Over the course of this trip, I kept track of a lot of numbers: Mileage, itemized expenses, gas consumption, and more. I was curious how everything would add up at the end, and I thought it might be useful information for anyone who wanted to do a similar road trip. If that’s you, and you want your trip to be exactly like mine (which would really require you to go back in time, access my DNA, etc.), these are the numbers you can expect.

Keep in mind that some of these numbers are more approximate than others, and the total expenses listed were mostly split two ways. Also, there are things I wish I had recorded (such as time spent unconscious versus time spent conscious) and things I recorded that I don’t feel the need to publish (such as food and gift expenses). The remaining numbers still offer insights that none of the stories from the road could.

The Core Numbers

Expenses

There’s a ton of fascinating statistics that can be found by using some simple math on the above information. Here is some of the stuff that interested me most.

Averages

Percentages

So there you have it. Feel free to break out the calculator and work out some averages and percentages of your own!

Brooklyn is not terribly far from where I live, so waking up there this morning made a clear enough impression that I would be arriving home today. But I still just couldn’t get my head around the idea of being home and staying there. Perhaps in a subconscious attempt to slow the approach, I made a few stops on the way. There was a very nice breakfast with Stan and Shawn Morrison at DuMont in Williamsburg; there was the interminable line of cars waiting to get into the Holland Tunnel; and there was a stop in north Jersey to see Leah’s mom, one of the most vocal Rob Across America supporters. Soon, there was nowhere else to stop, and Philadelphia’s gleaming spires loomed on the horizon.

Traveling to a new destination almost every day for an entire month engenders a peculiar solipsism. Surely, time stops in the places you leave behind, if they even manage to continue their existence at all. The destinations to come are all the radar can register. So it was positively surreal to see Philadelphia—this place from which I departed not so long ago—alive and well and just as I remembered it.

I pulled onto my block around five o’clock, with an hour to spare before a homecoming gathering I had arranged with a bunch of friends at Tattooed Mom’s. I never made it to the bar. There were about twenty-five people waiting for me in my home amidst a mountain of food and beer. Much as I had unwittingly tried to disrupt the surprise party with my own plans, my darling Leah had successfully and stealthily bent everyone to her will instead. And suddenly, there was nowhere in the world I wanted to be more than home.

The best and most substantial part of today’s drive from Boston to New York City was through Connecticut on the Merritt Parkway. Enclosed by trees reaching over it and divided by a wide, grassy median, it is not only easy on the eyes but stimulating to the imagination: At any given time, you expect and almost hope Robin Hood and his band of merry men will pull up alongside you on horseback and cheerfully relieve you of your cargo.

It wouldn’t be easy for them to do so. For one thing, their horses would have to be on some pretty serious steroids. For another, entrance ramps pop up so frequently that the right lane is unofficially reserved exclusively for merging vehicles. People traveling the full length of the Parkway, as I did today, are crowded into the left lane, invariably led by someone moving more slowly than his followers would prefer. Attempts to get around the slowpokes and glimpse a stretch of open road are typically, shall we say, daring.

When I first embarked on this journey, a great many people wished me safe travels and encouraged me to drive safely. This is very funny to me now, because, while I didn’t realize it at the time, driving away from the northeast was actually the safest thing I could have done. For better or worse, I have returned to the Land of Asshole Drivers.

Brooklyn Lager’s Namesake

Like Chicago, I’ve spent enough time in New York that I didn’t feel the need to make any discoveries on this visit, and I chose instead to relax with some good friends in Brooklyn. After some Rock Band domination with Philadelphia’s own Mickie Cathers and my rock star host Stan (who you may know as Jason Santa Maria), we strolled out to Pacifico for the final Mexican feast of this trip. We were met by Mike Essl, Mia Eaton, and Chris Fahey, all of whom confessed that they only showed up to get a mention on this blog. We’ll just see about that.

