My Summer Vacation, Part III

With two previous Bethany Beach vacations under our collective belt, we had it down to a science this year.

Firstly, that whole “driving from Boston to Delaware in one fell swoop” thing? Yeah, F that.

My in-laws live in the Philly area, so we drive there and back several times per year. The kids have been making the trip since birth, so they’re used to it, and we have perfected its execution: We leave shortly after 6 o’clock at night, make a single stop to use the bathroom and refuel, and arrive around midnight. There’s no traffic, the kids sleep almost the entire time, and Wonder Woman usually gets a couple sketchy, body-contorting hours of shuteye, as well.

Of note: my in-laws have themselves a beautiful home with guest rooms and central A/C and a sweet pool area … oh, and a bar.

So I says to myself, I says, “Self? Here’s what I’m thinkin’: I’m thinkin’ that, instead of doing the ‘Nightmarishly Hellacious Drive From The Deepest, Darkest, Hottest, Foulest Depths of Hell’ thing again, we get the fuck outta Dodge on Thursday night, kick it by the pool Friday, get a good night’s sleep, and then drive three-or-so hours to the beach house. How’s that sound, my brotha?”

And the answer I gave myself was, “How’s it sound? I’ll tell you how it sounds, my friend: it sounds downright delicious, that’s how it sounds. You, sir, are a genius … and, might I add, quite handsome. Do you work out?”

With the departure arrangement settled, the question then became, “Will our gasping, wheezing, clankety-clank-clanking Honda be able to handle the 1,000-mile roundtrip journey yet again?” And the answer to that question was a resounding, “HELLLLL no!”

We briefly entertained the thought of buying ourselves a new minivan, but that idea died a horrible death when we remembered that we can’t afford to buy a replica model of a minivan.

Hmmmm … what to do … what to do?

OH!

You know that ridiculously huge American Express bill we receive each month, the entire balance of which is always due in full, and the paying of which feels like passing a razor-blade-and-broken-glass-encrusted kidney stone? Well, the only good thing about racking up those debilitatingly huge bills is that we get points for the money we’ve spent … and we had accumulated enough points for a two-week minivan rental … which turned out to be The Greatest Idea Ever.

The rental van’s greatness became apparent as I loaded it up prior to our departure. You see, we were going to be away from the house for 10 days, so it was imperative that we brought with us every single thing we own.

Normally, this would require me attaching to our Honda’s roof rack a big tie-down travel bag, in which I would have to place any excess luggage … or the kids, depending on how annoying they got.

Not necessary with the minivan. No siree, you just open up that rear hatch and start heavin’ shit in till there ain’t no shit left to heave. (And if the kids get too annoying, they can be lashed to the van’s roof rack, what with there being no tie-down travel bag to get in the way and all.)

Its greatness became further apparent when we got on the highway and it didn’t begin to violently shake and wobble and ask for some Geritol when the speedometer crested 65. (This did, however, turn out to be a bit of a drawback when the nice New York State Trooper pulled us over and gave us a speeding ticket.)

Our scrape with Trooper Douch E. Bag notwithstanding, we had a smooth ride down, and spent Friday chilling out here:

Throw in a couple Coronas and a tasty pizza dinner, and you have all the makings of a perfect transition into vacation mode.

We rose on Saturday feeling fresh as daisies, and set out for an early afternoon arrival at the beach house.

Traffic was heavy, but I hardly noticed, as I was drunk on the relief of knowing that we’d still arrive a lifetime sooner than if we’d left from Boston that same morning.

Of course, there’s always room for improvement, and we learned a lesson during our 2009 ride to Delaware that will serve us well for next year’s journey.

Around 11 a.m., we all realized we were starving, so I pulled off Rt. 1 after spying a sign that promised us a Waffle House at the next exit. At the bottom of the exit, another sign advised us that the Waffle House was three miles to our right, and it is here that I will remind you all about the cardinal rule of road-tripping, and that is: NEVER, EVER, EVER pull off the highway for gas or food unless the establishment you’re seeking is actually jutting out into the middle of the highway itself.

But, OK, we aren’t in a rush, so let’s just mosey three miles down the road until we hit some construction and a detour and fuck this, I’m pulling into a gas station to refuel while we examine our apparently flawed plan.

It is at this point that Wonder Woman tells us she’d like to get back on Rt. 1 and continue on to the huge Harley Davidson place we’ve driven past in previous years, which she’s convinced has a restaurant … and since we’ve been to the Harley Davidson restaurant in Manhattan, this seems entirely plausible to me, so I go with it.

Memo to Mike’s Famous Harley Davidson of Smyrna, Delaware: Please put some sort of sign or stick or rock cairn or animal carcass or something along Rt. 1 to indicate at which point potential customers should exit the highway, as, currently, drivers are not aware of your location until they are driving past you! Also, please add to your establishment a restaurant.

Helpful tip for southbound drivers on Rt. 1 in Smyrna, Delaware: once you pass Mike’s Famous Harley Davidson, be prepared to see few signs of civilization for close to an hour. Please keep this in mind, for, as soon as you find yourselves amidst endless miles of cornfields, your daughter and wife are likely to proclaim that they need to go the bathroom, and they will keep proclaiming it with increasing vigor at increasingly shorter intervals … and you will be at a loss, for there is nowhere for them to go.

“Why didn’t you turn there??” Wonder Woman asked incredulously as I passed by a road that looked as though it not long ago was used by covered wagons.

“Because there’s nothing down there,” I assured her. She doubted me, but I had control of the steering wheel, for which we should all have been thankful, because to drive down the covered-wagon road would have been to waste at least 15 minutes in search of a bathroom that wasn’t there, and please refer to the previously noted cardinal rule of road-tripping.

Soon, Jayna was squealing, “I can’t hold it!,” and Mommy was close to doing the same. I began distracting everyone with the “What word starts with the letter [A, B, so on, so forth]?” game, which yielded the following exchange:

“Jayna, here’s a special one for you,” I enthused. “What word starts with the letter J?”

“Ummm …”

“You know this one, sweetie; J … A …”

“Ummm …”

“Jaaaaayyyy … aaaaaaay …”

“Icicle!”

Dear god.

Thankfully, it was about then that a heavenly strip-mall appeared before us, and in it was a Friendly’s restaurant, which I practically jumped the curb to get to, because, by that time, we all needed to pee and eat and forget that the youngest member of our family can’t spell her own name.

A short while later, our bellies were full, our bladders were empty, and the beach house was just 20 minutes away.

To be continued …

[So much for my "trilogy" plan.]