I’m a New York City kid, which means by 3 years old, I was regularly requesting artichokes as my veggie of choice and my first public tantrum was in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. It also means I didn’t really learn to drive until my 30s. This past summer, I was determined to remedy that, and I was working against the clock: My dad and I booked an August road trip to the Catskills Mountains, for which I’d be the chauffeur.