The Atlanta-NY drive is a tough one, particularly without stopping for the night. What keeps me going? Knowing that we'll be stopping for breakfast. Each section of this country has its particular roadside stops. Here, it's Cracker Barrell, Perkins and Waffle House. All the fireworks vendors were shut last night, as was Abbots Farms where you can purchase Jellies. Peaches. Salsas. They have free samples too but not at 3am. So we made do with the enormous breakfast platters at The Barrell then browsed the likes of Boston Baked Beans, singing fish and a parrot that repeats everything you say twice as fast and in twice as high a pitch. Don't forget the rocking chairs out front and all the Halloween and Thanksgiving gear inside. Noah likes to complain about the police. "They're just here to make money through bogus tickets, he rants. "When do you see them going into bad neighborhoods to help people?" How often is Noah in bad neighborhoods to see what the police do there? We are, after all, just passing through. At some point, generally when some poor motorist has been stopped by Smokey, as Noah affectionately calls them, he starts singing Rage Against the Machine with a twist. "Pigs On Parade." Lila serenades us with off-key La-La-Las, some squeaks and giggles. "Wheeeee-Boom!" She's the only one who really slept last night. Then we stop at Perkins for more coffee and somehow end up with six muffins and two cookies on their buy 2 get forty free deal. This is our way, the American Way, and I wouldn't trade it or the rolling green hills and spacious sky for anything.