It’s About the Destination, Not The Journey
My tell-all from the passenger seat of one loooong ride
I will be the first to admit that Amelia and I have a unique working relationship. We’re friends who became co-editors who have gone on to complete sentences for each other that we did not even know we endeavored to say. It’s ideal in many ways, strange in others but fundamentally and most importantly, it’s pretty damn fun. So when the possibility of taking a road trip came up with Cadillac, one of our Fashion Week sponsors, it seemed like a good idea.
We could tell jokes that would snowball into story ideas! Use the highway as a metaphor for life in a collection of thoughts that could be optimized for Snapchat! Treat the car (an Escalade) as if it’s a studio apartment and therefore a place to store our dreams. We could then share those dreams and most importantly, we could hit the breaks at every fork between Manhattan and Montauk to stop, drop and Instagram.
A week following the road trip, I have just this to say: no matter how much you love Larry David, he is not the person with whom you want to spend three days in a car. And seeing as Amelia’s Repressed Larry David Syndrome has become a case of Full-Blown Psycho David syndrome, I must admit there were at least two moments where I honestly feared for my life. The first time was when we were leaving Manhattan. She kept saying Manhattanites are like city-dwelling pigeons, because just like these pigeons don’t see humans as predators, the Manhattanites don’t see moving cars as a threat. One might argue they hope to get hit: “Come at me, luxury car,” she muttered, doing her best pedestrian impersonation. “I could use the cash settlement.”
I think she was getting at murder.
Once out of the tunnel and city, the first stretch of our drive (some 150 miles) went as smoothly as a glass of expensive wine down the throat. We shared raw chocolate goji berry things, listened to music and talked about life. Then we hit traffic. And in a very brief moment, the devil came out. I invite you to step into the following, undramatized monologue.
“If that f***ing car in front of us was a f***ing gazelle, a lion would eat it so fast.
I’ve seen that f***ing car on National Geographic.
It gets eaten by the lion. F***ING MOVE! WHAT ARE YOU DOING! I’m going to crash into it.
That f***ing car.”
Mind you there is traffic. There is no where for this little sedan in front of us to go.
Additional things I learned about Amelia: she does not understand the concept of pacing but does nurture those she is driving. (Example: she stops short every time a car ahead of her begins to slow down and flings her arm out towards the passenger seat, where I am, to make sure that in the event my seat belt is faulty, her limber arm will come to my rescue). And in spite of how profoundly awful she is at backing out of a parking lot, there are plenty more good qualities and intentions where her limber, flexing arm came from. I just can’t remember them.
Verdict? If life is a highway, your co-pilot doesn’t have to be sane. Reflexes, snacks and an army of sing-alongs, however, are a must.
Update: Hi. Amelia here. You know what I have to say to all that? She who holds the aux chord and the wheel has the last laugh. So HA.