The Fruitless Journey

In the fledgling days of vacationing on Cape Cod, my younger brother and I—Bronx born and bred—would venture out on what we eventually deemed “fruitless journeys.” We would hop in the car and just drive, sometimes on the more heavily trafficked Route 28, but quite often on the quieter, leafy Route 6A. Fruitless journeys serve a real purpose in life. During these excursions, there were no specific destinations or events on our itineraries. We might stop at an antique shop—not a Sotheby’s stuff place, but the junk-store kind that appealed to us—or walk an obscure nature trail, call on a flea market, or yard sale. On many occasions the drive turned out to be just that—a drive with no stopovers whatsoever.

The beauty of fruitless journeys revolves around their unrushed simplicity, spontaneity, and Zen-like pacing. I know there are people who must be doing something during their every waking hour. They can’t sit still for a nano-second and are ever on the run. Case in point from thirty-five years ago: After an exhausting four-hour-plus trip from the Bronx to Cape Cod with friends, one gal was not content to chill out for even a moment. Of course, she was not involved in any of the driving. Almost immediately upon exiting the car, she exclaimed, “Let’s do something!” The rest of us just wanted to relax with a liquid refreshment in hand for a spell. Exhale now: There is always a sense of relief after a long haul, where a pause—a mission accomplished moment to be savored—was in order. But some folks aren’t content to hit the pause button, even for a well-earned breather. Suffice it to say, the fruitless journey model had no appeal for that old friend.

As time passes, I appreciate the fruitless journeys taken more and more. In the 1950s and 1960s, it was commonplace for families to take “drives.” The fruitless journeys from this snapshot in time were as American as apple pie. An older neighbor of mine fondly remembered taking his family out on Sunday drives up Central Avenue, aka Central Park Avenue, in Yonkers. In those bygone days, it was a Northwest Bronx resident’s nearest “drive in the country” hotspot, even if it wasn’t exactly “the country.” He frequently reminisced about Patricia Murphy’s restaurant with its duck pond on the front grounds. Retracing that route today would find yourself in heavy traffic with strip malls, fast-food restaurants, and big-box retailers having long ago displaced any vestiges of country.

For what it’s worth, the fruitless journey is not the sole province of the automobile. It can be accomplished on foot as well. For decades, I met a friend in Manhattan, and we would embark on fruitless journeys. Our modus operandi involved selecting a particular area of the city—lower Manhattan, midtown, upper Manhattan, eastside or westside—with no concrete plan as to where exactly we were going or where exactly we would end up. We covered a lot of ground—fruitless to the let’s do something crowd, but anything but.

Fruitless journeys are less likely to be undertaken today. Technology with its ubiquitous devices have seen to that. Do kids even look out the windows of cars anymore? Still, I say long live the fruitless journeys. If you haven’t already, you might want to try one sometime and see where it takes you or doesn't take you.