08/29/2026
🦋 Saturday nostalgia: the family road trip, back when everyone piled into one humming van and pointed it at the horizon.
Navigation was a paper map roughly the size of a bedsheet, refolded wrong every single time until it became a permanent origami tragedy in the glovebox. Somebody rode shotgun running one finger along the highway while the driver announced, with total confidence, that he knew a shortcut. He did not know a shortcut. He would never know a shortcut. This was understood by everyone except him.
Nobody planned a bathroom break with any precision. You simply held it, cross-legged and negotiating with the universe, until a sign appeared for a town you trusted. Snacks came from a cooler wedged between the seats, sweating onto everything, guarding a treasure of warm juice boxes and squished sandwiches. The windows came down because the air conditioning was more of a rumour than a feature, and the wind roared through loud enough that you had to shout the good jokes twice.
The back of that van was a whole sovereign nation with its own laws and border disputes. No screens, so you built entire worlds out of nothing: the license plate game, counting cows, the alphabet hunt through billboards, and the sacred, invisible line down the middle that no sibling was ever permitted to cross under penalty of full-scale war. You'd argue, go quiet, and then, without meaning to, fall asleep with your cheek against the warm glass. When you woke it was dark, the road humming underneath you, headlights sliding across the ceiling, and for one strange and perfect second you had no idea where you were and felt completely, unshakeably safe.
We were lost half the time and late the other half. Looking back, that was kind of the whole point.
Tag your backseat partner in crime, and save this for your next long drive. ✨