We finished the night with some drinks at Robin des Bois with Liz Danzico and her friends visiting from Japan. They’re heading home tomorrow, too. Raising a glass to ending our respective travels and going our separate ways was fittingly bittersweet.

Cambridge, MA—

For my first visit to central Boston, just last year, I approached from Logan International Airport, northeast of the city. The entire five-mile ride was underground, which wouldn’t have raised an eyebrow if I had been on a subway, but I was in a cab. I knew I was traveling through the results of the Big Dig, Boston’s impressive system of tunnels named after area politicians, civil rights leaders, and baseball players. But experiencing it firsthand really had me wondering if the Boston I was heading into wasn’t actually a post-apocalyptic, subterranean dystopia populated entirely by a savage and bloodthirsty race of atomic mutants.

The cab eventually surfaced, of course, to reveal New England’s metropolis to be quite charming, and reminiscent in many ways of my hometown of Philadelphia. Since I was attending a conference, I barely got out of Copley Square during that visit, and I vowed to return to see more. Today, I did just that.

I couldn’t have asked for better weather. With only a few hours to explore, there wasn’t time for much more than a purely visceral experience, and the city had it to spare. Wandering aimlessly around Boston Common, through the Public Garden, and along the Commonwealth Ave Mall was like being transported to a compact, mythical hybrid of New York’s Central Park and Dublin’s St. Stephen’s Green. Some of the only park features that crossed my field of vision which weren’t either lush and green or masterfully carved from stone were enthusiastic buskers of both varieties: bad-good and bad-bad.

Some of Boston’s finest citizens—Ethan Marcotte, Lizzy Galle, and Dan Cederholm—met me in the evening at Redbones in Davis Square for some of the best barbecue I’ve had outside of Texas, perfectly coalescing where I’ve been and where I’m going.

Boston’s historic, revolutionary spirit has made me look forward to rediscovering similar treasures within my own city. I’ll be able to begin doing that in less than forty-eight hours.

Wayne hopped on a bus bound for Columbus this morning. He then flew from there back to Philadelphia, from which he’ll fly to San Francisco on Saturday for a week-long family vacation in northern California. You may recall we spent some time there recently. In the parlance of his students, Wayne is an all-star partyer.

My party is almost over, and as much as I’m really looking forward to getting home, I’m oddly apprehensive toward the idea of being stationary. I guess a body in motion really does tend to stay in motion. I’ll have to get used to being home in much the same way I had to get used to living on the road.

Tonight’s very kind hosts and my would-be in-laws, Lisa and Eric, asked me over dinner which of the trip’s revelations was the most unexpected. The first thing that sprang to mind was my renewed appreciation for the northeast. With Boston, New York, Philly, Baltimore, and DC forming a pretty tight cluster, a major metropolitan change of scenery is never more than a couple hours away. I haven’t seen anything quite like it anywhere else.

The last leg of this trip takes full advantage of that convenient regional characteristic, easing me back into stasis with a mere eight hours of driving over the course of three days. After four weeks of broadening horizons, will the familiar sights that remain bring sighs of relief or sighs of boredom?

Cleveland Heights, OH—

We went from 0 to 120 in four seconds today, and there wasn’t a damned thing the Ohio State Police could do about it. The Corolla had a relaxing day in a parking lot while Cedar Point’s world-class roller coasters satisfied our need for speed, height, and ear-splitting shrieks of mirthful terror.

