We Americans, Westerners, are on the road all the time. It is in our original mission statement, way back with some immigrant ancestor who picked up his papers, and told everyone he was leaving, never coming back.
The conversation might have gone something like this: "Sorry, mom and dad, I can't live in this pig-mess any more, no prospect for me here; I'm going out to search my fortune in America. I'll see you in Heaven." Perhaps, it was more drastic, as:" you're not going to have me to kick around anymore. Asta la vista, baby."
If you follow your way west, you'll end up on US 101, the westernmost highway, taking you up and down the coast from Alaska to the tip of South America. (Frankly, I have never taken the trip; my map, however, shows a continuous highway.
Once, in our early married life, my husband, baby and I drove our Volkswagen out of California, north to Washington, across to Idaho, Montana and zigzagging all the way to New York, and then south to Florida. Six years later, (after our studies) we returned to California taking the southern route to California. That trip was a benchmark for us, a blissful and stressful trip that allowed my new husband to show off his America to his immigrant wife. The trip took us over a month, driving continuously, breaks for meals, for sleeping, and for letting our toddler run around.
On the road is our idea of ultimate bliss. On the road, discovering new places, getting lost, communing with nature, is our idea of American freedom.
If you don't believe me, watch Western movies.
On Saturday, we will celebrate our Independence Day. We'll all drive to the parade, drive in the parade, drive to the fireworks, and then drive back home.