During the car ride back, my father asked me if I had enjoyed camp. “It was great!” I said. I knew he had sent me to camp expecting $500 worth of fun, and I didn’t have the heart to tell him the truth. So instead of weaving key chains, I spent the next few weeks weaving stories of all my great adventures. I don’t know whether my father believed me, but at least I earned a reputation as the best key-chain maker in the family.

You Can Call Me Al

You Can Call Me Al

My father’s favorite spot on Planet Earth is Las Vegas. As a child, I had to endure endless “vacations” to that den o’ sin in the desert. Whenever a three- or four-day weekend rolled around, my father would happily announce, “We’re going to Las Vegas!” I hated it, but Las Vegas was cheap and so was my father, so off we went.

Las Vegas was a four-hour drive from our house. The highway leading to this Promised Land cut through the desert, which meant that watching the scenery from the backseat of our Chevrolet rivaled the thrill of watching a fishing show. My brothers, both of them in college, were spared these trips. I en-vied them.

The ritual was always the same. We would have to wake up by 5:00 A.M. so we could be on the road by 5:15. The day before our trip, the gas tank was filled, the engine checked, the suitcases packed, and the windshield cleaned, all courtesy of my father. The most important part of our ritual involved my mother’s holding the Koran at the top of the doorframe while we each walked under it. For my parents, this ensured a safe journey— they hoped one without speeding tickets. I always found it unsettling to invoke religion in anything having to do with Las Vegas, a place that I’m quite sure the Prophet Muhammad would not have approved of.

We always drove for one hour before stopping for breakfast at Denny’s. My father’s devotion to Denny’s restaurants approached religious fervor. To him, Denny’s was a clean oasis where the waitresses were always friendly. We didn’t really like the food, but that seemed a small price to pay for a clean bathroom in the middle of the desert. After breakfast, we’d get back in the car, turn on the air conditioner, and keep driving. We didn’t stop until the next Denny’s, where we’d have a snack and my father would say how amazing it was that all Denny’s could be so clean, no matter where they were. “America is a great country,” he’d always add.