Road Trip

A narrative essay written for my ENG 111 class.


Road Trip

The first and last time my mother ever flew on an airplane involved vomiting, hyperventilating, and crying and ended with being carried off the airplane by two stewardesses and a pilot. The traumatic experience that haunted my mother’s nightmares for months afterward was reason enough for all of our family vacations to be taken by car. Fortunately for my mother, she was a great pilot for the open road. Unfortunately for my sister and I, she was a great pilot for the open road. Consequently, we spent many a summer in the back seat of my mother’s Lumina, Zelda.

The summer of 1999's arrival brought many interesting events- my mother and new stepfather had triumphantly achieved six months of “happy” married life, my family started packing away canned goods and water in preparation for y2k, and most importantly of all I had survived the fifth grade. My mother felt there was cause for celebration- six months of not screwing it up, getting a head start on preparing for the end of the world, and her oldest daughter off to middle school! How could she not be thrilled? After much deliberation, the decision was made. My mother, stepfather, younger sister Beth, and I were driving from Massachusetts to Disney Land in Orlando.

I was devastated. Sure, what ten year old girl doesn’t want to meet Cinderella? Unfortunately for me, meeting one of my idols came with a high price- being locked in the car with my family for two days. Upon hearing the news I let out a heavy sign and began mentally preparing myself for the long, dreadful drive to Florida.

We departed on a gloomy, rainy morning in July. The car was packed full of suitcases and traveling necessities for four people, leaving little space in the backseat for me and Beth. I climbed into the car twisting and turning trying to fit into the claustrophobic space. Luckily for my sister, she had always been small for her age and fit comfortably behind the passenger seat. My mother dispersed juice boxes and pillows and double checked our seat belts. I pressed my face against the window and waved goodbye to our house. If I survived the trip, I would be back in a week.

The drive started out fairly well. Hours into the trip my sister had not vomited and my mother had not ripped the steering wheel out of my stepfather’s hands. So far so good I thought. Everything seemed to be going smoothly, all the passengers were still in tact and in good spirits. Since the yelling hadn’t started yet, it seemed like an appropriate time for a nap.

I was startled awake hours later by my mother’s soprano scream. (She sure could hit those high notes.) I jolted upward. From what I could gather from her staggered speech, my stepfather had almost killed us by driving competitively with the Tiburon next to us. “Here we go,” I thought to myself. She continued to harangue my stepfather for the next hour.

Day one of our journey continued similarly. We laughed (or rather my stepfather laughed every time he was able to get a rise out of my mother), we cried (especially when we were 50 miles short of the next rest stop), and we slept, a lot. All in all the day had not been too painful. Maybe there was hope for my survival yet? After all, we only had one day left until dinner with Cinderella and dessert with Prince Charming.

Wishful thinking.

Day two began with cold pancakes and sour orange juice at a local’s locale somewhere obscure in “the south.” Getting up on the wrong side of the bed is nothing compared to starting the day with bad pancakes. Midway though the meal I knew the homestretch of the drive was going to be hell. I tried to finish as much of my breakfast as I could stomach before my mother took Beth and I to the restroom before takeoff. Since we had seen nothing but farms for miles, who knew when we would see a toilet again. We took full advantage of the opportunity then hit the road.

My parents’ moods were more sour than the orange juice I had hours earlier. My stepfather had just taken a wrong turn “again” and my mother was urging him to stop for directions. Being a typical testosterone driven man, my stepfather took offense to my mother’s suggestion and insisted that he knew “exactly where we were.”

After hours of bickering and several u-turns, we finally were able to get back on track. Unfortunately, the time my parents had wasted getting us lost had taken a toll on my

sister’s and my bladders. We had to go bad. There was no rest stop in sight, not even a sign indicating where the next rest stop could be. We finally came across a small gas station on the side of the road and quickly thanked God for his blessing.

Towards the back of the store was a greasy door simply labeled “lav.” The paint on the door was chipped and needed painting. The knob looked like it had been grabbed by a mechanic who hadn’t washed his hands in years. My mother pulled a tissue out of her purse, opened the door, and guided me and Beth into the small room. After turning on the light we realized that we had not been blessed but instead were being presented with a trial of faith. The mirror was splattered with several unknown substances. The floors were sporadically covered in biologicals, and to this day we do not mention the condition of the toilet. My mother quickly shuffled us out of the cesspool and into the wooded area behind the small building. Beth and I were completely humiliated but were forced by our bodily commands to obey our mother. Afterward we tucked our tails between our legs and turned back to Zelda.

Hours passed until we crossed a restaurant to stop at for lunch. I let out a sign of relief, finally a break from cramped legs and my sister’s whining. We disembarked and headed into the small mom and pop style eatery.

We were greeted by an older woman with a think southern twang. She led us to a booth, dropped four menus, and took our drink order. The menu presented us with options ranging from grits to chicken fried steak. My sister and I were both disappointed and confused, no fish and chips? Where was the corned beef and the lobster rolls? We finally settled on simple sandwiches while my parents tried more adventurous meals like hushpuppies and chicken and waffles.

We left the restaurant feeling dissatisfied. Being pure New Englanders at heart, we felt completely out of place between the strange foreign food and “Rs” being pronounced. With thoughts of Cinderella, roller coasters, and souvenirs in our minds we pressed on.

Luckily Beth and I were able to sleep the majority of the remainder of the trip. My mother and stepfather had both calmed down since lunch allowing the rest of the drive to be relatively smooth, with the exception of the occasional u-turn.

We finally arrived in Orlando late in the evening on day two. I smiled at our arrival. I had survived the fifth grade, being trapped in the car with my family for two days, several bathroom crises, and strange southern cuisine. My reward? Finally meeting my idol. Since odds were I was going to die in six months, meeting Cinderella would allow me to at least die happily. That is, if I could survive the drive home...