Whenever I thought of the fact that I had lived in Europe for years before I had been west of the Susquehanna River, I couldn’t escape the feeling that I was the American version of a Nestorian or an Arian because I had flagrantly denied two tenets of the American creed. I did not own a car, and I had never driven the car that I did not own to California.

The big western moment for Philadelphians of my generation took place 40 years ago during the summer of 1967. It was known as the summer of love, and whatever emotional attraction that hajj in a cramped VW beetle had was again associated with music, songs like "If you’re going to San Francisco . . ." which prompted Philadelphians of a certain persuasion to head out in their VW beetles with the flower decal and the McCarthy bumper sticker.

So, 40 years too late and thousands of dollars short, Peter and I, representing the babyboomers who hadn’t made our summer of love hajj then, made our pilgrimage, not in the cramped and narrow confines of a VW beetle, but with all of the luxury a brand new Class C motorhome can afford...