Enter Caitlin; the gal to make us pair of mediocre travelers a triplet. From the streets of Los Angeles and the gym where Steve Nash had to endure a gym session with a sole view of my ass, we set off in our tiny Toyota for the esteemed American road trip. Onwards to San Francisco where we did not meet any member of the Tanner family, to Portland where we failed to marry Caitlin off to a hipster craft beer brewer, and on to Seattle where we did not find Grey Sloane Hospital, or anyone that even vaguely resembled Patrick Dempsey; America was not the Land of Dreams we’d thought it would be. After a quick trip up to Vancouver where we failed to spot a grizzly bear, we began to get disheartened.
That was until we hit Twin Falls, Idaho, and had some excellent baby carrots, and Las Vegas, where I lost a stranger $500. In Phoenix, where we found a roadrunner on a hill, that looked nothing like the Looney Tunes version at all, we knew we’d just completed the greatest American road trip of all time.
Yes, right up there with that time Michael Jackson, Elizabeth Taylor and Marlon Brando headed off in a cheap rental car south from New York City. Just as iconic as that one.