We Rappaports are painstaking researchers by nature. What we lack in the frivolous joy of spontaneity we make up for in our enthusiastic embracing of preparedness.
My brother, Marc, is one of the only people to whom I would turn over complete control of the road trip itinerary. He is the Master of such endeavors and should perhaps consider a second career after he qualifies for a solid-enough government pension.
I knew I was in good hands when I received my spread sheet including daily driving logs, hotels with fitness rooms and wifi, gas stations at intervals required by a gluttonous 17' truck chock full of possessions, and, most importantly, the locations of must-see Americana along the way.
The hotel list could be confused with a lyrics sheet from the Grand Ol' Opry: Amarillo, Texas; Muskogee, Oklahoma; Bowling Green, Kentucky . . . . Do these places actually exist outside of country music playlists? But how snarky can I be given that I'm from Boise, Idaho?
The other great thing about traveling with my brother, besides the security of watertight plans and back-up plans, is that we share the same childhood vacation history -- a particular approach conceived and orchestrated by our mother who has never passed a factory, historical site, educational display or cultural oddity without catching a tour and collecting literature and doesn't understand the concept known as "downtime."
With quirky curiosity embedded in our DNA as well as years of sharing overpacked vacations domestically and abroad (this is definitely one of those nature AND nurture things), we both look ahead with excitement to fitting the following sites into our cross-country odyssey:
I am reminded of the Chassidic teaching about Lech L'cha: "Go to yourself = Go to your roots." (see quote in post below) I think this is the perfect way to transition from life A to life B -- to go on a good, old-fashioned Rappaport vacation: pre-set, pre-determined, leaving nothing but weather and "acts of God" to chance. Our approach may be a bit confining, but in this case I'm going to look at it as a receiving blanket wound around a NICU baby: a secure opportunity to calm myself before the emotional storm.
So in another nine days it'll be a flash from the past: the 60's and 70's come to life as the Rappaport children take a vacation. Except, much to little brother Marc's great relief, I will not be spending hours pinching and hitting and generally tormenting him in the back seat of the car with my dad threatening to knock our heads together when the noise and chaos reach industrial levels.
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