In this week approaching Father's Day in the U.S., I see my social media feeds crowded with a lot of really fun-looking "dad trips." I call them dad trips because they're dads and kids, grandfathers and grandkids — that kind of trip with a dad-like figure. And no, they're not all fishing trips or baseball-stadium tours or golf trips. What I'm seeing more this year are old-fashioned road trips.
I love to see this. It reminds me of road-tripping with my dad, which unlocks very special memories.
My family did not take fancy, long vacations. My mother had grand designs of driving in the station wagon from our home in Cleveland to educational destinations like Washington, D.C., or Williamsburg. But inevitably the bickering between my brothers and I would force a stop around Hershey, Pennsylvania, where we would stay at a Holiday Inn and swim in the pool while inhaling that magically chocolate-scented air for a few days, then drive home.
Hotels factored in to our family vacations but they weren't the destination or the experience. They were on-the-way stops with pools and breakfast and a rollaway bed (ugh) for me.
No, when I think about traveling with my dad, it's not the hotel that I think about — it's the drive. Jim Ricca was a speed demon who always left his blinker on after he changed lanes. He had a classic 1980's police radar detector mounted to the dashboard, which he used as a permission slip to speed up, not slow down. When he got pulled over, which he always did, he talked his way out of it because he was a friendly person who could put anyone at ease.
He was not generous with the car air conditioner, because it used up too much gas.
My dad only played jazz tapes or AM talk — not sports — radio. Loudly.
In other words, driving anywhere with my dad was an experience.
We talk now a lot about the hotel as the ultimate experience. But in my travel memories, the drive was the experience.
My dad was the ultimate driver. He was the parent who would take the whole team to and from baseball practice with individual home drop-offs and of course a stop at Dairy Queen or McDonald's somewhere in there.
He drove us and our friends to concerts and wrestling matches and Cavs games any night of the week at faraway venues, where he would hang out until it was over. The rule was that you'd wait until the entire parking lot cleared out (which might be 1 a.m. on a Tuesday), then you'd spot dad in the furthest possible spot, he'd blink his lights and you'd trek out.
He drove us all to and from college and first apartments, packing the car like a Jenga stack. He and my mom and I drove around the English countryside when I studied abroad. While I can't recall a single place we stayed, I remember how my dad gleefully learned every vulgar British hand gesture from other drivers.
Well into my adulthood, dad insisted on driving me to and from the airport for my business trips. He always suggested a food or ice-cream stop along the way, even though I lived only 15 minutes from the airport. He'd wrangle a special parking spot just outside baggage claim because he could sweet-talk anyone, even airport traffic-flow cops.
Always, without fail, those car trips involved loud jazz music or Art Bell, depending on how late the pick-up, zero air conditioning, and talking about anything and nothing.
In hindsight I know that's why he did it for us — the time and the conversation.
That's the real experience of travel, isn't it? Hotels are nice, destinations are gorgeous. But the real hospitality is time and conversation, even if the trip only lasts 20 minutes.
Happy Father's Day to all the dad-figures out there. Email me or find me on Twitter or LinkedIn.
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