You also wear blue jeans.
The open road. Americana.
Lucian, my mother’s father, was a car-nut and owned a car-repair shoppe. On the weekends, he would often get up early and hit the road; usually driving five or six hours down to the homestead to have lunch with his family and then driving back.
When he retired, he and my grandmother drove all over the country. I believe they hit every state (they went to Hawaii (I think) and Alaska on other occasions).
They just drove. They had family in California and did a number of cross country trips.
Drove drove drove.
I should ask my grandmother what they talked about the whole time.
Was it transformative? Did they learn any truths?
Mrs. Robot drove us in her gold Camaro one weekend from college up to my parent’s house for the official girlfriend/parents meeting. The Camaro roared up the driveway (after a bit of a shaky highway ride). Out stepped the red-haired girl with stripe-y leggings. I suspect my parents were a little unsure at first regarding the young lady I brought home (that's of course changed, as my parents adore their daughters-in-law (maybe more so than their pesky and troublesome sons)).
On the way back, we had a flat tire. Big surprise: I'd never changed a tire.
Mrs. Robot changed the tire.
As much as the Camaro had a great ironic/kitchy aspect, I was quite happy when she got a used Honda Accord. A bit more reliable.