"OHHHH, IT'S BEAUTIFUL," she says the next morning, appraising the 30–foot RV parked illegally next to a fire hydrant out front. Logos plaster every exterior surface: 1–800–RV4RENT. "There's the bathroom and the shower," she says. "That's your oven. You sleep there…"

Glenys, the caretaker, has more white hair than I expected (60–some years' worth) and might need a caretaker herself, having recently broken her left foot and right tib–fib. She climbs into the RV on her cane, installs herself at the kitchen table, and puts on her headphones, Bach jamming on the cassette player. Meanwhile, it's becoming apparent that Grandma—riding shotgun, map in lap, holding a disposable camera—will talk constantly.

"I could no sooner recognize this country than fly to the moon," she says, placing her hands on her cheeks and sucking in through her dentures as we motor down I–5 past so many box stores. But that doesn't stop her. She repeats the name of every sign three times.

"I know Olympia," she says. "Olympia, Olympia, Olympia."

Pause.

"Chuck E. Cheese, Chuck E. Cheese, Chuck E. Cheese…"

It's a bit like having a coked–up parrot on your shoulder.

Not that my grandmother is senile, I want to make perfectly clear. She can recall events back to the dawn of AM radio. The repeating is more like a hypnotic trick to summon memories of all the times she's come this way before.

The first afternoon and evening go smoothly. At the bottom of Puget Sound, we bunk in a gravel RV "terraport" as big as a football field. Waking to warm sunshine burning through a foggy dew, we breakfast on Chips Ahoy! and stop by Safeway, where we learn Vera's Travel Tip #1: Don't sweat the food.

"In 1929, I drove a '24 Buick Touring from Eugene, Oregon, to Fort Rice, North Dakota," she begins out of nowhere.

"I worked my head off all summer cooking for thrashers. Saved $500. And then the banks went closed—ten cents on the dollar. I couldn't go back to college. So I drove home. It was all dirt roads in those days. We crossed the Mount Hood cutoff, and when we got up about so far, we had to back the car up. It was that steep. In Yosemite, my brother and uncle had to hold the car from sliding off the road."

"Wow," I interject, still unsure of the point. "What did you eat?"

"We'd buy a quart of milk and ask the farmer if we could steal a little more, suck straight from the cow."

"What about with Grandpa?" I ask. "What did you eat when you were traveling together?" "Hash browns. Stew. Baked potato. Roadside berries. You're eating to exist, not to get fat! You've got so much to live for, so much to do."

In that spirit, I return 20 minutes and $62 later with groceries for the next four days. Let me rephrase: After 20 minutes, our party of three has 12 meals that cost an average of $1.72 per person: white bread, potatoes, onions, Chips Ahoy! I steer us south with a smile on my face. Yes, the portions seem a bit meager—and the food pyramid more a carbohydrate brick—but I'm game. We're not counting calories; we're counting experiences.