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or more, but plunging this roller skate, this 1950s relic, into the modern world of tractor-trailers and sport-utility vehicles does seem . . . chancy. Perhaps, along with the credit cards and cell phone, I should have asked Charlotte for the loan of a crash helmet.
    When Charlotte said she had our father’s car, I thought, It’s as if she’s telling me she has a time machine . And that wasn’t so far off. Because it looks like Tully intends on driving the slower-paced back roads that existed long before there ever were freeways, all the way from Los Angeles to Palm Springs.
    Fine. We are in an old car, we will follow the old roads. Although the other side of the coin is that Palm Springs is roughly one hundred miles east of Los Angeles. Taking the back roads will make our journey that much longer.

    After a while, we leave Los Angeles behind completely. We’re heading away from the coast now, inland toward the desert. A brown-and-cream-colored sign announces we’re on Historic Route 66. More time travel? Yes. Because despite the modern mania for freeways, parts of the legendary two-lane blacktop known as Route 66 still exist. The most famous road in America has not disappeared. Not all of it, anyway.
    That old song “(Get Your Kicks on) Route 66” comes into my head. “It winds from Chicago to L.A.”Although Tully and I are going east, not west. We’re traveling in the opposite direction from what’s described in the song. And thank goodness we’re not going all the way to Chicago; thank goodness we’re headed only to Palm Springs.
    We cruise through one town after another. Once, these were nothing more than villages surrounded by orange groves. Now they’re more grown-up. All the same, gliding down Route 66 you get glimpses of what life was like fifty or sixty years ago in Southern California. White stucco motor courts bake in the sun. Mom-and-pop grocery stores hawk cigarettes and cold beer. A fruit stand in the shape of a giant orange peddles fresh-squeezed juice.
    I can’t get that song out of my mind. “Get your kicks, on Route 66.” Oh yes, I think, shifting in my seat to get comfortable, I’m really getting my kicks now.
    The hardest thing is that I’m nearly sober. The glow I felt from the alcohol I knocked back earlier in the day is gone. I sneak a look at Tully whom, I realize, I don’t know at all. That unruly hair, that distant gaze. Serious suitor—or serial killer? Oh, what have I gotten myself into?

    An hour after leaving Malibu, Tully and I haven’t spoken a word. It’s the shock, I suppose. Neither one of us feels chatty. But what do people think when they see us speed past them in the MG? Tully in his tux, me in Charlotte’s Donna Karan, the words “Just Married!” and “Love Machine!” emblazoned on our car.
    Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? Every motorist, every truck driver, every hog farmer we pass assumes we’re newlyweds. Cars traveling in the opposite direction honk when they go by, their occupants smiling at us and waving enthusiastically. You can’t really blame them, what with the decorations and the balloons tied to the spare tire. The balloons! I forgot about the balloons. I turn round and see them bouncing along behind us in the breeze. Why don’t they burst? They must be made of some miracle new-millennium material. In the event we’re rear-ended, I hope they’ll function as miniature air bags.
    Balloons or no balloons, a 1955 MG TF will always command attention. I remember my father telling me that the first TF was made in England in 1953. The car was in production only until 1955, and many people think it’s the prettiest vehicle MG ever built. I could share this trivia with Tully, but somehow I don’t think he’s in the mood to hear anything about British motorcars or my family.

    Route 66 does not go all the way to Palm Springs (it veers north), so we eventually cut over to a two-lane state road. We drive on, deeper into the desert. I’m dying for a