WHEN I WAS ABOUT 11, a neighborhood kid stopped over while we were packing our car for another vacation. “Are you guys going somewhere again?” she asked. “Yeah, we’re going to Hawaii,” my dad said.
“That’s so unfair,” she said, “we never get to go on trips.”
“Well,” my dad replied, “your dad’s a dentist, so you have great teeth. I run a travel business, so my kids get to travel a lot.”
And it was a lot of travel. In the years before the internet and September 11th made travel agencies a lot more difficult to run, we were going somewhere what seemed like every few months. Hawaii, Costa Rica, Yellowstone, Boston, Seattle, D.C., Spain, Alaska — all five of us piled into a car while my dad forced us to enjoy all of the wonders the world had to offer.
It was an expected part of life. You didn’t stay in one place. One place was nonsense. We lived in Cincinnati, and Cincinnati was nice, but Cincinnati didn’t have an ocean. It didn’t have mountains. It didn’t have clam chowdah. So we left, usually willingly, sometimes grumbling, and we saw the world.