Travel sharpens the focus of memory. Entire years of my childhood bleed and run into one another, but many of my memories of family travel have stayed fresh. From our earliest vacations as a family, what I remember most clearly revolves around being in the car. For me, planned vacation activities paled in comparison to the tortuous joy of confinement to the backseat in the company of my younger brother, Joe, who I tormented gleefully. In a valiant (but ultimately futile) attempt to keep us productively occupied during marathon car trips, my mother would prepare each of us a travel bag. Joe and I were far more excited about getting to open that bag and play with what was inside it than we were about arriving at the trip’s destination. Such is the Zen of childhood – for us, the journey was definitely the trip’s highlight. My mom would pack our travel bags full of pen and paper games, toys suitable for play in the backseat, new books, anything smaller than a breadbox that might potentially keep a young child entertained with a minimum of extraneous noise or sibling conflict. Joe and I would tear into our travel bags as soon as our seat belts were buckled.

 After fifteen minutes, when the excitement had worn off, I would switch over to my favorite car game. To play this game, I would simply stop what I was doing and look intently at the landscape flashing by behind Joe’s head outside the window on his side of the backseat, and wait.

 “Are you looking out my window?”

No reply – that was part of the game. It so riled Joe.

“Stop looking out my window!”

No reply, suppression of even the faintest smile, just an intent and focused gaze.

My mom: “Oh God. Laurie, don’t antagonize him.”

(In my most innocent voice.) “I’m not, Mom. I’m just looking at something on that side of the car.”

To Joe: “Why do you care if she looks that way? Just ignore her.”

Oh, success was mine now. I kept looking. Joe tried to go back to his travel bag, but the distraction was just too great.

“Laurie! Stop it!”

“Stop what?”

“Stop looking out my window!”

“I’m not doing anything. I’m just looking at something.”

“Stop looking out my window! I mean it. Stop it! STOP LOOKING OUT MY WINDOW!”

And then, just as planned, Joe would reach out to hit me or scratch me or whatever, anything to get me to stop looking out of his window. And here was my moment.

“Mom! Joe’s hitting me! Ow! Joe, stop it! That hurts! MOM!”

And just like that, from zero to Joe in trouble in under five minutes. Sorry Joe, but you made it too easy.