All but one of the park’s most intense (5/5 on the “High Thrill” scale) coasters were conquered. The one that got away was Maverick, which is the newest and therefore most popular. After waiting in a big line for over an hour, we were informed that undefined technical problems would make the ride indefinitely inaccessible. We soldiered on, laying waste to the remaining nine beasts (in order):

1. Raptor (137 feet, 57 mph)
2. Mantis (145 feet, 60 mph)
3. Millennium Force (310 feet, 92 mph)
4. Mean Streak (161 feet, 65 mph)
5. Gemini (124 feet, 60 mph)
6. Magnum XL-200 (195 feet, 72 mph)
7. Top Thrill Dragster (420 feet, 120 mph)
8. Corkscrew (85 feet, 48 mph)
9. Wicked Twister (215 feet, 69mph)

Despite the youthful environment, we felt aged by the day. For one thing, we were two of only a small percentage of today’s Cedar Point ticket-holders that had graduated high school. For another, the short, early-season lines allowed us to ride several punishing roller coasters in a relatively short amount of time, which eventually left us aching, hoarse, and dizzy. These are symptoms of victory. Satisfied with our domination of Cedar Point, we hobbled into the car, and headed toward Cleveland.

The famed Eric Meyer and his family took us in and filled us with a superior Turkish dinner. I sang for my supper by reading some bedtime stories to the youngest of the Meyer clan. If her dreams are as good as my day was, you should envy her.

There was a three-mile stretch on I-90 today where, according to signs, we entered Ottawa County, then entered Sandusky County, then entered Ottawa County again. Rather than focusing on the apprehension of this hoax’s perpetrators, state troopers preferred to make an example of the least reckless speeder Ohio has ever seen. The fact that we got pulled over on the day we chose to rock the Police box set cannot possibly be a coincidence.

Earlier, Indiana charged us seven cents per mile to drive through it.

I will found a town on the border of Ohio and Indiana which will be recognized as a part of both states. It will be home to a spectacular tourist attraction yet to be determined that will draw millions each year. I will name the town Fuck You, and each visitor’s declaration of destination—whether Fuck You, Indiana or Fuck You, Ohio—will be a cheerful, unassuming vessel for my simple message, a temporarily lucrative but ultimately damaging tourist Trojan horse. And justice will be restored to the land.

Tonight’s hotel is on the shore of Lake Erie and attached to the amusement park that will occupy our day tomorrow. It is officially a resort, which is funny to us, and getting funnier. After a double ration of Top Shelf Long Island Iced Teas from the T.G.I.Friday’s in the hotel, pretty much everything is funny, including wifi access relegated to the lobby while sobering to a muzak soundtrack of mid-90s alternarock hits (which is what I’m doing now).

In a past life, I spent six years working at Friday’s during and after my time at college, and on the rare occasion that I visit a franchise now, the poor sap serving me is unwittingly subjected to severe scrutiny. They can’t possibly live up to the expectations set forth by the training I received and still remember well, and tonight’s halfwit was no exception. But these things matter less when you’re marveling at the latest episode in the bizarre potpourri of the exceptionally American month you’ve constructed for yourself. Add a bit of booze, and you’ll wonder if you aren’t dreaming.

Excluding Philadelphia and New York, I have spent more time in Chicago than any other city. Whether it’s the preponderance of outstanding architecture, the thriving art and music scenes, the general cleanliness and friendliness, or the fact that everyone I know here has an outspoken affection for their home, I always look forward to the next visit. Our Chicago hosts, my dear friends Lauren and John, barely bat an eyelash anymore when I show up at their door, since it happens so frequently. So the fact that I’ve already got a lot of Chicago experience under my belt—coupled with the fact that I’ll be back for a few days in October—diminished any pressure I might have felt to figure out a quintessential Chicago experience for this short visit. Instead, I opted for some quality time with friends.

It was a perfect day to do so, since most folks had been freed from professional responsibilities by the Memorial Day holiday but hadn’t bothered to make any other plans for their day off. The distinguished Sandy and Sarah Weisz invited a whole mess of people I’m always glad to see into their stunning home on the Northwest Side for some barbecued goodness and turbo-charged Wii action. These people know how to make a guy feel welcome.

A delectable Chinese birthday dinner for Lauren rounded out the day perfectly.

I’m always sad to leave Chicago, and tomorrow will be no exception, but as usual, I can be glad my time here was well-spent.

