In 2003 we took a road trip up the coast. We rented a Mustang convertible and drove it from San Diego to Vancouver, ferried over to Victoria, ferried down to Washington to drive to Seattle, then drove over the mountains to Boise, down through Nevada to Reno and back over the mountains to Sacramento, into Napa, and back to San Diego.
It was a lot of fun, and there was a lot of wine involved.
Now that we have Erin we’ve been missing those kind of footloose vacations. All of our trips in the last year and a half have involved visits to family to one extent or another. But this weekend we are going back to one of our favourite spots from that roadtrip oh so many years ago: Back to Seattle again. We have no family there, so there is no pressure to visit with anyone. We are going with one carry-on and the backpack. No stroller, no carseat, no crib.
It’s a bit liberating.
We’ll be back on Monday.
But, so you have something to do this weekend (besides, you know, spending time with family or other things that are way less important than reading blogs), I give you a homework assignment: Tell me your worst road trip memory.
I’ll start. On the first day we had the convertible we drove out of San Diego, all the way through L.A., through the Grapevine and the central valley to San Jose. With the top down. It was nice and sunny. And I was nice and stupid and didn’t wear any sunscreen.
I woke up the next morning with the left side of my body a bright lobster red. I could hardly move. For the next couple of days I was spraying that side down with aloe just so I could hold the steering wheel.
Worst story wins an autographed copy of Stefanie Wilder-Taylor’s Naptime is the New Happy Hour. Well, autographed by me, anyway. I will also annotate it, marking it with the whatever thoughts strike me as I go through it. Stefanie has graciously permitted me to, in effect, deface her art: think of a high school punk tagging the Mona Lisa. She is fantastic.