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5 September 2002 When I was a kid car trips were how other families spent their summer vacations. They'd pack into their faux wood-paneled station wagons, armed with Mad Libs and coolers of bologna sandwiches and they'd head West to the Grand Canyon or South to see the grandparents. Since I'd never experienced it, this kind of traveling was practically mythic in my mind. I envisioned lots of rest stops filled with cold Cokes from vending machines and cheesy photos taken in front of state lines. I saw lots of dumb souvenirs purchased at road side stands, short cuts that would lead to stories told over Thanksgiving turkey for years and picnics at rest stops where everyone would take turns walking the dog. Instead I was stuck with the cramped cabin of my dad's Cessna, peering down as the country as we literally flew by it all. No photos in front of the World's Biggest Ball of Yarn and there was certainly no room for the dogs. We only stopped for av gas and warm sodas from some guy's hanger in the middle of Arkansas. Because I'd never traveled any considerable distance by car, I looked forward to the day when I'd be able to embark on my first car trip. That desire was firmly squelched the summer my mother and I decided to drive to Ohio for our annual trip rather than shell out the bucks for a commercial flight. It was squashed even further when my dad and I made the same trip only a few months later to visit my brother for the holidays. But I'd still never experienced the fantastic Road Trip that one is supposed to take as a rite of passage with friends. There are only a few acceptable reasons for such a trip: Go to California for spring break to get laid or pile in a van to visit another campus and wreck havoc. My dormmate Mary and I chose the latter. Spring semester, over some February weekend, we decided to make the five hour drive from Oxford, Ohio to Ann Arbor, Michigan to visit friends at the home of the Maize & Gold. And while that might not be as much as an endeavor as Ithaca to Austin, for a girl who'd never even driven herself to downtown Houston, it was an undertaking. On Friday afternoon we climbed into my Acura and drove out of town. We stopped just south of Dayton at one of the million McDonald's along the way and got both Diet Cokes and chocolate shakes. I said little prayers that my nine-year-old car would survive the trip and wouldn't leave us stranded outside Toledo. Mary drew little pictures with the washable Crayola markers that she'd packed and we talked about boys, what dorms our friends lived in at UofM and what we were going to do in Ann Arbor. We counted the corn fields and bounced in our seats, anxious to get there. In her boredom, she reached up and drew a smiley face on the inside of my sunroof. We crossed the state line a little after dark and pulled into town a few hours later. I dropped Mary off at her friends' dorm before heading over to the other side of campus where my ex-roommate, Cyndi, now lived. The weekend was a blur of dancing and partying, giant dorms that I was totally unused to, walks around campus and gawking at the activities of Hash Bash. On Sunday morning Mary met me in the lobby of Cyndi's dorm and we trudged back out to my car, our pillows in hand, for the drive back to Oxford. Back to home. I've taken other road trips since then, the most notable ones took me either through or to Atlanta, and while they were both fun in their own ways, that trip up I-75 in the winter of 1995 will always stand out. Mostly because I had that stupid orange smiley face on my sunroof for years.
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