On one of my regular sojurns to New York we were taken on a road trip by Mrs G’s father, not the kind that involves an RV or a brush with the police, but a very nice road trip up Long Island to see some pretty towns, eat at a roadside diner and taste some wines.
Also to stop and look at trees, because I’m British and therefore the logic was that I should like trees. I had never shown any hint of arborphila or waxed lyrical about a magnificent birch but we were still going to stop in a layby so I could get my wood fix.
At one point, about 80 miles from Manhattan, it made me realise that living on such a small island this is almost all the way to London. Which is a place I would only consider getting to by train. Also to just go out and drive for a day is almost unheard of in England, a major tourist destination is never more than 20 miles away. But America is a big place and as such is allowed space to breath and that space is connected by the strangeness that are American roads.