Thank you Danny Katz for another insightful and humorous piece....
A very long road trip can be lots of fun but only if you're the very-long-road-trip driver because then you get to do all the fun driving stuff like steering and accelerating and overtaking slow caravans on hills, yelling: "Outta the way, Jayco, move your fat pop-top arrrrrse." But a very long road trip is not as much fun if you're the very-long-road-trip front-seat passenger because then you have to sit next to the driver for the whole long trip and serve as their full-time butler/underling/waterboy/incorrect-turnoff scapegoat.
We went on a very long road trip and my beloved got to be the driver because it was a long bendy road and she said if she wasn't the driver she'd get carsick and vom all over the inside-windscreen — and our old crappy car doesn't have those fancy inner-windscreen vom-wipers like all the new cars have got.
So she got to do all the fun stuff like steering, accelerating and making inane petrol-price comments every time we passed a petrol station: "Orbost was $138.6 a litre, but Cann River is $138.9, strange!"
And I had to sit next to her doing all the unappreciated lackey-labour. Unwrap her fruity chews whenever she got fruity-chewing-urges. Fetch her sunglasses for every possible sun-glare incident. Make enthusiastic hmmming-noises at all her inane petrol-price comments: "Hmmmm, that IS a discrepancy. Cann River should be ashamed of themselves! Another fruity chew, my exalted Driver-Master?"
Advertisement: Story continues below The very-long-road-trip passenger must perform a whole variety of demeaning drudgerous trip-tasks: I was the Map Reader who had to work out the huge foldout road map that was so out of date it didn't have any freeways marked on it. Or Canberra. I was the Backseat-Passenger-Monitor, twisting my neck a full 180 degrees every 10-minute interval for a bout of kid-yelling. And for 45 excruciating minutes, I was the Twisties Distributor who had to grab a handful of the ripest, plumpest Twisties from the Twisties bag then hold them in front of my Driver-Master so she could Twistify herself without looking away from the road (our crappy old car doesn't have an iTwistie Bag-Gripper like all the new cars have). Did I get a thank-you for my efforts? Nothing: not even a cheesy-powdered smile of appreciation, even though my outstretched arm was buckling from the weight of those unsaturated trans-fats and heavy free-radicals.
It's also the responsibility of the very-long-road-trip passenger to provide In-Car Entertainment during long dull stretches of road. I played the role of vehicle-jester and kept my Driver-Master amused with delightfully mirthful travel-gags like "When we gonna get to Nowa Nowa? Hope it's soona soona" — quality material, just firing them off. And when she appeared to be getting drowsy, I presented fascinating philosophical mind-puzzles to keep her senses alert and honed: "Have you noticed there's a sign that says 'A Microsleep Can Kill You' and another sign that says 'A Powernap Can Save Your Life'? But what's the difference between a microsleep and a powernap? They both seem to be the same, so how can one kill and one save? I await your thoughts on this, my Motoring Monseigneur."
And at the end of the very long road trip, when we get to the final destination, who gets all the glory and praise? The driver, of course: the one who got to do all the fun driving stuff. Never the poor, downtrodden, unacknowledged front-seat passenger who worked tirelessly, who gave everything, who both scripted and performed the dazzling comic wordplay that is "Genoa? Never even MET her!"
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