Sunday, 01 June 2003 | New York, 1984

I'm pretty sure the first time I visited New York City was the summer of 1984, the summer I was nine, the summer my family had a green and wood-paneled van, the kind with the extended ceiling where you could almost stand up straight. I liked the van. Of course that was before I knew or cared about fuel efficiency, or the damage we could do to the smaller cars on the road if we ran into them, or the grace and maneuverability of a smaller vehicle.

A van meant I could change seats, hopping between the swiveling mid-row chairs and the back soft bench that could turn itself into a bed; it meant that a road trip from North Carolina to New Jersey and New York and Niagara Falls and I'm not sure where else could be made in leisure, meaning that my brother and I would only argue out of boredom rather than due to claustrophobia. I could stretch my small arms and legs or lie down on the carpeted floor if I wanted, helping drain me of restlessness. I could watch the strangers in the passing cars from a giant rectangular window, most of whom were below me, unaware that they were being observed. I could easily be seen by truckers, which I considered a good thing, because they could witness my request that they blow their horns, a gesture which involved me balling up my fist, holding my arm—L-shaped—in the air, and yanking down.

Every year, almost, my family would take an out-of-state trip somewhere, often to see relatives in West Virginia or New Jersey. Sometimes we'd go elsewhere—to see places rather than people—almost always a destination along the East Coast. Some elements of every trip were the same:

We took turns with the tape deck. (My brother would almost always play Rush, Police, or Yes; my mother liked the Carpenters and Christopher Cross; my dad would sometimes opt for silence during his turn; I generally chose bands like Duran Duran and Michael Jackson.) We played a trivia game we'd ordered from the back of a Chex cereal box in which we'd collect cards for each answer we got correct. (There was a point—though I think it took years—when we'd memorized many of the answers.) My mom brought sandwiches and snacks to save money, and she'd unwrap them for us while we sped down the highway. My dad drank coffee, a smell I hated at the time and associated solely with road trips; if I was sleeping, the smell would wake me up. My brother read the World Almanac, citing (out loud) whichever statistics impressed him. He and I pointed out and memorized the appearance and slogans of out-of-state license plates. My dad would get distracted by scenic views and would accidentally drift into the breakdown lane. My mom got nervous when he sped on the West Virginia mountain roads, although he assured her he knew the territory like the back of his hand, an assurance that came with a mischievous grin.

I loved watching the earth change, starting out flat and ballooning into a bumpy, erratic figure. I loved seeing the fields in the middle of nowhere, and wondering how there could be a nowhere. I remember once asking my brother what town we were in, and being confused by his answer: "We're not in a town, Lisa. We're nowhere. We're between towns." I loved seeing the truck escapes, the steep hills and beds of sand where an out-of-control 18-wheeler could sink. Even more eerie to me, perhaps, were the out-of-use mountain tunnels, the broken bridges, and the dilapidated mining towns.

From New York in 1984, I can only recall incomplete snapshots. I remember Times Square when it was still seedy—not so much what it looked like, but the rush I felt from a lack of safety. I remember walking up the stairs at McDonald's there, as well as standing underneath a flashing Minolta ad, which I'd noticed because I knew my dad carried around a Minolta camera. I remember that he was nervous about giving up the car and keys to a "garage," which was nothing more than a parking lot stuffed with vehicles in neat, soldier-like rows. I remember seeing a man pissing in a corner. Breakdancers with a portable stereo and a crowd gathered around them. The packed subway on the way to the Bronx—to the Yankees game—in which the lights flickered and died and my mom lost sight of me. I remember standing behind the railing on a ferry, and seeing the Statue of Liberty poking out from behind scaffolding. I remember the feeling of being overwhelmed, happily overwhelmed.