When people reflect on family vacations from their childhood, many think of an idyllic week or two spent in some pine-scented cabin, canoeing on a pristine blue lake, frolicking in the forest and throwing pine cones at squirrels; or snug in a clapboard beach house, playing whiffle ball on the sand, riding bikes into a charming little town, playing Skee-Ball at the arcade and eating saltwater taffy until they burst; or hunkered down in a mountain chalet, knee-deep in powder snow, huddled by a roaring fire and languidly piecing together a jigsaw puzzle.
Whereas I do not.
As you may have gathered by now my father was not big on having fun and his zero-fun policy covered any and all forms of relaxation. So lazing by the lake or the pool or the fire was never on the itinerary. AO was, however, big on road trips. Really big on really big road trips.