“Are we there yet?”

Two voices sticky with boredom sang this complaint in unison. We sat in the backseat, sick of pinching each other for fun, the batteries in our Gameboys having run out 5 exits ago.

Mami sat in front with eyes firmly shut, feigning sleep. The radio was tuned to an easy listening station. Barry Manilow could just be heard over the purr of the air conditioning. Mami mouthed along to the song and played with the rosary beads in her hand. Long car trips made her nervous, especially on the expressway.

We were on our way to Disney World. It was a four-hour drive from Miami. Papi grumbled about the gas expense, but we’d been begging him for months.

Now all gratitude was out the window. We were bored and in need of entertainment.

“How much longer, daddy?”

“We’re halfway there, m’ija.”

“Can we stop and get more Slurpees?”

“No, you’ve already had two.”

“Oh. OK. ... Are we there yet?”

In all my memories of those summer trips, it’s the getting there that I always seem to remember most.