My first memory comes from a road trip. I can still see it now, almost 38 years later: a brilliant red starfish, fat and thrilling to a child’s eye, splayed in a tidepool on a California beach.
My family never flew: Whether the destination was California, Arizona, Florida, or Maine, we drove all the way from Michigan. By the time I took my first airplane flight — I was a high-school senior — I had crossed almost every state border in the lower 48, wheels hugging tight to the road.
Road trips aren’t all glitz and glamour. I’ve slept in dicey roadside …
This article appears as “Road Trips” in the September 9, 2019, print edition of National Review.