It had been about a billion years since Anthony and I took a road trip. Sure, back in our footloose-and-fancy free youth, we frequently engaged in this great American pastime. I’ve made more than one trip from the Midwest to Key West and back, and once a bunch of girlfriends and I piled into a van and trekked to the Grand Canyon via Route 66, our Thelma-and-Louise gal-pal sojourn, minus the tragic ending. Anthony’s longest round trip was between his mom’s house in Oregon and college stomping grounds in Minnesota. As American Gen Xers, we saw road trips as a right of passage; like Jack Kerouac, we were supposed to heed the call of the open road before settling into stationary lives.

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