Tomorrow is Memorial Day, and if the freedom our generations of soldiers have fought to defend is encapsulated by one thing, it is the option to ride a Spongebob Squarepants roller coaster within shouting distance of dozens of fast food vendors and a vast selection of clothing assembled by Indonesian children for pennies. Hardcore consumerism has been the crucial ingredient most conspicuously absent from this trip’s American story, and so today, we memorialized our fallen heroes one day early with a visit to Mall of America.

Mike and Sarah, our charming Minneapolis hosts, gave us directions to MOA that we promptly forgot, assuming that it would be impossible not to find a place of such magnitude and magnetism. Incredibly, the signs on both the highways and the local roads surrounding the mall made no mention of it, and our GPS system didn’t have it listed. We began to wonder if this place was a thing of myth, a shopper’s Valhalla that everyone dreamt of but no one dared build.

When it did finally show itself, it did so with little self-importance. It just looked like a typical shopping mall, only much bigger. And the interior looked like that of a typical shopping mall, only much bigger. And with an amusement park and aquarium. And thousands upon thousands of extra shoppers to fill out the extra space.

As a youth, I spent more time in shopping malls than I like to think about, and there was an odd comfort in the familiarity of this “idealized” form of that environment. What I really wanted to take with me was the sound of the place. It is a collage so layered and drawing from so many corners of a large, fragmented space that its individual elements—roller coasters, various live performances, children, commerce—can barely be picked out. The result is thick yet ambient, loud yet soft, utterly opulent yet utterly banal.

The only true enjoyment we experienced was in the discovery of the Lego store, which would fail to enchant only those with black holes for souls. We started coming down off that high pretty quickly. This is a mall, after all. Once I noticed the Gap had teamed up with the Whitney Biennial to produce a series of t-shirts designed by a number of artists I admire, it was time to leave.

Pointed toward Chicago, I stepped on the gas.

Today’s plan was to squeeze a few of South Dakota’s less time-consuming sights into the 600+ miles between Mount Rushmore and Minneapolis. The first stop was Wall Drug, a drug store cum souvenir stand whose quaint roadside advertising has a blast radius reaching for hundreds of miles. The amount of time we were willing to spend browsing jackalope shot glasses and listening to children wailing about the injustice of being denied miniature, personalized South Dakota license plates did not have an adverse effect on our schedule. The second stop was Badlands National Park. Its acres of bizarre rock formations were beautiful, but these recent Grand Canyon veterans didn’t feel too rushed spending only an hour there. The third stop would have been the Corn Palace if we hadn’t accidentally passed it without noticing until forty miles later.

The remainder of the long drive saw our surroundings steadily relinquish the right to be described as “scenic,” and the threat of traveler’s ennui was imminent. Luckily, Wayne and I are resourceful travelers.

Townspeople

Highway exit signs usually name two prominent places that can be reached by taking that exit, one in each direction. We have gotten into the habit of reading the two location names together as one person’s name, and the results are often fantastic, especially for writers of bad fiction trying to figure out what to call their characters. We’ve been writing them down for the last couple of weeks, and today’s route was a treasure trove. I will leave you with some of our favorites.

• Hercules Stockton
• Woodland Cougar
• Vader Ryderwood
• Aberdeen Tenino
• Fife Milton
• Kent Seattle
• Othello Pullman
• Tyler Cheney
• Colfax Pullman
• Pinehurst Smelterville
• Anaconda Opportunity
• Lockwood Roundup
• Gregory Winner
• Stickney Aberdeen
• Fulton Alexandria
• Emery Farmer
• Salem Yankton
• Humboldt Madison
• Jasper Pipestone
• Magnolia Kanaranzi
• Wilmont Rushmore
• Slayton Worthington
• St. James Sherburn
• Madelia Fairmont
• Huntley Guckeen
• Easton Frost
• Wells Kiester
• Hartland Geneva
• Dundas Montgomery