I have friends who can drive to Las Vegas from Phoenix in three and a half hours. They can make it to Los Angeles without so much as a potty stop and flirt with the 75-mile-per-hour speed limit the whole way. JoAnn and I go about such trips in an entirely different way. When we go to Las Vegas, we have breakfast in Wickenburg, stop for apple pie and to feed the peacocks halfway to I-40, then take a break at the truck stop before Kingman, and then we decide whether to cross the Colorado River at Laughlin or go over Hoover Dam for the scenery. I’m sure we hold the record for the 200-mile drive to the quaint village of Greer in the White Mountains, at 12 hours and 37 minutes. We stopped three times in Fountain Hills alone, and it’s only 15 miles from home. The reason these trips were so memorable is because we took our time and enjoyed the journey.
We stop at cute cafés and craft fairs. We sightsee at the scenic view pullouts; and, of course, we follow open house signs. It wasn’t always like this, but somewhere along the way we learned that life isn’t a destination. Life is a journey.