No matter how many times I go, visiting America always seems like arriving on the set of a movie. Naturally, Manhattan brings with it the ultimate cinematic backdrop, but even when you try to get right away from it all, and go deep into the spirit of Uncle Sam, the footprint of the ol’ silver screen still persists, shimmering at the periphery of your vision. If you are driving down a road – any road – the sensation that you are about to pull up alongside someone actually within a Hollywood road movie is particularly strong. Such was the sensation when I took the collective Millard tribe on an RV trip.
To devotees, the RV (the initials stand for recreational vehicle, essentially a giant motorhome) signals freedom, kingship of the road, America from sea to shining sea, and all the attendant emotions evoked by the hundreds of movies that have trundled up and down Route 66, or the equivalent, since the cinema was invented. And taking a family holiday in an RV presses that crucial button key to the self-image of America as a touring, hardy nation, which began with the arrival of the Pilgrim Fathers. More recently, it has been glorified by the eponymous movie starring Robin Williams, which the junior Millards went to see, and loved. It’s all about family love, sibling harmony and the allure of the great American open space. Yes, it’s terribly cheesy, and rather inspiring. ‘Can we go on an RV holiday? Like the film RV? Can we? Can we?’ they chorused. Ever the indulgent parent, I gave in (vaguely relieved I hadn’t taken them to see Star Wars).
Cruise America not only hires out the mammoth beasts, but also rather helpfully supplies suggested routes to take. We plumped for a classic road trip, a neat circle not too gargantuan in scope, but certainly awe-inspiring in its constituent elements as it tied in Death Valley, Las Vegas, the Hoover Dam and the Grand Canyon, with short bursts on the iconic Route 66. So, a few natural wonders of the world mixed with some grand engineering projects and, er, a bit of gambling.
Before we all get too dewy-eyed, I must point out that for some, RV is also shorthand for Rather Vulgar. It is redolent of semi-Scout style travel for a Wal-Mart-reared generation. I discovered this while diverting a child, or three, in the galley on our flight to Phoenix, Arizona. ‘You’re bound for an RV holiday?’ said a fellow passenger, a sophisticated Chicagoan businessman. ‘My Gawd. RV!’ He eyed the junior Millards warily. ‘You know it’s all about camping!’ I nodded grimly. ‘I know,’ I whispered. ‘I’d much rather stay in a hotel.’
And if I wasn’t keen on camping, Mr Millard was none too keen on driving. He knows the decibel level when our four children (aged nine, seven, four and two) are contained within the family Volvo. Plus three out of the four tend towards a nasty car-sickness habit. Sometimes sequentially, sometimes in unison. ‘A week’s driving! That sounds like a dreadful idea’, was his reaction when presented with the notion of the jaunt.
When we all clambered up into the enormous beast, he looked even less happy. The machine was 30ft long, 8ft wide and 12ft high. It had everything in it that you might expect in a giant VW Camper van: beds high above the driving cabin, pull-out beds in the sitting area and a kitchen involving a hob, a microwave and a fridge. However, details which you would probably not find on the average VW included a ‘furnace’, a separate shower and a 30-gallon capacity for sewage (courtesy of an onboard flush toilet). The operating instructions for the Beast were so complex Mr Millard and I had to sit in front of a 40-minute video before we climbed aboard. We should have sat through it twice.
